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Cyrryn looked up at the tall pines towering over her, their great straight trunks rising to brush the sky. The whispering wind played through the green boughs, sending a soft shower of golden needles spinning down to land on the forest floor with a faint crackle. Somewhere behind her, the harsh cry of a raven rang out, shattering the peaceful quiet. Again came the call, followed by the loud clap of beating wings. Cyrryn spun around as the huge black bird flapped away into the sun-dappled forest, the silver edges of its feathers flashing brightly. A Silverwing, the elven bird of souls. She started to follow it, but a tangle of thorny briars grew up in front of her. The harder she fought to get through, the thicker and higher they became. Utterly frustrated, she retreated, her arms stinging from the deep scratches inflicted by the thorns.
Turning away from the briar blockade, she looked out through the trees, searching for a path to lead her home, and a flash of white caught her eye. No more than a hundred feet away stood a white lion with a thick black mane and deep blue eyes. He looked at her a moment, then turned and disappeared between the trees. She took a step after him, but to the right of where he had been standing appeared a grinning, amber-eyed wolf. Her black coat shimmered with hints of red, silver and gold. Then, with a flick of her tail, she too was gone. With an unexplainable sense of sadness and disappointment, Cyrryn turned away from the elusive creatures, only to see a nimble elven stag step out from behind the trees. His gray fur looked soft as velvet, with the silver shoulder ruff and rump sparkling in the muted sunlight. He looked at her, then bounded off into the forest.
A sound now caught her attention, a deep, low rumbling, like far off thunder, and she cowered down against the needle-covered forest floor. The rumble grew louder, and she could feel it in the ground, making the very trees tremble. Lifting her face from the scratching bed of pine needles, Cyrryn looked wildly about, her searching eyes flickering over and then fixing on the great red creature that thundered toward her. Jumping to her feet, she danced back as the unicorn stallion leaped a fallen log and landed before her in a spray of needles and loam.
Black and red, a creature made from soot and embers, he watched her with one large, soft brown eye. She felt herself drawn to him, her skin tingling at the thought of running her hands over the sooty black of his legs, or the sleek blood-red of his neck. She longed to tangle her fingers in his silky black mane, or to feel his black velvet lips nuzzle her cheek. Only the long, wicked black horn spiraling out from his forehead gave her pause. Taking a deep breath, she stepped toward him, her hand outstretched.
At first, he did not move, then he took one step forward and lowered his head to nuzzle the offered hand. Cyrryn chuckled as his soft lips and hot breath tickled her palm. She stopped laughing, though, when he took another step toward her, and then another, the point of his horn sinking into her chest. It pierced her flesh and slid between her ribs, slipping right into her heart. She felt no pain, just an intense pressure, as if some massive fist held her heart in its grip.
“I chose you, my child, to be my greatest warrior,” the stallion said in a rich and velvety voice, though his lips did not move, and the voice might only have been a thought. “The battle draws near.”
“What battle?” she whispered.
“The battle for all things,” the unicorn replied. “We must be ready. He grows ever stronger.”
“Who?”
“Ellirrias.”
“The Soulstealer,” Cyrryn said with a shudder. “He’s evil.”
“Not evil,” the stallion said, his voice like a soft breath of wind. “Powerful, yes, but not evil. One person has the power to reach him, but we cannot rest the fate of all things on this one. Will you join us and fight to your last breath to stop Ellirrias?” Cyrryn looked down at the unicorn horn buried halfway in her heart. Would he kill her if she refused?
“I’m not a brave person,” she said after a moment, “or a noble one, but I will do whatever it takes to stop the Soulstealer. I will join you.”
“Do not forget your promise, my child. I know what lies in your heart.” Cyrryn expected the unicorn to release her now, but instead of backing off, he moved closer, driving his horn deeper. Pain exploded in her chest, a hot, searing pain that made her scream in agony. His voice came again, thundering in her ears, “Do not forget.”
