Winter stepped over the body of the royal bastard he’d
just killed and fed another log onto the fire.
Red-orange flames licked at the alder wood. Warmth
snaked out of the stone hearth, teasing him. At
another time, there would be no cooling body behind
him. No conniving human witch waiting for him, no
human world wrapped tightly around him. It would just
be Winter, the cool air in the north, and the flames
whispering secrets. For demons, they told tales.
In the fireplace, flames rose and twined, creating a
map of the city.
Winter lowered himself to the ground and studied the
map of flames. His master, Kenth, had allowed him to
taste his blood, but the binding spells around Winter
were too strong. He could use the sanguine taste to
hunt, but not hurt the man.
His lips drew back, exposing a hint of sharp teeth.
Vile, brilliant witch. Winter might not be able to
kill Kenth for this insult, but that didn’t mean he’d
forget. By tonight, all of his master’s kin would be
dead, and when the spells holding Winter were gone,
Kenth would join them.
Buildings and streets flickered in the flames. They
shifted, the forms as brief as human life, and then
returned, creating familiar locations.
There.
Near the edge of the Delvore Commons.
Winter smiled. He reached past the noble’s body and
plucked his feathered black mask off the floor. Rising, he slipped the cool shape over his face and headed for the door.
Voices rustled near the entrance, a quiet reminder that this shadowed place was a respite and that the human world waited outside. As much as he relished the quiet and the fire, his master had plans. Winter
opened the door.
Bright summer light stabbed his eyes. Frowning, he stepped into the crowd.
Ahead, a harlequin and a blue jay passed each other near the glassblower’s stall and bowed. Today the Delvore Commons flowed with brightly costumed and
masked people buying jewelry and spiced cakes, expensive silks and small animals. The summer market drew people from all over the kingdom in Delvore. They paid their respects to their king, thankful for the bounty his reign created, and celebrated. It was the best and worst that humans had to offer one another, spread out over three days.
For his part, Winter wore a costume composed entirely of black feathers and pieces of silk in shades of black, blue, and silver. The mask hid his eyes, and the rich fabric allowed him to pass through the crowd without question.
A shoulder smacked into his. Winter turned and found a peasant, dressed in something that looked like it had been dug out of an onion patch, scowling at him.
“Watch yourself.”
Winter raised a gloved hand. His claws were sheathed in the soft black leather, but they could easily tear through the fabric binding them. A quick flick across the human’s throat –
Would attract attention.
Snarling softly, Winter pushed past the man. Demonkind had attacked this land once, forty years before. They’d been driven back, but Winter knew they’d one day return. When they did, he would peel the flesh away from that man.
A sigh crept through the air, sharpening into a scream. Winter stilled. He knew where it came from and what it meant better than anyone in the city. He looked toward the keep, toward the center of Delvore.
The scream spilled into the streets and rose like a wave. Winter watched people stop and lift masked faces to the sky.
The wretched sound tore off on the edge of a sob, and the city paused for a moment. People held their breath and looked at each other. They searched for
confirmation in the eyes of those around them. That was the banshee, wasn’t it? The spirit that howled the death of the monarch?
Yes.
And even as the people stood there, Winter knew the spirit was appearing before the king’s heir.
Despite his feelings towards Delvore, Winter found the banshee’s tale fascinating. She had been a young maid in the days before the ruling family had come to power and Delvore was a loose alliance of farming families. Where the keep now stood had been fields of poppy flowers, untended for years until a family of winemakers bought the land and began to supply poppy milk to distant cities. Wine and poppies, on those were the fortunes of the king’s family built.
And on death as well, a death in the meadow upon which the keep itself had eventually been built.
The eldest son of that merchant family had fallen in love with a miller’s daughter. She was a witch, and in her love she’d given him a gift, a strength that would adapt with his heirs to help them succeed.
Her status was far below his, though. Fearing a secret marriage, the boy’s father ordered her hanged.
Soon she stood at the gallows with the noose around her neck, the sea of poppies nodding in the breeze. Too late she realized that her lover would not raise a hand against his father. Furious, she cursed the family, and to this day she heralded the deaths of her killer’s descendants.
And, bitter irony, continued to give her dead lover’s heirs a gift. The newly deceased king had sired several bastards before coming into power, so the
banshee made his new bride infertile so that there would be fewer children fighting for the throne. His father before him enjoyed card games, so she gave him luck, ensuring that no one would ever play with him more than once.
Winter smiled. Clever witch. She had the soul of a demon.
