This is a hefty chapter. 5.7k word count. But it needed to be done! Enjoy!
Beauclair was still amidst restoration like a wound, slow to heal. The workers moved quietly, methodically as they hauled charred wood, blackened debris, and heaps of rubble aside. But much progress had still been made.
Laz watched from afar, too tired to venture closer, too strange to walk among the normal denizens of Beauclair. Seeing the city wrenched her heart tightly. What a life she'd once lived. As a barmaid in the Pheasantry tavern so close to the palace grounds to a creature hiding in the far-flung mountain passes of Kaedwen. There was nothing left to say about the city, the duchy, or even Her Illustrious Grace. Geralt had been barred from returning here; Regis and Dettlaff had hoped to avoid the country as well and now watched the rolling hills and vineyard with equal grief and apprehension. This particularly party had spilt enough blood in the soil. And they were about to do much worse.
She turned away, facing the awaiting vampires at her flanks before following them to the cemetery. Gathered there, Geralt, Lambert, and reluctantly even Eskel prepared camp.
The soft prattle came to a still when the company regarded her with question.
"Right here," she indicated next to a felled tree riddled with moss and decay.
At once, Regis and Dettlaff began working their claws through the dirt, unearthing the grave. With every scrape and shovel, her heart flinched. Inch by inch, dread rose the deeper they dug. This was it. If what they said was true, Keira would be brought back from the dead to cast her final wish, and thus releasing Laz from servitude. What was to follow was beyond her. Hopefully, a lifted curse she prayed wouldn't imprint on her unborn child. She swallowed, feeling sick and flushed and closed her eyes to shake away the vertigo. Too soon, Dettlaff reached into the depths of the opened grave and pulled Keira's corpse from the dirt. A cold chill shot down Laz's spine causing the baby to kick restlessly. The clouds began to churn overhead, darkening with a distant rumble.
She took a step back as he handed the remains to Regis, who turned and settled the corpse along the ground carefully. They disappeared into the grave once more, gathering what was left: tatters of clothing and Keira's satchel found near at the bottom of the grave. She remembered this moment and all things leading up to it. Yes, it was all rushing back now whether she wanted it to or not. It was time to reckon.
Dried skin stretched taut over bone. What was left by the gnawing insects was discolored and brittle. Her mother's once lustrous straw-blonde hair now stiff and matted. But she's not your mother. She took you, stole you from your family, and enslaved you. Laz's stomach churned, the baby kicked again. She sank down onto her knees, unable to stand any longer. Regis glanced up in worry, but his features relaxed somewhat, given the circumstances, and he returned to his tasks. She had no more control over this love than she did her hate or hysteria. Seeing Keira reminded her of a time where the only emotion she felt towards the sorceress was love and adoration; now she felt too much, loved too many.
Triss brought a book made of some type of flesh closer to her face and read frantically. She held out a shapely hand and began to whisper softly. A slit on the front of the book opened, a mouth filled with crooked teeth and a seeking dead tongue. Laz closed her eyes, sickened by the sight.
The sky groaned, moaning a dim roll of thunder. Lightning flashed and cracked. The wind kicked up. Somewhere deep in the woods a pack of wolves began to yip and cry excitedly. Triss continued to incant words no one seem to understand. Hissing, guttural words of the dead that stenched the air of blood and decay.
A soft glow came from her extended hand, held out over the body of her dead mother.
She's not your mother. Stop saying that.
Suddenly, Laz was terrified. Necromancy was a dark, sinister magic. The things that came back from beyond the grave were never quite the same, were they? What if Keira wished for something untoward? Something horrific and bizarre? The degree of which they remarked Laz's servitude indicated she would have no choice in the matter.
A register of what-ifs crowded her mind causing the baby to writhe. Laz cradled her stomach and staunched the acrid taste of fear clinging at the back of her throat. What if she saw Laz's state and willed it against her? The Keira she remembered was never that cruel, but what of this one that waited beyond the grave? How tainted was one soul brought back from death?
