Slither.
He whirled. Gaslight reflected in a pair of eyes—a pair of eyes set between him and the door. Slitted eyes.
A cat? A dog? Not with eyes like that. Peter gulped. He’d heard tales of evil creatures roaming the streets. Stories told to keep young ones in line. There were no such things as demons. Couldn’t be. He’d have seen one in all his time spent in the city if there were. Addie had lived her whole life here, and she’d never mentioned such a thing.
The eyes drew closer. Peter stepped back—careening with a wall. No escape. “What do you want?”
More slithering, like claws on stone. The thing broke from the shadows, all long teeth and claws, with scales for skin. “Not much,” the thing hissed, flicking out a forked tongue. “Just the pitiful thing your puny race calls a soul.”
His soul?
Peter gathered his courage to run. The thing cut off his access to the tavern, but surely he could sprint down the alley and find another place to hide.
“Run,” the horrifying vision said with an evil chuckle. “So much more fun to give chase. No one wants easy prey. But my master wants you. He thinks you’ll make perfect bait.”
Bait?
The creature lifted its head, giving an audible sniff. “Perhaps there’s more to you than meets the eye. You can see me.”
Backed against the wall, Peter glanced right and left. If he… He slipped down the side of the wall. He’d left an ax near the woodpile.
The creature shifted sideways, tracking Peter’s movement. Keeping his eye on the stuff of nightmares, Peter groped in the dark.
One step, two steps. Peter’s foot hit something. The woodpile! Slowly, slowly, he slid his hand downward. The ax handle seemed to jump into his hand. He wrapped his fingers around his one chance. This horrifying… thing planned to harvest his soul?
Never.
Peter swung.
The axe head bounced off the thing’s skin, the handle ripping free of his grasp. For the mercy of the Father! For one brief moment, Peter froze.
Then he ran. With no idea where his path led, he sped between buildings, boot soles slipping on the rain-slicked cobblestones.
Claws on stones followed on his heels.
Where could he go? The thing stayed between him and the tavern. The waterfront? Where was a constable when he needed one?
In the much safer high city. No more sailors on the street. Even the night workers were absent. Mist kissed Peter’s skin as he tore down the abandoned street.
If only he possessed a sharp length of steel. Even though he’d not used those skills in quite some time, poor swordsmanship would still be better than going unarmed.
His heartbeat pounded in his ears, matching his footfalls up one street, down another. Lights shone from the windows of a hatmaker’s shop. Heart in his throat, he paused long enough to beat on the door. “Help! Help me!” Nothing.
Tiring now, he grew desperate, throwing himself at doors again and again.
Those slitted eyes appeared at the end of the street. No time to waste. He ran again.
In the darkness, he barely stopped in time to avoid hitting a wall. He groped blindly for a door, a weapon, anything.
Turning, he pressed his back to rough bricks and watched in horror as his doom approached. Peter caught his breath, readying himself for the agony of claws and teeth. Why couldn’t he conjure a sword as readily as he conjured flame these days?
Peter tried to recall prayers to the Father, or any handy deity, for surely, he’d soon breathe his last.
Oh, Father. His heart pounded in his chest, pulse racing in his ears. This was it. He’d only found Martin. Now he’d never see the boy he’d loved again.
Loved. He’d loved Arkenn. Might soon love Martin if he didn’t already.
Too late. He’d die tonight.