Cyrryn woke with a start, her heart racing as lances of pain racked her body. A dream, she told herself, just a dream. Already, it grew fuzzy and vague, something about a forest, or a zoo, maybe. She’d seen a lion. The sharp pain in her chest faded to a dull throb, but her head rang with a fierce ache, making her vision swim. Closing her eyes again, she waited for the dizziness to pass. Where the hell am I? she wondered, rolling her aching body from her side over onto her back. The mush between her ears churned slowly, picking out a piece of memory a bit at a time, but eventually she remembered the soldiers, the chains, the dark, dank cell with the rats and the roaches.
This wasn’t the jail, though. She could hear no yelling guards, no screaming prisoners, no sharp clanging of tin cups on cell bars. Silence shrieked in her ears. The stink of stale bread, boiled potatoes, and over-ripe lumbi fruit was replaced with the moldering smell of old stone, the ammonia reek of piss, and the rich, fetid odor of fungus. Opening her eyes again, she stared up at the dark ceiling, her eyes adjusting to the dim light that suffused the room. Great, she thought with a mental sigh, moon moss.
The moss covered almost every inch of the ceiling, save for a dark square directly above her, its long, trailing fronds hanging down like feathery fingers of blue-green light. The slimy crap oozed down the walls in sickly patches, giving the room a twilight glow that made Cyrryn’s eyes ache trying to see through it. Moon moss, she recalled, grew only in cool, damp places that saw little or no daylight. It grew very slow, only an inch or two a year, which meant that this colony had to be several hundred years old.
Groaning, she struggled into a sitting position, cradling her head in her hands as the back of her skull threatened to pop off. Reaching up, she found a sticky mat of hair and blood at the base of her neck. The three corner tear stung as her fingers probed the crusty edges. It wasn’t too deep, at least, and the bleeding seemed to have stopped. It probably needed sutures, or a simple healing spell, though she imagined it might be quite a while before she found a healer.
As the throbbing eased, she raised her head and took another look at her surroundings. She lay in a small, empty room, just four walls and four doorways. Off to one side, she noticed a dark hole in the floor with the top of a ladder showing through it. The entire room seemed to be made of rough hewn stone bricks, though it was hard to tell through all the moss. This was one of those dark, creepy places where you expected to hear eerie background music. She could almost hear the single flute piping out the slow, haunting melody. Cyrryn shivered, and it had little to do with the coldness of the stone floor beneath her or the damp, chill breeze that crawled up through the hole in the floor. With a dead, empty feeling in her stomach, she wished she was back in jail.
“The Labyrinth,” she whispered to herself, her voice rough and dry as autumn leaves. The Labyrinth, if she remembered correctly, had once been the cruel entertainment of a tyrant king, a sadistic bastard who imprisoned his own daughter in it just because he could. Supposedly, an exit existed, but the path from here to there was said to be wrought with unimaginable peril and only the brave, just and true of heart ever escaped. That might explain why no one ever did. Now, it was a real prison, a place of murderers, rapists, and traitors. And she was right in the middle of it.
Struggling to her feet, a wave of dizziness almost landed her back on the stones, but she kept her legs under her and managed not to vomit. Like a new-born foal, she wobbled over to the nearest wall and crashed against it, moon moss squelching under her weight, the wetness seeping into her clothes. This close, the moss stunk of rot and decay, an odor that seemed to epitomize the Labyrinth.
Stepping away from the wall, she tottered only a little as she brushed clinging tendrils of moss off of her clothes. On the wall was a black patch, the moss she had crushed stripped of its phosphorescence. Staggering toward the nearest doorway, she had to stop and put a steadying hand on the wall several times. Damn head wound. Tumbling through the open door, she looked around at a nearly identical room. The only differences were the lack of a ladder and the absence of the dark square in the ceiling. Catching her breath as she leaned against the door jam, Cyrryn suddenly realized that she was in trouble.
A sudden grating squeal of metal being slid over stone rang out in the still silence, making her jump. A blindingly bright shaft of light speared the dim room as a hole in the ceiling was opened. Squinting, Cyrryn started to totter forward to shout for help, but then thought better of it. She crept back behind the wall and peered through the doorway, brushing her tangled curls out of her face as the sound of rough laughter reached her ears. Something dropped through the hole and landed on the stone floor with a pained groan.