The storm continued to brew, swelling and frothing like a cauldron ready to spill. But the rain never fell and the energy that hummed in the air seemed to wave back and forth, seeking release. Laz's skull throbbed dully. Against the ground, the corpse remained motionless, lifeless…
Triss only interrupted her incanting to turn her head to the side and spit. Blood colored her lips and tongue. Even the words demanded a sacrifice.
Still, Keira remained limp across the ground.
And then they all understood why: Triss couldn't bring her back. She hadn't the means or the talent for such an incantation. No one could bring her back. Not even the darkest, most sinister of sorcery. Laz let out the breath she'd been holding, smoothing her hands over her distended belly. It wasn't meant to be. Thank the gods.
However, a very small part of Laz had hoped to see her mother again.
She is not your mother.
She shut her eyes. The words couldn't reach her, no matter how she willed her mind to believe them. They couldn't reach her like the rain couldn't fall. Eskel was next to Lambert, arms tightly crossed over his chest, focusing on the hole in the ground. All this time, Laz tried to avoid looking at him, but how could she not? The amber-glow of his eyes, the scar that cut his upper lip into a permanent but charming snarl, to the mop of mussed brown hair she'd more than once ran her fingers through. He was so handsome. So was Regis and they were both so tender when they loved her. What had she done but tear them open and claw apart their insides? She didn't deserve them.
"Why isn't it working?" Lambert barked.
"I⎯," Triss hissed in pain when a trickle of blood slipped over her lip. She wiped it away and glared. "I'm not a necromancer! Geralt?"
The witcher shook his head, declining to make a remark.
A singular thought illuminated in Laz's mind, unfurling her curiosity. Stammelford once moved a mountain; a Djinn had done it for him. A D'ao, like her. What were they now? Dead? Buried deep with some forgotten tunnel or mine? Male or female? And where was this infamous mage? Was the Djinn his undoing? If it could move mountains… She thought of the dark, dark thing inside her. How it loomed and lurked, crowed and beat its black wings. Paws and talons pacing the endless void. A sweeping tail made of poisonous barbs.
And if that D'ao could move mountains. If she could shift into any animal with the snap of her fingers...
The redhead clapped the book closed, prompting the repulsive mouth to muttering something nasty and bare its stained teeth.
While they continued to argue, Laz knee-walked closer to the body. Her white gown soiled from the dirt.
"This wouldn't have been an issue had we asked Yennefer," Lambert muttered which threw Triss into a fury. The storm fed into their ire as they began to exchange a hurl of insults. Only the vampires looked on quietly as Laz leaned over Keira's corpse. Regis shifted uncomfortably but she met his eyes and shook her head.
She took Keira into her arms. Weightless and smelling of old decay and fresh soil, she brushed the stiff tendrils of hair from Keira's morbid face. She swallowed thickly, forcing the threat of sickness down. The baby writhed within. The witchers and the sorceress were too caught up arguing to see her place a hand on Keira's wilted chest. Ciri was paying attention and quietly knelt by her side. She placed a hand on Laz's back, and from there, a very soft hum channeled through. A sleepy power, desperate to awake.
Laz shut her burning eyes. The wind kicked up, moaning softly.
In her mind, she saw the void and the dark thing that was her essence lurking therein; like a caged animal, it paced, eyeing her as a predator would its prey. But she wasn't here for that, she was here for Keira. As before, she wasn't sure what to search for. So she imagined what it might be; a spark of light, of life. Anything. Something to draw from. The darkness answered, conjuring the smallest flicker in the infinite black sea. Her attention snapped to the sparkle and held onto it, drawing it closer, pulling it from the pitch and compelling it. Ciri's Elder Blood began to sing a haunting melody that filled her head and fed her magic. A pressure descended upon them. Renounced her not, Ciri still held a powerful echo of it. Laz pressed her hand firmly into Keira's chest and then...
Stirring. An answer from the other side. The little light in the sea of darkness grew, pulsing, growing stronger the closer it drifted. In her arms, Keira's body began to twitch and writhe, subtly at first and then with more distinction. The wind whipped, lifting her hair from her shoulders with every blowing gale.
