than five years ago. He remembered the day he had tried to venture north when she came out of nowhere and blocked his way.
“We’re almost there,” he said. “Her lair is north of the border patrol. But I’m sure we’ll get around them if we start early in the morning.”
“In the morning? We could get there ahead of her if we go on.”
“That’s not what I’m after,” the Wanderer muttered. “Besides, I haven’t slept in more than two nights and we’re going to need our strength for tomorrow.”
He heard his pulse easily. His heart was so close he could almost feel it pounding inside him. He also sensed her presence through his skin, and wondered if Ella Bandita knew he was near. Then exhaustion took him into a sleep that went deeper than the land of dreams. Yet the Wanderer woke up before dawn, relieved when he heard the Shepherd was already awake.
The sky was clear and the blanket of snow served them well in the darkest hour, the white guiding them through the trees. They slowed down when they came to the border patrol, stealthy as they passed the solitary lawman keeping watch over two countries.
His pulse grew louder as they went, its resonance stronger in his hollow. The Wanderer was impatient, yearning for his heart to beat inside him again. Several miles north of the border, he knew they had arrived. He could almost smell the honey musk of Ella Bandita, and the echo inside him was the strongest pulse he’d enjoyed in years. But he was confused. Somehow his heartbeat was drowned in a chaos of noise. The Wanderer was suddenly assaulted with the pounding of foreign rhythms against him.
He held the heart in the bag close to him and a vision of Ella Bandita came to mind. He saw her walking down a narrow passage, the riot of sound more violent with each step. It was so bad he couldn’t get his bearings until the Shepherd found the path.
He pulled on the Wanderer’s arm, pointing to the deep tracks through snow that could only come from a massive horse. They found her stallion where the trees came to an end and the pounding was much worse. The Shepherd groaned and put his hands over his ears. Their horses were also agitated, whinnying and resisting the pull of the reins.
Then the Wanderer saw the tower. The structure glistened earthen rose in the sunrise. It was peculiar, a mound rising from nowhere and naked of snow and frost. After a moment, he realized there was too much heat from the hearts beating inside, and sensed his in the grasp of Ella Bandita. The Wanderer leaped from his saddle and rushed to the tower, finding the entry at its face. He held his breath and ran blind through the passage.
His pulse trilled inside his bones, yet the roaring continued its assault on him. Keeping Ella Bandita’s heart close, he fought to remain calm.
She had just come off the last step when he burst into the chamber. But he scarcely noticed. The sight of hearts spiraling up the walls to the apex was more than his mind could handle. The stench made his stomach curdle and he had to resist the urge to vomit. But the sound was the worst of all. The disharmonious heartbeats ricocheted off each other, echoing from the walls in a collective scream.
The Wanderer couldn’t move. The onslaught of stolen hearts nearly brought him to his knees, but he refused to pass out. One glance at Ella Bandita and he knew he was doomed if he gave in. The fierce desperation in her face took his breath away. Her eyes were as hard and cold as ever, yet her mouth trembled. She clutched her belly with one hand, while in the other she held his heart. She had to feed. The Wanderer felt her craving as much as he felt the gentle beat of her heart against his chest. There were tears in his eyes when he opened his mouth to appeal to her. Yet the words wouldn’t come.
“So, Wanderer,” she growled, “did you come simply to watch?”
Before he could answer, her gaze shifted and looked beyond him. He turned around and saw the Shepherd
“We’re almost there,” he said. “Her lair is north of the border patrol. But I’m sure we’ll get around them if we start early in the morning.”
“In the morning? We could get there ahead of her if we go on.”
“That’s not what I’m after,” the Wanderer muttered. “Besides, I haven’t slept in more than two nights and we’re going to need our strength for tomorrow.”
He heard his pulse easily. His heart was so close he could almost feel it pounding inside him. He also sensed her presence through his skin, and wondered if Ella Bandita knew he was near. Then exhaustion took him into a sleep that went deeper than the land of dreams. Yet the Wanderer woke up before dawn, relieved when he heard the Shepherd was already awake.
The sky was clear and the blanket of snow served them well in the darkest hour, the white guiding them through the trees. They slowed down when they came to the border patrol, stealthy as they passed the solitary lawman keeping watch over two countries.
His pulse grew louder as they went, its resonance stronger in his hollow. The Wanderer was impatient, yearning for his heart to beat inside him again. Several miles north of the border, he knew they had arrived. He could almost smell the honey musk of Ella Bandita, and the echo inside him was the strongest pulse he’d enjoyed in years. But he was confused. Somehow his heartbeat was drowned in a chaos of noise. The Wanderer was suddenly assaulted with the pounding of foreign rhythms against him.
He held the heart in the bag close to him and a vision of Ella Bandita came to mind. He saw her walking down a narrow passage, the riot of sound more violent with each step. It was so bad he couldn’t get his bearings until the Shepherd found the path.
He pulled on the Wanderer’s arm, pointing to the deep tracks through snow that could only come from a massive horse. They found her stallion where the trees came to an end and the pounding was much worse. The Shepherd groaned and put his hands over his ears. Their horses were also agitated, whinnying and resisting the pull of the reins.
Then the Wanderer saw the tower. The structure glistened earthen rose in the sunrise. It was peculiar, a mound rising from nowhere and naked of snow and frost. After a moment, he realized there was too much heat from the hearts beating inside, and sensed his in the grasp of Ella Bandita. The Wanderer leaped from his saddle and rushed to the tower, finding the entry at its face. He held his breath and ran blind through the passage.
His pulse trilled inside his bones, yet the roaring continued its assault on him. Keeping Ella Bandita’s heart close, he fought to remain calm.
She had just come off the last step when he burst into the chamber. But he scarcely noticed. The sight of hearts spiraling up the walls to the apex was more than his mind could handle. The stench made his stomach curdle and he had to resist the urge to vomit. But the sound was the worst of all. The disharmonious heartbeats ricocheted off each other, echoing from the walls in a collective scream.
The Wanderer couldn’t move. The onslaught of stolen hearts nearly brought him to his knees, but he refused to pass out. One glance at Ella Bandita and he knew he was doomed if he gave in. The fierce desperation in her face took his breath away. Her eyes were as hard and cold as ever, yet her mouth trembled. She clutched her belly with one hand, while in the other she held his heart. She had to feed. The Wanderer felt her craving as much as he felt the gentle beat of her heart against his chest. There were tears in his eyes when he opened his mouth to appeal to her. Yet the words wouldn’t come.
“So, Wanderer,” she growled, “did you come simply to watch?”
Before he could answer, her gaze shifted and looked beyond him. He turned around and saw the Shepherd
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