A child?
I give up any pretense of decorum and run faster, fist of salted seeds held tight. My feet pound against the walking path. In moments, we’ll be inside the manicured green area that was built in the center of the finest of the townhomes.
The faery touches the soil of the park and shifts into something less man shaped. His snout extends, and claws sprout. He scurries on four legs and faces me as a beast in a waistcoat and quickly tattered trousers.
“What’s in the bag?”
The beast flashes teeth at me, so I throw the salt and herbs at him. The mixture doesn’t work on the strong creatures, but it holds this one frozen for a moment. I take the crying bag. Inside is a small boy, maybe two or three years old. I lower the boy to the grassy ground, step between the child and beast, and tell the creature, “Youknowthe rules. If your kind cannot follow them, you will all be cast out.”
The creature stares at me; it’s pinned where it crouches at my feet.
“No beasts in the noblesse quarter oranyother housing block. Not inthe queen’s city.” I utter the same warning I’ve learned to speak whenever I am nose to snout with feral things inside city limits. I suspect there’s some power imbued in certain words, the order, or the tone, but that power ultimately comes from the Queens’ Treaty. The Faery Queen’s accord with the last human queen is what gives words power over the creatures.
Soldiers enforce it, and if the creatures violate the rules, the Hunter is summoned. It’s all about her power, though, power writ into vows.
Much like the one I’m going to be late to make!
“No snatching our children! No eating our pets or horses!” I’m not paying enough attention, thinking of the dress I ought to be preparing to don. That’s my only excuse for what happens next.
The beast breaks free of the containing mixture. It launches at me, and I twist, keeping my body between the toddler and the beast.
Still it knocks me to my back, its right foreclaw punches at my face, and the other front claw grazes my side. Sharp edges rake over myskin. The pain blossoms like fire along my ribs, but had I not moved, it would have sunk a claw into my chest, heart high and fatal.
“There. Are. Rules.” I roll to my feet as I jerk back my skirt slit and draw a short sword.
Before the beast reaches me for a second launch, my sword tip pierces its throat with a squelch.
With a painful pull, I slide the blade across tendon and muscle, and even with rage powering my blow, the neck is only half severed.
The beast gurgles and flops to the ground. Dead.
Now, though, is when the child shrieks and runs away—as if I am the threat.
“Stop!” I heave a breath, hoping that there are no perils in the wee one’s path.
A trio of soldiers march along the riding trail, stirring the ground into gusts of dirt. I wave an arm above my head and call, “Over here!”
The eldest soldier sweeps the child into his arms with the comfort of a man who is a father or uncle. When he reaches me, the child hides its face.
“Fleuriste.”
“Sergeant Nolan.”
The only people allowed to know the family legacy are the villagers at Fleuriste, the queen’s soldiers, the queen herself, and those she—or the Hunter—deems essential. It seems a long list until I think of the size of Alveus. Most citizens are oblivious to the Hunter’s identity, magically so, and any soldier or citizen who reveals the secret is silenced in grotesque ways. There are strong-willed souls who parse it together, but in most cases, the magic that imbues the Hunter’s line also aids in our privacy. Such a state is better for the citizens and the Hunter.
“Has no one patrolled?” I let my glare sweep them. “Is theWächteridle? What if the faery had taken the child?”
Two of the soldiers exchange a look.
“You have faery blood on your ...” Sergeant Nolan gestures toward my chest and then face. “Do you need assistance? Will your ladyship, uh, be fainting or some such?”
I point at the corpse with my sword. “Remove that. Salt the ground there. Find the child’s people. Submit the report to the officials.”
Blood congeals on my sword, and I can’t stop my scowl. I’ll have to rewrap the hilt now. I don’t have time tonight, since it means liberally salt-curing the leather first, but there’s no avoiding it. Faery blood eats away at the leather wrappings, and the steel blisters my skin if it isn’t wrapped.
One of the corporals extends a cloth.
“Thank you. My blade is—”