“After nothing but rats these past two days, that damned bloodsucker should have a ball down there,” someone above said in a gravely voice. Several others laughed, their voices drowned out by the squeal of metal as they closed the hole. Cyrryn leaned farther into the doorway and looked thoughtfully at the pile lying in the middle of the floor. A bloodsucker. As if she didn’t have enough problems already. Briefly, she wondered if this was the same one that had murdered a schoolmate of hers thirty years ago, but she decided it didn’t matter. One bloodsucker was the same as any other. She quickly checked her pockets, looking for something, anything, to kill it with, but she had been stripped of everything except for her clothes and boots. Not that she carried bloodsucker slaying equipment around with her, but she had been known to be quite ingenious in a pinch.
Okay, so she couldn’t kill it, now what? She was too weak to run, but it hardly mattered, except to her pride. With bloodsuckers, running didn’t do much good. They could follow a trail better than a Brisslan hunting hog. She couldn’t kill it, she couldn’t run, obviously she couldn’t fight. What was left, letting it kill her? Fuck that.
The creature groaned and rolled over, trying to stand up, but a stout rope secured its hands behind its back. Good, Cyrryn thought, that’ll hold it for a while. As she watched, it strained against the ropes, the muscles in its arms and back tight beneath the blue shirt it wore. The ropes creaked, then busted in a cloud of dust, and the bloodsucker climbed to its feet, rubbing at its wrists. Cyrryn stood as still as the stone wall next to her as the bloodsucker rose to its full height and popped its spine with a loud crackle. The thing had to be at least six feet and stood with its back to her, its short black hair streaked with silver and gold. It wore black jeans, a royal blue, long-sleeved silk shirt with a tear in the shoulder, and black shivalskin boots, the kind of boots Cyrryn had always wanted but had never been able to afford.
Suddenly, the creature’s head jerked up and she heard it sniff the air, catching her scent. Cyrryn’s hands began to shake, her fingers going ice cold, but she did not even try to run. As the creature began to turn, she straightened up, stepping out from behind the wall and crossing her arms over her chest. It took all her courage to keep her rubber knees from buckling beneath her. Accept death without fear, as her father used to say, but not without a fight. Look it in the face and give it a black eye for its troubles. That was exactly what she intended to do, but he never told her how hard it was going to be.
The face of death, she discovered, belonged to a young man with sharp, smoldering blue eyes, a narrow, fierce nose and thin pink lips. Surprisingly, it looked almost human, but in the half-light of the moon moss its skin glowed pale as bone. It stared at her for a long moment, not a sound being uttered by either of them, then its lips tightened across its teeth and pulled back, exposing a pair of gleaming white fangs. It snarled as it stalked across the room toward her, its power and grace reminding her of a cat. Cyrryn took an involuntary step backward, her throat working hard to swallow the fear that welled up like bile.
The creature caught her by the throat, its hand the icy grip of death. Automatically, she raised her hands to try to pry its fingers away, but the hand was like stone, immovable. She stopped clawing and waited, hoping it would look her in the eye, expecting the fangs to descend, but it just held her and did neither. It looked around the rooms in disgust, then at her, its burning eyes flickering over her face, but never making eye contact.
“Where am I?” it snarled. Cyrryn’s mouth opened and closed several times, but no sound came out. The creature relaxed its grip a little so she could talk.
“The Labyrinth,” she managed to choke out. So, the bloodsucker was human, or at least, it used to be, judging from its British accent. She had never been to Britain, or even Earth for that matter, but she had known people from there. She could sit for hours, just listening to that light, musical dialect, the beauty of it reminding her of the old language. Hearing it come out of this thing, however, took all the beauty out of it. The creature snarled again and slammed the fist not choking the life out of her into the doorway next to them. The blow shook crumbling mortar out from between the stones and down into her hair.
