Cethe by Becca Abbott Page A

feelin’ a bit peckish.”
    “I have no money.”
    This brought snickers from Short-Sword and his cohorts. “We ain’t stupid, yer lordship. Hand over yer gold and yer sparklies.”
    They were looking straight at his neck. Involuntarily, he reached up and found his neckcloth had slipped, revealing a glimpse
    of the jeweled col ar beneath.
    There were five of the vil ains, moving forward, trying to surround him. Running was out of the question; his foot wouldn’t
    stand it.
    One of Short-Sword’s companions, a long-bladed dagger in each fist, prepared to strike. He lunged, but Stefn lifted the cane
    to meet the attack, whirling it from hand to hand in front of him. The ruffian shrieked as the heavy, knobbed wood shattered both his
    wrists, his daggers flying from suddenly nerveless fingers.
    “Get him!”
    Stefn braced to meet their rush. He deflected Short-Sword’s enraged jab, dropping to a crouch, intending to come up under
    the man’s guard. Alas! His foot buckled under him and he fel heavily, vision greying in the waves of agony. Some sixth sense made
    him rol desperately to one side, avoiding the vicious, downward cut of the sword. He got his other hand on the cane, lifting it to
    block another blow. Sweat ran into his eyes. The next blow would finish him.
    But the next blow didn’t come. Instead, he heard one of the robbers swear. “Holy mother of whores. It’s a fuckin’ demon!”
    Stefn’s heart lurched. Wiping his eyes with his arm, he saw the truth of it. Shadow and moonlight come alive as Michael
    Arranz approached. Unhurried, he strol ed down the center of the deserted street, making no effort to hide the bright, damning
    banner of his hair. In one hand, he held a sword, in the other, a whip.
    “That ain’t no demon,” roared the ruffians’ leader. “What’s wrong with you fools? He’s just some bloody taint! Take ‘im down!”
    Arranz became a blur of motion, deadly, graceful and appal ingly efficient. Superstitious awe and terror held Stefn motionless,
    staring as Short-Sword’s head was parted from his shoulders, flying across the street to rol up against the front of a shop. Without

    breaking stride, Arranz impaled the next robber and severed the spine of the third. The man whose wrists Stefn had broken tried to
    run, moaning and babbling prayers, but Arranz’s whip cracked through the street, wrapping around his neck and snapping it. Another
    crack and the fifth ruffian met an identical fate. Abruptly, the night was quiet.
    Along the street, lights appeared in the windows. Shutters were thrust open. Arranz put up his hood. As the cal s and shouts
    started, he crossed the bloody pavement to Stefn. Belatedly, Stefn found his wits and swung the cane wildly at the half-breed’s
    shins. “Idiot puppy!” he heard, then the world was violently upended. Pain crashed down on Stefn like the hammer of Loth and he
    didn’t remember a thing after that.
    Eldering was stil unconscious when Michael got him back to the inn. Marin carried the youth up to his room with surprising
    gentleness. With a glance at the window, stil open, Michael ordered his aide to strip the earl naked and tie his hands behind him.
    “I’m in no mood to chase him down again,” he said flatly.
    “Bind him, my lord?” Marin looked down at the unconscious sin-catcher. “Is it real y necessary?”
    “If Eldering had reached the priests with his tale, the consequences would have been disastrous.” Ignoring Marin’s reproachful
    looks, Michael returned to his own room and promptly col apsed.
    It had been easy to find Stefn. Michael had been shocked at how easy. Deep inside him, in a place that he’d not known
    existed before the Binding, a smal flame now burned, flaring brighter when his thoughts touched on his cethe. Dispassionately,
    Michael considered the phenomenon. He’d simply fol owed its pul through the sleeping town until he’d found the runaway.
    And the runaway could fight! That was most unexpected. He was