Laz opened her eyes.
So did Keira.
So did the sky and the rain began to fall.
The dead sorceress gasped.
"Lazzzz-rrusssss," a scratchy hollowness slithered through the decayed vocal cords of Keira Metz as she reached for her blindly daughter's face. Her fingers rattled, bare bones, gnarled yellow nails. They brushed her cheeks gently. Familiar, home. Laz stared wide-eyed, paralyzed by what she'd done.
It worked. Gods, it worked. The severity of what she'd achieved overcame Laz as an icy shiver. She couldn't move and fought control over her mind to speak, to find words, to move forward so long as she didn't stop and think and allow the thing lurking beyond her senses to sneak up during this lapse of control.
"I've brought you back," Laz rushed to say hoarsely and in utter disbelief. An emotional knot seized her by the throat. Only a whisper could pass. "Tell me your final wish."
The emotional wounds caused by the event at Fyke Isle were still fresh, festering even. Here and now, holding the decaying figure of Keira Metz felt as if she was dying over and over in her arms. Laz could barely breathe, unable to stop the burning tears from coursing quickly down her cheeks. At last, her mind cried, at last.
Keira's last remaining eye rolled in its socket, unable to see or focus on anything. Milky, glazed over, blind. She laughed a sound only a corpse would, dry and unnatural rasp. "I n-n-never maaade any wishessss," she wheezed.
"Make them!" Laz gritted her teeth. "All of them! Whatever they are!"
"I wishhhhh," she wheezed, working useless deflated lungs long dried up. "For another chance. Restore me, Lazarus. Bring me back to life."
Yes, she thought suddenly, choking on a strangled cry. I can do that. I will do that. It's what I want. A second chance with her mother. How could she resist? The answers were finally here, held in her arms, within a spindly frame and rotten breath. She could finally heal. Closure was here.
Closure, at last.
An insatiable desire to fulfill the deed pushed all thought and reason from Laz's mind. Solely focused was she on this very task. Nodding frantically, Laz drew in a shaking breath as she held herself together. A second chance for all of them. Yes, for all of them. But before she could agree, no matter the urge to answer the demanding call, she had to make sure the rest of her wishes didn't compromise those around her now.
"What else!"
"T-true love… with a witcher," Keira coughed and a cockroach flew out of her mouth and sought safety in the opened grave. She lifted an arm, attempting to point. Despite being visually impaired, she pointed to the trio of witchers nearby. They stilled, uncertain what to make of her statement, and shared a collective confusion.
Laz squeezed her eyes. The power swelling inside her, begging to answer the wishes. It was hard to suppress. "And the last? Speak quickly!"
"My f-final wishhh," Keira sighed, the lifeless eye quivered, unable to cry or see the horns; the matching eyes, the twitching tail and all that she cast to hide Laz from the truth. "I wish...f-for your forgiveness..."
An emotional dam cracked and exploded. Laz pressed down on the sorceress sternum as the surging magic wrought violently through her. The light inside her mind grew brighter, blinding her while the tears fell liberally. The shine burned away the darkness, knitted Keira's flesh and brought the life and substance back into her eyes. Her pale hair unfurled, turning glossy and sheen once more. One by one, her signature features returned. Her lungs snarling for air, fingers no longer rotting bone but dainty and slender. Gnarled, cloudy nails now clean and pink. Keira's hands flew up, clutching around the Laz's wrist as the pain of resurrection wrought fire directly into her chest.
Keira was in pain; the healing magic unkind as it released into her body. The unforgiving power forging her together tore through her, unmade and remade once more. Dead, now alive.
Laz sucked in a sharp breath when it was suddenly over. The night swayed around her. The company froze by surprise as they beheld both Djinn and sorceress back from the grave.
Then white-hot agony.