In the demon lands of the north, Winter had heard many tales about the banshee and wondered why the people of Delvore allowed themselves to be ruled by a ghost-tainted line.
Then the demons attacked and they learned that, as unpleasant as the curse was, the blessing that went with it was worth it.
The late king’s father might not have found many joyful card players, but his enemies had also regretted going against him. He always won, whether gambling or fighting demons. The late king could not sire an official heir, but the bastards he had were given extraordinary health. No sickness would touch them, no poison wound them. Why, it was joked, nothing less than a demon could hurt them.
The tower bells at the end of the street tolled, breaking the silence that had settled over the summer market.
Nearby, guards fell to their knees. It began with the commander, almost as though his legs had given out. The rest of the contingent followed in a fan of movement as man after man lowered himself, head bowed.
Winter shrugged and continued on his way. His master had killed the king, of course. Just as one betrayal led to death, Kenth was quietly avenging his past. Magic would hide the blood, and neither the banshee nor Winter would ever tell.
An evening breeze whispered along the oaks lining the
narrow cobblestone road as Peregrine ushered out his
last client of the day. It had been a fairly easy
reading for the innkeeper’s wife, a spread of five
cards, with his fingertips whispering over the paper,
learning their secrets.
At the corner, the wife turned, offered him a smile,
and then disappeared around a gray stone building.
Peregrine returned to his tower.
The reading had gone well until the banshee’s scream
traveled the city and broke his concentration. Grief
coiled inside him. The king was dead. Peregrine would
never see his father again.
Despite the early hour, this first night of festival
would be quiet. The creature waiting in the shadows
behind the reading table had seen to that.
“Thank you for waiting,” he said, closing the door
behind him. Peregrine had sensed the spirit gathering
shape behind him and had whispered an incantation to
cloak it in his client’s presence.
The creature was older than he, and anger gave her
power. Legend said that she would appear before only
one person, and if there were others present, they
would die. If she wanted, she could have broken his
spell and taken the wife.
A sigh stirred the shadows in the corner. The sound
grew louder, forming words.
_Simpler to pluck her eyes,_ the spirit whispered in
his mind. It was a hauntingly sepulcher sound,
intimate in its softness and distant in its coolness.
Peregrine’s grief sharpened. There was nothing he
could do for the king, but the innkeeper’s wife lived
in the Delvore Commons. He might not be nobility, but
he wanted to watch over the people there. “She didn’t
deserve it.”
The sigh faded, and the shadows pulsed. Peregrine
approached, watching as the creature – the banshee –
pulled herself into being.
A form he sometimes saw in nightmares gathered shape
before him. In the course of his studies, Peregrine
had seen a picture of something from far south called
a monkey, and in the hunched, scowling form before
him, he was reminded of it. Her misshapen gray head
was filled with hundreds of small, sharp teeth.
The banshee turned to Peregrine. Her misty flesh
wrinkled and spasmed, stretching taut over the dead
memory of bone.
“Was it quick?” Peregrine hadn’t seen his father in a
few days. The man had been sick and missed the witch
council’s last meeting. Peregrine had stopped by the
castle the day before to bring him a tisane, and
though he hadn’t seen the king, he’d hoped…
Gods, he was gone.
Byron had never been certain if Peregrine was his, but
the king had always been kind to him. Peregrine never
wished him ill.
_Yes, your majesty._
What?
No. She couldn’t mean –
The ghost shape reached toward him, its abnormally
long right arm ending in a pointed finger, the other
fingers clenched shut.
A slight pain traced over Peregrine’s eyes.
He blinked, and the pain faded. He touched the corners
of his eyes. Nothing. No lingering spells, no ache,
no…
No enchantment.
The banshee smiled his father’s charming smile, and
Peregrine knew that the spell his mother had long ago
cast over his eyes had been broken. People would now
see their royal color.
The banshee tipped her head forward. _No human
enchantment will ever touch you again, your majesty._
Her flesh unwove, fading into the shadows.
Peregrine searched the room, looking for the banshee.
Nothing. Just a book-lined room, a faded blue rug over
a hardwood floor, a round table, and the small bags of
spices he’d hung at every window and doorway. This was
a quiet place, a stone tower at the corner of Calper’s
Street. Strange to think that the new king of Delvore
lived here.
Peregrine slumped against a wall. Her gift was kinder
than the one she’d given his father. He might never be
able to obscure the color of his eyes or be healed
magically, but spells wouldn’t wound him, either.
Human spells, he remembered. He was still vulnerable
to demons, and though the barriers between their realm
and Delvore were strong, it would be dangerous to
presume he was safe.
