his awakening with the same kind of animal instinct that allowed a mouse to sense the approach of a hungry cat. If he had not Bound them before he retired, knotting his power about each soul like a choke-leash, they would have fled the place long ago.
He climbed the cellar stairs and pushed open the door that led into the interior of the small house. The couple that owned the place cowered in the corner, a young boy by their side; several feet away stood their daughter, a girl just on the edge of womanhood. They had managed to light a single lamp to fend off the shadows of evening, but it was not enough to banish the wisps of dark fae that swirled about Tarrant’s feet, or the fear-wraiths that manifested briefly in his wake. But though the dark fae was volatile in this place, it had little staying power; no sooner did the wraiths come into existence then they headed off to the east, drawn toward the whirlpool of malevolence in the distance.
It is power, an inner voice whispered to him. Raw power, without equal. Go east and claim it.
Slowly, deliberately—defying the Forest’s call—he entered the small kitchen. For a moment he felt a pang of regret, remembering the grand estate he had once called home, the magnificent neo-gothic castle he had designed himself. If there was one facet of his current existence that he despised, it was his itinerancy. He had become a wanderer without a home, mesmerizing host after host as necessity demanded, forcing each one to protect him for a day—or a handful of days—until it was time to move on. What other mode of existence was possible? If he stayed too long in any one place he was sure to draw notice. And he was too vulnerable during the daylight hours to risk that. The Church was sending out teams of hunters these days, to track down and destroy all faeborn monsters. They would not care that he had once been human, or that he had authored half their sacred texts back in his living days. He was a creature of darkness now, and thus beyond the pale of their mercy.
As it should be , he thought. Perversely pleased by the thought that the Church he had created would attempt to kill him. At least they understood his teachings.
Quietly he whispered the key to a Compelling. The young girl began to move about the room in response to his will, gathering the items that he would need for his evening meal. A long knife from the nearby sideboard. A wooden tankard from one of the shelves. Her parents watched in horror as she approached Tarrant and placed the tankard on the table before him, but they were frozen by the sorcerer’s power and could voice no more than a whimper of protest. As the girl bared her forearm, Tarrant could see her struggling to reclaim control of her flesh. But his Compelling was too strong for that. For a few seconds he indulged her resistance, much as a fisherman might allow his catch to struggle on the hook before pulling it out of the water at last. But at last her fragile will gave way. She slashed downward toward her left arm with the knife—fiercely, awkwardly—cutting deeply into her own flesh. Red blood gushed out of the wound and splashed down into the tankard. A small moan escaped the mother’s lips, and Tarrant could see the father tremble as he fought to break free of his Binding, but from the girl herself there was no sound… only a delicious admixture of resignation and terror, as refreshing to him as the blood itself.
Such theatrics were not necessary, of course. He could have simply torn open her throat to get at her blood directly, with transformed teeth or claws, and drunk the hot, heady stuff straight from her veins. He had done that kind of thing in the early years of his damnation, when his control over his transformed flesh had still been weak. But such violent feeding was crude and messy, and it strengthened the dark side of his soul. He was experienced enough now to understand that if he wished to preserve his human identity and not
He climbed the cellar stairs and pushed open the door that led into the interior of the small house. The couple that owned the place cowered in the corner, a young boy by their side; several feet away stood their daughter, a girl just on the edge of womanhood. They had managed to light a single lamp to fend off the shadows of evening, but it was not enough to banish the wisps of dark fae that swirled about Tarrant’s feet, or the fear-wraiths that manifested briefly in his wake. But though the dark fae was volatile in this place, it had little staying power; no sooner did the wraiths come into existence then they headed off to the east, drawn toward the whirlpool of malevolence in the distance.
It is power, an inner voice whispered to him. Raw power, without equal. Go east and claim it.
Slowly, deliberately—defying the Forest’s call—he entered the small kitchen. For a moment he felt a pang of regret, remembering the grand estate he had once called home, the magnificent neo-gothic castle he had designed himself. If there was one facet of his current existence that he despised, it was his itinerancy. He had become a wanderer without a home, mesmerizing host after host as necessity demanded, forcing each one to protect him for a day—or a handful of days—until it was time to move on. What other mode of existence was possible? If he stayed too long in any one place he was sure to draw notice. And he was too vulnerable during the daylight hours to risk that. The Church was sending out teams of hunters these days, to track down and destroy all faeborn monsters. They would not care that he had once been human, or that he had authored half their sacred texts back in his living days. He was a creature of darkness now, and thus beyond the pale of their mercy.
As it should be , he thought. Perversely pleased by the thought that the Church he had created would attempt to kill him. At least they understood his teachings.
Quietly he whispered the key to a Compelling. The young girl began to move about the room in response to his will, gathering the items that he would need for his evening meal. A long knife from the nearby sideboard. A wooden tankard from one of the shelves. Her parents watched in horror as she approached Tarrant and placed the tankard on the table before him, but they were frozen by the sorcerer’s power and could voice no more than a whimper of protest. As the girl bared her forearm, Tarrant could see her struggling to reclaim control of her flesh. But his Compelling was too strong for that. For a few seconds he indulged her resistance, much as a fisherman might allow his catch to struggle on the hook before pulling it out of the water at last. But at last her fragile will gave way. She slashed downward toward her left arm with the knife—fiercely, awkwardly—cutting deeply into her own flesh. Red blood gushed out of the wound and splashed down into the tankard. A small moan escaped the mother’s lips, and Tarrant could see the father tremble as he fought to break free of his Binding, but from the girl herself there was no sound… only a delicious admixture of resignation and terror, as refreshing to him as the blood itself.
Such theatrics were not necessary, of course. He could have simply torn open her throat to get at her blood directly, with transformed teeth or claws, and drunk the hot, heady stuff straight from her veins. He had done that kind of thing in the early years of his damnation, when his control over his transformed flesh had still been weak. But such violent feeding was crude and messy, and it strengthened the dark side of his soul. He was experienced enough now to understand that if he wished to preserve his human identity and not
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