Horrible, lancing agony whipped through Laz; the magic was punishing her for what she did. But it was a pain she knew too well; she had triggered the curse. Resurrection had a price and now they could all see what she endured by the hands of the very being she'd brought back to life. She pushed the sorceress from her lap, coughing and sputtering with her new lungs, while Laz embraced for the shift.
A long, plaintive cry came through her and the storm met it with its own.
Laz fell back, screaming. The pain rippled through her, popping her bones and raising gooseflesh. She was changing but the pain was moving, writhing with in. Different. At odds and frantic. Oh, gods, she was changing and...and...
"The baby is coming!" she shrieked. The stormed wailed overhead, lashing them with stinging rain. Long-spurred out of their argument, Triss, and the four witchers scrambled into action. Regis scooped her up from the dirt and rushed her towards his subterranean keep not far from Keira's grave. Her spine twisted, a strained scream tore through her throat. She held onto whatever she could grab. His hair, his sleeves, she tore at his clothes while they raced down the dusty stairs.
By the time they reached the end, Laz was hemorrhaging. Blood and rainwater soaked her white gown in alarming red and splashed on the flagstone and stairs. The sweet fragrant of peach blossoms battled the stagnant air and mildew. The iron braziers and sconces lining the walls coughed to the life as the witchers entered. Regis placed her on the makeshift cot, propped her feet and drew up her gown.
The desire to push overwhelmed Laz. She sat up, gripping the wool blanket beneath her and clenched her teeth. She pushed because⎯Gods be damned⎯her body was going to do it regardless. Another wave shuddered through her. She dug her heels into the cushions beneath her and bared down. A cry rose from her lungs, filled the damp mausoleum and caused the torches to sway whilst Regis knelt between her knees, ready to deliver their child.
The curse! She wanted to scream, fighting to stall it. It's coming. It's coming. My baby. My baby.
"My baby!" she wailed. Another scream scoured her throat and squeezed her lungs. She gulped at the stagnant air, panting hysterically. Sweat mixed with rainwater glistened her brow and heaving chest. She pushed again. The pressure came. The pain reared a head, and⎯
Lost in the midst of contorting bones and hellish sounds, drifting beneath the din, was the tiniest cry. All others stepped back, fearing the worst, watching the horrible display as the curse attempted to emerge from Laz's broken chest but instead, fell onto its side...dead.
Silence swallowed the mausoleum sans one little report; small peeling cry rose softly.
In his arms, Regis held her. Ruddy, writhing, and upset was his newborn baby; a girl. Dark wisps of hair and darker eyes, she blubbered and hiccupped until she cried softly, stretching her limbs as she felt through the new world.
Laz dropped back against the bookshelves with her chest cracked open. Blood pooled in a dark, inky swath that painted the cot and dusty flagstones. The fire tracing gilded lines within the dark pool. Regis had trouble understanding what he was seeing⎯what it all meant. Why it was so quiet and why neither wolf nor woman were moving. Malformed and disfigured, half the animal hung from Laz's chest cavity and across the floor. It was missing its hind legs, its lower jaw deformed as if it hadn't fully developed itself in time.
Regis stared in muted horror, slowly realizing… His eyes burned. He was forgetting to breathe.
"The curse …," Triss whispered, afraid to move closer. "It didn't make it."
"What the hell just happened? Is she dead?" another said.
Keira stepped forward using Lambert as a crutch to steady her news legs. They were all equally stunned, attempting to understand of the incomprehensible.
"Lazarus?" someone else asked in a strained voice. Keira.
But Laz's golden eyes stared fixed and unfocused, arms spread with half an animal mid-crawl hanging from her torso.
Regis couldn't breathe.
Shakened, he looked down at the baby in his arms and began to cry.
Humming softly, Regis watched the fire while he cradled his daughter in his arms. Hours drifted by and soon enough darkness reigned over the country of Kaedwen. In the tower, he sat riddled with despair and surmounting questions. He was at a loss but not entirely; he was a father now but also a widower.