“Damn it! Bastards!” It looked down into Cyrryn’s face and sneered, still not looking her in the eye. “I don’t suppose a pretty thing like you knows how to get out of here?” It bared its fangs, not waiting for an answer, and started to lean toward her neck, its breath cold and clammy on her skin.
“I do!” she cried, her words strangled. “I do! I do know how to get out!” It pulled back and laughed in her face.
“Nice try, pet, but I don’t believe you,” it said. “That’s all right, though. Liars taste even better than honest girls.” Cyrryn’s face flushed with anger.
“I’m not lying,” she growled through gritted teeth. “Now get your disgusting hand off of me.” With a look of shock on its face, the bloodsucker obeyed, stepping away and looking her over once again. She wondered what it would see this time that it missed the first. She was still a petite, green-eyed redhead wearing dirty jeans, a ragged gray T-shirt, and cheap, worn boots with broken laces. Nothing had changed except her mood. Now she was pissed.
“And why should I believe you?” it asked at last.
“Because I don’t lie,” she snapped. “Besides, what have you got to lose? If I’m telling the truth, we can get out of here, if not, then you can kill me. Either way, you win.” It looked sideways at her out of the corner of its eye.
“And what if we do get out of here and then I decide to kill you anyway?” it asked. “What then, love?”
“I guess that’s your prerogative,” she said dryly. “I can’t say I’d be surprised.”
“I don’t trust you,” it blurted out. Now it was Cyrryn who laughed.
“Did I say you could?” she said. “Trust doesn’t have anything to do with this.” She couldn’t believe this thing possessed the intelligence to bargain; it should have killed her on sight. “Let me put it this way; if I die, you’ll never get out of this shithole.” It stared at her in silence for a very long, very uncomfortable moment, probably having trouble understanding her, even though she had tried to use small words. It looked away, around the room, then nodded its head once.
“Fine, I’m not that hungry anyway, but I’m watching you.”
“And I’m watching you,” she shot back, stalking past it into the room they had been dropped into. Her heart pounded, but at least her legs worked again. She looked around at the featureless room, trying to get her bearings. Her head still throbbed and her memory was fuzzy, confused, but she certainly didn’t want the creature to know that. She turned and faced the ladder that disappeared down through the floor. Closing her eyes, she stood still and tried to relax, tried to let the memories come, but they flitted through her grasp like hyperactive faeries.
Wrinkling her brow in concentration, she began to hum a quiet tune, one her grandfather had taught her. Finally, she opened her eyes and turned to her left. “This way,” she said, trying to sound confident as she strode through the doorway. The creature followed without a word.
Room followed dark, empty room as Cyrryn led the way through the baffling maze, the bloodsucker’s ringing footfalls always too close behind her. Rounding yet another open doorway, she nearly tripped over a body lying in the middle of the room. It was a man, black haired, tanned, and dressed like a poor peasant. His hands looked rough, with dirt ground into the calluses; farmer’s hands, or rancher’s. The creature pushed past her and knelt over the corpse, lifting one arm and testing the rigidity of the joints. It leaned down and bit into the dead man’s neck, pulling back a moment later and spitting a mouthful of clotted black blood onto the ground.
After wiping its lips on the corpse’s shirt-tails, it rose and looked at Cyrryn, staring at her forehead rather that into her eyes, but with a defiant air none-the-less. Disgusted, she turned and headed for the left-hand doorway, but a flicker of movement to the right caught her eye. Too big for a goblin, she assured herself. But then, what was it? The answer presented itself in the form of two, beady black eyes, a long, narrow muzzle filled with sharp, gnawing teeth, and large hairless ears that twitched toward her as her boot heel scraped the stones.
The ratwolf crept through the doorway, the scritch of its claws and the dry hiss of its hairless tail scraping over the dusty floor the only sounds in the oppressive quiet. Cyrryn took a slow and deliberate step back, the sharp eyes and ears tracking her relentlessly. She glanced at the bloodsucker, the creature standing still as a statue, its dark blue eyes as listless as the dead. Now the ratwolf stepped into the center of the room, caution cast aside as the doorway filled with sniffing noses and black eyes. It’s pack jostled into the room, hissing at each other and biting ears, but a snarl from the leader snapped them into line.
