In the quiet of the night the girl lay still and pretended to sleep, schooling her mind to the pattern of an unconscious person. The insidious moon still shone outside the window, though it showed signs of waning, and she almost cursed it mentally before reminding herself that someone sleeping would not be mentally flinging obscenities skyward at the moonbeams. She watched herself very carefully after that, being sure to maintain her façade with a concentrated disregard. So focused was she on her task that she almost didn't catch the creak of the door opening. Her hand closed more tightly on the hilt of the knife where she had it palmed up under the sleeve of her dressing gown and she forced herself to remain absolutely still as the door swung lightly closed.
He came into the room silently, slowly, absolutely sure of himself in his domain. Behind her façade she allowed herself a slight mental shudder. This man moved and acted like a sort of large cat, or some even more deadly predator. She felt, for just a second, that she was quite powerless here, in his domain, before pulling herself away from that train of thought and regaining her previous conviction. He carried himself almost regally as he came towards her on the bed, and she felt the light brush of his mind against her own. Apparently her façade was sufficiently believable, for he withdrew after a moment and sat down on the bed, placing a hand possessively on her thigh.
She was quick, surprising even herself, as she came upright and in one smooth motion buried the small knife to the hilt in his eye. His hand clutched tightly around her thigh, and she gritted her teeth against crying out as she felt her bones creak in protest, but a moment later he dropped back soundlessly on the bed and she was relieved to find that she still had the use of her leg.
Carefully she nudged his body with her foot, and found his skin already losing some of his warmth. She crawled up by his head, noticed the wound did not bleed, and touched her fingers to the large vein in his neck before leaning her head down carefully towards his mouth to monitor his breathing. Nothing. She sat up.
For a heartbeat she sat and looked down at him. He was a handsome man, with clean-cut features and wide shoulders, the very specimen of male beauty with his high cheekbones and soft blonde hair. She put a finger to his lips in the traditional gesture of her people (may the dead speak no more) and bit her lip before reaching forward and grabbing hold of the knife.
A great commotion came on the stairs and the door burst open, banging against the wall and allowing several women dressed in what looked to be harem garb to burst into the room. Candles flared to life and the girl pulled the knife out of his body in a smooth motion before backing towards the window, palming the little blade out of sight again and leaving a smear of blood on the sleeve of the white gown.
Letting out a great exclamation, one of the women bent down and began to lick, somewhat delicately, at the wound. More quickly than was possibly natural, the wound on the man's eyelid sealed shut, and without a scar. The girl shuddered. Another tale of The People proven true: they healed with their mouths, and very quickly.
One of the women glanced over to see her by the window, and advanced, then stopped suddenly with an expression of horror. She let out a cry, her arm coming up to point accusatorily at the smear of blood on the child's gown.
The girl leapt up onto
the window as the mob advanced en masse, and, just before she threw
herself backwards out of the window, she hoped fervently that all the
myths of
The People were as true as the other had been.
If not, she was going to have roughly a minute to feel disappointed about it before becoming a rather interestingly-colored pancake on the ground below.