At last, the sorceress came. He'd heard her climbing the steps long before she reached the door and gave it a knock. Her heart hammered but not with fear or apprehension. Excitement? Never before had she gone before a higher vampire and here she was now, hoping to reach a middle ground, he presumed. Regis wasn't feeling generous either. He'd lost so much in a single evening, what could he possibly spare now?
"Good evening, Regis," Keira Metz purred, stepping through the doorway wearing a scanty gown, glossy lips, and hair flowing around her bare shoulders.
The vampire set his jaw and paused his rocking.
"What do you want?" he kept his voice low and soft so not to disturb his slumbering daughter cradled to his chest.
"Just a moment of your time. And hers."
Regis took a few measured breaths. The statement didn't warrant a response. He did not owe Keira Metz even that.
"Several things I'd like to bring to your attention." Keira propped her hands akimbo. "You should be grateful, vampire. If not for me, Geralt would have found her long before the two of you crossed paths and banished her back to the other realm, or worse. Do you know what that's like? Sleeping under the same roof as your murderer?"
"I've tried my best understanding the lot of things you humans subject yourselves," Regis' voice was calm but beneath the smooth baritone was contempt and disdain. Beyond that, despair. "I fear your workings exceed even my thorough comprehension."
The party had returned to Kaer Morhen the same day, putting Laz's remains to rest in the cemetery outside of his temporary home. The only person with the power of resurrection was dead; the irony. After all that had transpired, and because the witcher was so widely recognized, they left Toussaint to avoid any further transgressions. And to everyone's relief sans Regis. On the other hand, he felt completely taken aback. One moment, a life stretched before them. The next, he was a bereft father and without his mate. A deeper, more powerful bond that went beyond the grave.
In the tower, where he wished to mourn in peaceful solitude with just he and his daughter, Keira made it clear she wouldn't give him any such solace. Already she'd taken interest in one of the witchers, Lambert, who met her with an equal fervid interest. But it had been her wish and therefore so it shall be. Regis found due to the circumstances now was not the time for romance. And certainly not the time to pretend to be a grandmother to his daughter. Not after what she'd done to Lazarus.
"I raised her, Regis." Keira almost pleaded. Was that strain he heard upon her voice? "I am that child's grandmother." She sniffled, unable to play with the emotions of four-hundred-year-old vampire. "And I don't even know her name."
"I don't imagine you understand grief as I do," he added, ignoring Keira to he gaze down at the slack features of his daughter. "I have lost her, the mother of my child. My mate. She was very special to me." He cleared his throat and worked to find his voice amidst the turmoil. "And you have the audacity to stand there and look at me-at her-and pretend you had no part in all of this?"
He turned in his seat to glare at her, "After all you have done. You cursed her."
Keira looked away, unable to withstand the cold regard that came from Regis' black gaze.
"You're right," she said softly. "I wronged her many times over. I lied to her as she grew into a woman. I fed her nonsense to keep the questions at bay, to keep her lineage a mystery because I was afraid of what the truth might set free. And for that, I am sorry. Truly."
"And the curse?"
"Lycanthropy. If you knew anything about her, you'd know Djinn are unable to shift into wolves. It causes them to vanish, disperse into nothing. It guaranteed an unbreakable loyalty via lupine genes while simultaneously rendering her power into dormancy. What I did was to protect everyone. Have you any idea what Djinn are capable of?"
"Love? Compassion?" his voice trembled subtly. "You didn't even spare her a chance to prove you wrong." A moment passed of silence. Only the lapping flames and popping embers filled the space, the soft sounds of his child's breathing.
"Dettlaff and I will leave for Dillingen on the morrow," Regis continued. "You and your entourage-whomever that might include-will have no part in her youth." He stood carefully, gently swaying the little bundle in his arms. Neither he nor his daughter cast a shadow. Oddly, that pleased him. "Before I leave, I want to know one thing: was that her final death?"
A moment passed.
"I'm afraid it was," Keira braved a step away from the door, coming closer. "Only one Djinn can represent each element at a time. Your daughter now represents that element until she passes it on to her offspring. So long as there is no one to inherit the element's essence, Djinn are immortal."