Cyrryn had no great fondness for rats of any kind, but these, standing over two feet at the shoulder with long, powerful legs were the nastiest rats she had ever encountered on any planet. The fact that they always moved in packs made them even more formidable. Even the sandrats of Matih were preferable to these monsters. Curling back their black lips, the ratwolves hissed and snarled, yellowed teeth dripping gobs of saliva at their feet. The carpet of mangy brown backs rippled forward, backing Cyrryn against the wall. Damn it, if she only had her sword--
The ratwolf leader crouched, flanks twitching as it gathered itself for the attack. Cyrryn balled her fists, setting her feet apart in a fighter’s stance. Her heart pounding, she waited, and the ratwolf leaped, springing forward with a hiss. The jaw, she told herself, hit hard, must break the jaw. Her heart beat once, and again, echoing in her head as the attacking vermin drew closer.
Suddenly, a flash of white jerked the ratwolf out of the air. Cyrryn gasped and the pack hissed as the creature caught the leader by the throat. Scrabbling claws scratched at bone white hands as the bloodsucker grabbed the thrashing tail and swung the ratwolf into the stone wall with a sharp crack and a splattering of brains and blood. The rodent twitched and jerked as it swung from the creature’s hands, blood oozing from its eyes, ears and nose. One last great spasm and it released it bowels, an eye-stinging stench filling the room. Cyrryn covered her mouth and nose with one hand a tried to breathe shallow between her fingers. The vermin pack shrank back from the smell of death, disappearing into the dark room beyond.
“Gods, that stinks,” Cyrryn said, her words muffled by her hand. She hurried through the door she had been heading for and into the fresher air. Glancing back, she groaned in disgust. The creature followed, and it still carried the dead ratwolf. “What are you doing?” she asked. “Get rid of that thing.” The bloodsucker didn’t respond. It flipped the carcass over like it weighed nothing and began tearing handfuls of bloody, greasy fur from the ratwolf’s throat. “You can’t be serious.” Cyrryn’s stomach clenched, sending a tightness up the back of the throat.
“Look,” the bloodsucker snarled, “I’m hungry and there’s only two things down here to eat. What would you rather have me do?” For a moment, Cyrryn could think of nothing to say to this thing to which she was merely a choice of entree, but she wasn’t speechless for long.
“I’d rather you died, slow and painful,” she spat. It looked up from its plucking, eyes rising only to her lips, and smiled, a cold, cruel smile that flashed its fangs for all the world to see.
“I’ll remember you said that, love, when the rats run out.” A chill passed down Cyrryn’s spine, the bloodsucker’s malicious gaze lingering on her long enough to raise goosebumps down her arms, then it bent its head to the ratwolf’s bald throat. She turned away, closing her eyes and taking deep, slow breaths. She could hear it slurping.
Ages later, she heard the thud of the carcass hitting the floor and the creature belched, smacking its lips a bit excessively, she thought. Rounding on it, she grabbed it by the front of its blue shirt, trying to pull it down to her level, but she might have had better luck trying it on one of the stone walls, so she settled for hauling herself up on tiptoe. She still couldn’t manage to make eyes contact, though.
“Don’t ever call me ‘love’ again,” she told it. It flashed the fangs again, trying to scare her, but she refused to be driven off by a show of teeth. She bared her own teeth, then spun away and stalked off, her angry footfalls ringing out and mingling with the music of its easy, lyrical gait. Before long, though, the even strides had grown impatient, hounding her through every turn and hesitation. Finally, a steely hand grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.
“We’re not getting anywhere,” the bloodsucker snarled, scowling down at her, but still refusing to look her in the eye. “I’m sick of this bloody goose chase.” The fangs gleamed into view again, but Cyrryn tore her arm out of its grasp, wrenching her shoulder in the process. A gash in her head, a bloodsucker on her back, and now an aching shoulder. Great.
