Black Sun Rising by C.S. Friedman Read Free Book Online

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    “Damn you!” she cried suddenly—meaning her parents, her fears, the night itself. And her own looks, for that matter. Gods above, what might her life have been like if she were unattractive, or merely plain, or even of a sturdier type than she was? Might she have been allowed to play outside after sunset, as some other children were? Might she have grown accustomed to the night, ranking its terrors alongside other childhood fears, dealing with them simply and rationally? Come home on time, her parents would have cautioned. Don’t talk to strangers. Raise up a ward if some demon appears. And then they would have let her go out. Gods of Ema, what freedom, what freedom!
    She reached up to wipe a tear, half frozen, from her cheek, and then stopped walking in order to dislodge a bit of mud that had oozed its way into her shoe. And as she did so, she became intensely aware of the silence that surrounded her. No other footsteps sounded in the night, though the road on all sides of her had been heavily trod. No birds sang, no insects chittered, no children cried in the distance. Nothing. It was as if the whole world had died, suddenly—as if she were the only creature left on Erna, and this section of road the last spot where life might exist, in the whole of creation.
    Then a sound behind her made her start suddenly. Almost silent, a mere hint of movement, but set against the night’s backdrop of utter soundlessness it had the power of a scream. She whirled about, staring back the way she had come.
    At a man.
    “Forgive me.” His voice was smooth, his carriage elegant. He bowed, soft brown hair catching the moonlight as he moved. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
    “You didn’t,” she lied. Another bit of mud was trickling coldly into her shoe, but she didn’t want to take her eyes from him to dislodge it; she shifted her weight a bit, and almost fell as a result. Gods, was she that unsteady? She didn’t dare look as afraid as she felt. The Hunter was attracted to fear. “It just seemed so ... quiet.”
    “The night can be like that.” He walked toward her slowly, casually, his languid grace mesmeric in the moonlight. A tall man, lean, with delicate features, arresting eyes. Unadorned, save for a thin gold band that held back his hair from his face, the latter cut shoulder-length in a style several years out of date. His eyes were pale gray flecked with silver, and in the moonlight they flashed like diamonds. She sensed a cold amusement lurking just beneath his surface. “Forgive me,” he repeated, “but a young woman out alone? It seemed unusual. Are you all right?”
    It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard him approach, that in the midst of all this sticky mud she should have had some warning— but then his eyes caught hers, held hers, and suddenly she couldn’t remember why that bothered her.
    “Yes,” she stammered. “That is—I think so.” She felt breathless, as if she had been running instead of walking. She tried to step back, but her body wouldn’t obey. What kind of Working had he used to bind her?
    But though he came close—too close—it was only to touch her chin with the tip of a well-manicured finger, turning her face up toward him. “So fragile,” he murmured. “So fine. And alone in the night. Not wise. Would you like an escort?”
    She whispered it. “Please.”
    He offered his arm. After a moment, she took it. An antiquated gesture, straight out of the Revival period. Her hand shook slightly as it came to rest on the wool of his sleeve. No warmth came from the arm beneath, or any other part of him; he was cold—he radiated cold—like the night itself. Just as she, despite her best intentions, radiated fear.
    Gods above, she prayed, just get me home. I’ll be more careful in the future, I swear it. Just get me home tonight.
    It seemed to her he smiled. “You’re afraid, child.”
    She didn’t dare respond. Just let me get through tonight. Please.
    “Of what?