Regis chuckled beneath his breath. It was not funny; it was tragic. "What of the curse now?"
"I believe," she paused, forming her words with palpable reluctance. "It must have transferred hosts. There won't be any signs until she's older."
It took all of Regis' principles and moral foundings to not rend the sorceress apart. He had to shut his eyes, be still, focus. It took another moment of reasoning before he could move, pinning Keira with his black gaze.
"You will remove it," he said softly. "Or you'll find yourself back in that grave you. This I swear to you."
Keira made a promise and even despite that she just rose from the grave and felt more alive than she had before, she knew what she was dealing with, what Regis was. She was also a sorceress, a renowned one from the very Lodge itself and she would not be intimidated by some blood-drinking creature. Lazarus belonged to her and what was Laz's was also hers.
And that included the child.
In Midscope, when she stumbled upon Fyke Isle and the workings of Mage Stammelford in legible writing, she delved into the archaic language without a second spared. There, she found an incantation that opened a portal to another world: the D'ao realm. She hadn't expected a child to come falling through, a babe at that. The girl's traits were unmistakable. The little horns, the short hairless tail. Much like Stammelford obtained his Djinn, Keira had claimed her own.
But unlike Stammelford⎯who allowed the Djinn its own free will which brought him to an untimely end⎯Keira was not that foolish. While Regis might have believed Lazarus was an affectionate, even compassionate person, she wasn't a person at all. She was an entity, an ethereal being with a colossal power so vast and unimaginable the human mind couldn't grasp such magnitude. Vampires included. The horns and tail was merely a simpler physical state she inhabited. There was much more beneath the veil. Much more. And worse.
"Fine," she almost spat. "I'll remove the curse. Now, please. May I hold her?"
Regis raked her figure with a cold once-over, more than likely categorizing her as a harmless female. Even better. Caution darkened his eyes as he turned away from the fire and approached her. She needed to act quickly. Far quicker than the speed of a fully matured vampire
Moving from the door, she held out her arms, ready to receive the little one. Thank the gods he couldn't read her mind. They met in the middle, snaking her arms beneath his as she delicately took purchase of the babe. Keira couldn't help herself, cooing a little as she smiled down at her granddaughter. Unmistakably, there was a pleasant mixture of Regis' noble features and Laz' unique beauty. Keira had always wanted a baby of her own. It was the very reason Lazarus was so important to her. As a child, Laz was rowdy and mischievous, putting her hands and attention where it didn't belong. Creating messes, fussing, and conjuring when Keira wasn't looking. There was once Keira had to go toe-to-toe with a leshen attempting to mark her.
But Laz was gone, but not the well of infinite power. This was what she meant when she wanted a second chance. With a halfling, at that. What kind of abomination would this little girl grow into? Half Vampire. Half Djinn. She couldn't imagine, but she was very curious and wished to see how she developed every step of the way.
With a shapely finger hidden in the fold of her arm, Keira drew a symbol in the air, conjuring an illusion. A duplication spell; a minor parlor trick, nonetheless a decent one that showed Keira still standing there, rocking the infant, cooing and sighing wistfully. Because this nameless child was not fully vampire, the illusion struck true. Had she attempted to cast this very spell over Regis it would have failed. Vampires and magic repelled one another. It was a science no academy or scholar could understand.
In reality, she was backing up, whispering another incantation that opened a quiet portal directly behind her.
The illusion waned at the last moment, shimmering with flame's light before revealing Keira standing before a quiet rippling distortion. Its report easily mistaken for the winds carrying down the Blue Mountains.
"It was a pleasure, Master Vampire." she smiled, stepping through as the portal collapsed around her.
Lambert awaited her at the meeting point far from the witcher's keep. Two horses were saddled and readied for their journey. Provisions had been packed. Weapons stoned and either rested in their scabbard or wrapped in furs and strapped to the horses. Respective oils had been applied and their equivalent potions at the ready. Lambert was taking no chances.
