Until recently, Martin hadn’t been aware his fantasy man actually existed. The more he considered, the more likenesses he found.
He laughed at himself. Really. As if the fates would send him images of a lover.
Martin wouldn’t mind being wanted by a certain tavernkeeper. What was it about the man? Another image came to mind: a smiling face, gold-streaked brown hair in the matted style of the pirates, sun-bronzed skin.
Petran. Martin’s heart ached. The man he’d met last night reminded him of Petran. Only the tavernkeeper was fair and with dark brown hair.
What had the patrons called him? Peter?
Those eyes. Those intense, dark eyes. By whatever power reigned over the universe, Martin wished the pirate boy had lived. When Martin met other mages, he’d ask who their deity was and pray to them for Petran’s eternal peace.
Once more, his thoughts dissipated in a thousand directions. What had he been thinking? Something about Petran?
Martin had worked hard today, training with the sentries, patrolling the streets, and he’d love to go to the Stone’s Throw for dinner and ale. Perhaps he’d speak to the tavernkeeper tonight.
No, first Martin must perform the duty he’d taken upon himself, to keep the people of this city safe. People who’d never know what he did for them.
Twirling the weapon he’d acquired without knowing how, he went through the motions of the guards at morn practice. He’d been one of their ranks for long enough to be adept at the sword, his efforts aided by the night he’d seen something he couldn’t unsee. Better to know how to fight.
He changed from his daily wear into all black, shoved his sword into its scabbard, and left his rooms.
Darkness. The throbbing pulse beneath the cobblestones pounded through the thick soles of Martin’s boots. This close to the waterfront, the air reeked of garbage, piss, and rotting fish. Distant shouts in a dozen languages rose from the dockhands, their workplaces lit by oil lanterns.
Light offered some protection from what lurked in shadows.
Straining to tune out the everyday noises in favor of scuttling or a slate tile slipping on the roof of the building across the narrow alley, Martin held his breath, heart beating in time with the city’s.
Higher. He’d see more from a better vantage point. An upturned barrel gave him a head start, and he shimmied onto the low corner of a roof. Soft rain sprinkled his upturned face, cooling skin heated while giving chase.
He paused to enjoy the night for one brief moment, the blood pulsing through his veins.
Being alive.
Wait! The distinct rasp of claws on stone reached his ears.
No one was about in the shopping district this late at night. No mere mortals, at any rate. Silent as a shadow, he leaped from a seamstress’s humble structure to a healer’s, tracking his prey.
Neither the seamstress nor the healer would ever know of hunter and prey who kept themselves hidden. If the city knew what lurked through its streets at night…
Wouldn’t it be better if people knew? Couldn’t they better protect themselves? Yet, who would Martin tell? He’d be thrown into the building outside of town if he tried, where the citizens discarded those they labeled crazy. Have a vision? Be imprisoned.
If it was safer to hold his tongue, hold his tongue, he would.
And hunt.
He’d love to tell someone, though, to have company. Maybe Gery Enys. But no, how could Martin explain something the commander couldn’t see?
Poised on the edge of a rooftop, Martin crouched, muscles bunching in his thighs and calves. While he served the city with his nocturnal tasks, the excitement pulsating through his blood added more thrill than strictly required.
He served the people.
More scuttling. The putrid odor of dead things. Grasping an ornate roofbeam in one hand, Martin silently eased himself to the ground, careful to muffle his footfalls.
He waited. Flickering lanternlight from a passerby grew closer, and he fought back a frustrated scream. His quarry spotted the light, hissing as though burned. No.
Rasping claws on tile loosened a mat of lichen that fell to the ground with a noisy splat, barely missing Martin’s head. Damnation! The thing had climbed and couldn’t have been more than a few feet above him.
If he’d stayed aloft, they’d be face-to-face by now.