“Keep your damn hands off me,” she said, snarling almost as viciously as it. “We’re almost there.” She hoped to all the gods that she was right. The scowl still rigidly etched into its features, the creature stepped back and let her lead on. One room after another they passed through and with each one she grew more and more tense, afraid that they were indeed lost. Any moment, she expected to feel that cold hand grab her again, and she doubted she could shake it off next time.
At last, they entered a room that set off bells and whistles in her head. She stopped, the creature nearly stumbling into her, and looked around, not sure what caught her attention. This room looked identical to a dozen others that she had passed by with hardly a glance, but something sparked a long-buried memory. Slowly, she walked into the center of the room, turning a complete circle as she looked at each of the three doorways and then at the blank, moss-spotted wall, the bloodsucker tapping its foot impatiently. Ignoring it, she looked up at the ceiling with its trailing fronds of pale green moss, then down at the floor, thick with green-gray dust. Almost absently, she used her foot to scrape aside the dust, revealing a rather strange tri-directional crack between the floorstones. Bending down, she brushed away more dust, sending up greenish clouds until she ended up sneezing herself breathless. Wiping dusty tears on the back of her hand, she looked down at what she had uncovered. Instead of being rectangular, like every other floorstone she had seen, these were hexagonal. What it meant, she wasn’t sure, but it was something. A glance at the bloodsucker told her that it was getting tired of waiting.
After standing up, she wiped her dusty hands on the seat of her pants and walked toward the doorless wall. The moss on this wall was thin and blotchy, as if it had not been growing as long as on the others. Leaning close to an almost bare spot, she held her breath and squinted at the stone, picking at the repulsive stuff with one hand. A footstep caused her to turn, but it was only the bloodsucker walking toward her.
“Stop,” she told it, and it froze mid-step. “Stay.” It’s scowl deepened, the pink lips curling back in another vicious snarl, and it spun away, stalking around the edge of the room with its hands jammed in its pockets. She watched it a moment, then turned back to the wall. Biting back her revulsion, she laid her hands on the wall, feeling beneath the slime. The grooves were old and worn, but they were there, just as she somehow knew they would be. Almost recklessly, she began scraping the slick moss off of the wall, pungent liquid running down her arms as she worked. “Hey, bloodsucker, you want to give me a hand?” she called over her shoulder to the creature. It stood at a distance, watching with evident distaste.
“Not really,” it replied. “And we prefer to be called vampires.” Cyrryn flicked one slime covered hand in its direction, splattering glowing goo on the floor by its boots.
“I don’t care what you prefer, get your ass over here and help me.” A snarl rose in its throat, but it was no surprise. After a moment, the creature stepped up beside her and began gingerly scraping away the moss with one hand. She laughed aloud at it. “Imagine a creature as disgusting as a bloodsucker being disgusted by a little moss.”
“I’m a vampire,” was all it growled, its voice low and angry.
“Whatever,” she said, rolling her eyes. They worked in silence, the creature finally pitching in with both hands, and soon the wall was stripped bare. The damaged moon moss, pooled at the bottom of the wall, gave off a feeble and broken light, not enough to see what they had uncovered. “Damn this darkness,” she cursed. “Hey, you don’t happen to have matches or a lighter, do you? Maybe a light spell?”
“Oh, of course I do,” it responded. “We’ve just been wandering around in the dark for the fun of it. I’m having a jolly old time, aren’t you?”
“Oh, piss off, then,” she snapped, wanting to punch it right in its sarcastic face. “I’ll figure this out without you.” She stepped up to the wall and closed her eyes, using her fingers to trace over the markings.
“Well, I--,” it began, but she was sick of its smart ass remarks.
“Just shut up, will you? Shut up.” It snorted derisively and turned away.
“Fine. Bitch,” it added, under its breath. Hands shaking with rage, Cyrryn turned her attention to the wall, trying to ignore the bloodsucker as it paced behind her, mumbling and snarling just loud enough for her to hear.