Stepping through a small sliver of shadows, the quiet and cold night welcomed the sorceress right on time. The witcher smiled as he watched Keira wave her hand down the length of her body. The gown she wore faded, replaced by a thick gambeson, men's trousers and riding boots. A sword hung from her hip.
"I'm impressed," he smirked. "How did the vampire react?"
She shrugged, sauntering towards her horse. "I didn't linger long to find out. Upset, I suppose. To horse, shall we?"
"To horse."
Westward, they rode as fast as they could out of Kaedwen without disturbing the child. Vizima was their destination. The incentive was to ride south until they reached the Lexia river, following it between Ban Ard and Ban Glean until it flowed into the Pontar. From there, heading due west following the Pontar, it would lead them to what used to be Temeria before the war. King Foltest was dead, this she knew. So returning to the Temerian court halls-much less any court hall- was a thing of the past, despite how adamantly she wished otherwise. Once into Nilfgaardian occupied territory, keeping the Mahakam mountains to their left, Carreras was a week's ride away. If things went accordingly.
When the sun started to rise, the sorceress ordered they take refuge within the dense forest. She wished to remain hidden amidst day and travel only at night. Lambert agreed, scouting first then setting camp when neither bandits nor beast occupied the area. Casting a concealment spell, they rested comfortable next to their fire.
"I take it you wished to return to Carreras," the witcher muttered, tossing the saddles bag onto the ground. He tethered the horses and started brushing them.
"It's where most of my things are," she sighed, kicking off her boots. "My home. What's left of my family. Artifacts and boons still important to me."
"What do you plan on doing with the kid?"
She lifted her pale green eyes to his and smirked, "That is not important right now. Foremost, we need to get as far away from Kaer Morhen as the Northern Kingdoms will allow. In case you've forgotten, I just stole a higher vampire's child."
"Trust me," Lambert snort, running the comb down his horse's flank. "I'm well aware."
Without the cold elevations of the mountains, the day was warmer than Keira preferred. When dusk finally came, at last, they saddled quickly and continued on. If they were fortunate, Ban Ard would be three to four-day ride, five if they rode on for Ban Glean, stopping only to water and rest the horses, feed the kid, and take turns resting.
"Perhaps I should name her," Keira said, keeping her voice low to prevent the darkness from carrying it off at a great distance.
Lambert said nothing. He wasn't designed to care for such trivial matters like namesakes and whatnots. Keira, on the other hand, couldn't wait.
Looking down at the headful of dark hair and midnight black eyes, the little girl reminded Keira of a crow. Dark, clever little creatures. As a vampire-djinn hybrid, she could only imagine what type of mischief the child would soon conjure. And crows were always up to something tricky.
"Maybe I'll name you Raven," she whispered. "And call you Rook when you're being sweet. What do you think, witcher?"
Lambert grunted with a shrug which she ignored.
The little features set in a pudgy, youthful face twisted in the darkness and silvery moonlight. A tiny cry rose and fell between a series of hiccups. Trapped in her swaddle, she squirmed her frustration.
"Oh ploughin' hell," Keira grumbled, steering her horse to the side of the road. "I'm surprised we made it this far without her fussing. She must be hungry."
Using one arm to cradle the baby, she twisted around in her seat and stuffed her hand inside one of the hanging saddle bags. A wineskin of goat's milk was somewhere. She could warm it with an incantation just as soon as she figured out where it was.
Leaning back, straining to feel for the wineskin, the bundle in her arms loosened, felt to be slipping. Keira jerked upright out of reflex, coddling the bundle. It collapsed oddly in her arms. She blinked, trying to make sense of what she was seeing. The swaddle... was empty. She unraveled it quickly as if the night played tricks with her sight but it was true. The swaddle was empty.
"Lambert?" she said in a warning tone, glancing left and right towards the ground. Had she dropped the baby? Even the cry still hung in the air like a spectral whisper dancing on the night's wind.
"What is it?" he asked, looking over his shoulder.
She held up the blanket used for the swaddle.
"The baby's gone."
-End of Part 1-