She found what seemed to be the first group of marks and traced them for nearly five minutes before the ache in her arms caused her to drop them to her sides. “Figure it out yet?” the creature asked from across the room. Even though it could hardly see her in the darkness, Cyrryn shot it a look of pure hatred before turning back to the wall. The shapes carved into the stone felt familiar, yet very alien.
“Oh, crap, its written in the old language,” While she loved hearing the old words, reading them was another matter. She concentrated harder, squeezing her eyes shut and wrinkling her brow. “It’s a--a carph--no--a carish. Carish--what the hell does that mean? Damn it! Why didn’t I pay more attention in school?”
“Between,” the creature said suddenly.
“What?”
“Between. Carish means between,”
“You know the old language?” she asked scathingly. The rise and fall of its shoulders was barely visible in the dim light, but there was no mistaking the sullen tone in its voice.
“Maybe,” it said, “but I should probably shut up now before I get yelled at again. Sorry to interrupt your concentration.” It leaned against the doorway, arms crossed over its chest.
“Damn you, do you want to be down here forever?” Cyrryn shouted at it.
“You’re the one who told me to shut up!” it shouted back. They glared at each other in seething silence, then, quietly, Cyrryn spoke.
“Are you going to help me or not?” She spoke through clenched teeth, trying to sound calm.
“Are you going to listen to what I have to say?” it asked. Mutely, she nodded. “Then I’ll help you.” It took a few steps toward the wall. “Hmm. ‘Between sky and stone, press bird of bone.’ What does that mean?” Cyrryn stared incredulously up into its pale face.
“You can see it,” she accused.
“My eyes are better than yours,” it replied, a bit smugly, she noted. She turned away, roaring in frustration.
“And--and you failed to mention this earlier because...?” It shrugged again.
“You didn’t ask.” She spun around, fists clenched at her sides, itching to be used.
“I am going to kill you,” she declared, her voice dangerously calm. The bloodsucker drew itself up to its full height and bared its fangs.
“I would love to see you try. Go ahead, my little green-eyed pet, take your best shot.” It stepped toward her, all dark menace and vile anger with blazing blue eyes. Cyrryn suddenly remembered the nature of this thing.
“If I didn’t despise the thought of touching you, I would, but you’re not even worth the effort.” Cyrryn turned to face the blank wall, her pulse racing with anger and a little fear. Her fiery temper had always gotten her in trouble. Why should now be any different? She had to control it, though, she had to, if she wanted to survive.
“I don’t like you,” the creature said after a moment, and Cyrryn was tempted to tell it that the feeling was mutual, but she held her tongue. “We have to work together, though, so let’s at least try to act civil.” The bloodsucker was right, surprisingly. “Now, what does, ‘Between sky and stone, press bird of bone.’ mean?” Cyrryn took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. Calm never came easy.
“I don’t know. What’s the rest say?”
“There is no more, just a picture, a mural, sort of,” it said. She sighed in exasperation.
“And what does that look like?” She peered at the wall, trying to make out anything, but she felt like a blind old mole. The creature stepped forward to brush a few clinging tendrils off moss away. With one hand, it traced the picture as it described it.
“Here’s the sun and some clouds. A few birds, ravens, I think, and a tree, here. The hills sweep this way, and a river runs through the middle. Cattails and rushes, like a swamp, and ducks, geese, a swan. Frogs on lillypads, a ring of toadstools, fairies climbing on a wisteria. That’s about all.” Cyrryn turned away, thoughtfully rubbing at the migraine she’d given herself by trying to see in the dark.
“Got any aspirin?” she asked. The bloodsucker just looked at her. “Never mind.” She began to pace, picturing the wall in her head. Bird of bone...bird of bone...bird of-- “That’s it!” she shouted, her head snapping up. The wound on the back of her head screamed in protest and she felt something warm trickle down the back of her neck. She shot a worried glance toward the creature. It lifted its head and sniffed the air, scenting her blood. Shit! she thought. Just what I need.
“You’re bleeding,” it said thickly, and she watched it lick its lips.
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