Lina sat before the campfire, lost in thought. For the last hour, she'd watched the steady progression from a healthy blaze—the wood popping and snapping in a comforting manner—to its current state as little more than a few charred branches and dying embers. She scowled, becoming aware of her surroundings just long enough to snag another branch from the pile beside her and feed it to the flame. It wouldn't do to let the darkness overtake the camp. Who could say what might be lurking just outside the comforting circle of light.
Sparks flew, briefly illuminating the redhead's face with a haunting glow, and then diminished. She thought for a moment that she was going to have to relight the fire when the first guttering flame appeared. It licked at the wood weakly at first. Finding the new fuel to its liking, it flared up with an unbridled enthusiasm. A few moments later, the fire raged anew, creating a comforting circle of light, while simultaneously casting sinister shadows.
A bit more at ease, Lina heaved a sigh of mingled exhaustion and stress and stretched. She arched her back and thrusting her chest out, smiling at the series of muffled pops as she worked the kinks out. That had been a relief. She'd been thinking again, brooding really, and she didn't like it. She gazed across the renewed fire at her slumbering companions. Well, one of them anyway. She'd no idea where Jellyfish and fuzz-face had gotten to.
Amelia muttered something under her breath and rolled onto her side. The fire illuminated her face, throwing her frown into sharp relief; it was obvious that something had upset her. Her shoulders jerked under the thin blanket that covered her and a moment later, the quiet sound of sobbing could be heard over the crackle of the fire. Bad dreams.
Lina frowned. It might just be dreams, but it might have been something more, too. Amelia shared some sort of link with Zelgadis—the heartless jerk—and this might have something to do with that. In the days since he'd run off, she'd seen Amelia wearing a very Zel-ish scowl more than once. It was eerie how alike they seemed sometimes, almost as if instead of leaving, he'd possessed her. She knew that wasn't true though. Amelia showed no signs of being possessed, at least not in the usual way. No, this was more like she was being haunted. Zelgadis lurked just on the edge of Amelia's personality showing up only when she was distracted. Lina was concerned, but at the same time, irritated. She couldn't grasp the concept of what was wrong with Amelia. It was infuriating, really.
She'd just made up her mind to wake up Amelia—maybe she could get some answers out of the acrobat before she woke up enough to clam up—when the sharp snap of a twig drew her attention. She whirled around, her hand flying to her sword hilt before noting the identity of the intruder. "Gourry?"
"Yeah?" the swordsman mumbled as he stepped into the clearing. His shoulders were slumped as if he carried a great burden and he moved with none of the grace she'd come to expect from him. It was a wonder that he'd be careless enough to let Lina hear him approach.
"You okay?" Lina asked.
Gourry flopped down beside her with a sigh. "Sure."
"Where ya been?"
A subtle shrug. "Around." Gourry stared pointedly into the fire, his expression an unreadable mask.
Lina briefly considered pursuing the subject, but decided to drop it. She felt tired all of a sudden—too tired to drag any information out of Mister Enigma. She shot him a withering glare, which he, of course, ignored and muttered something about getting some sleep.
Gourry grunted noncommittally in response.
She fetched a deep sigh, in hopes that he might get the hint that she was annoyed with him, but no such luck. He just continued to stare impassively into the fire. There had been an incredibly profound change in him over the past few days.
It had been a long week since they'd moved on from Gourry's home. As they'd traveled, he'd gradually succumbed to a sort of malaise that, try as she might, she hadn't been able to shake him out of. Where does one begin to assist a loved one in coping with such a horrible loss? Ceiphied knew she'd done her best; as much of a genius as she was, she had to admit (if only to herself) that she didn't know the first thing about dealing with emotions. After the funeral, she'd loved him in the most physical sense–the most direct approach tended to be best, after all; one didn't kill vampires by stabbing them in the back–but during the act, the unthinkable had happened: Gourry had frightened her. Oh, she'd been frightened for the big lummox before; as often as he'd done that, it was no wonder she was going gray. But, never had he made her afraid of him.
That wasn't the worst of it. Accidents could and often did happen after all. If he'd just gotten a bit overzealous she would have sworn at him and beaten him over the head once or thrice. No, this was different; this was wrong. He'd been terrifying in his need, raining the roughest and most insistent of kisses upon her and cleaving to her like a spider to a fly. At times, she couldn't breathe; she remembered that much vividly. And when he'd finished, he sobbed her name with the utmost pain as he compulsively worked his fingers through locks of crimson and silver, almost as if he were mourning her and not his family.
But, that's stupid, she thought even as she suppressed a shudder. She wasn't dead and neither was Gourry. And as much as he was hurting, she knew that he'd come around sooner or later. She had faith in him. He was Gourry; he was stable as a mountain, having unblinkingly faced down things at her side that made even her blood run cold. He would recover. He had to. If he didn't . . . well, if it came to that, she'd burn that bridge when she reached it.
Lina came back to herself and realized that she was staring at Gourry again. And he still wasn't looking at her. She had the infuriating sense that she was being dismissed in some way. Growling in annoyance, she snatched up another log and flung it onto the fire a bit harder than she had to.
The resulting flare illuminated an ominous figure standing just to Lina's left. Her blood went cold and she opened her mouth to shout a warning to Gourry. Then, the light caught him a certain way and she snapped her mouth shut. "Jillas!" she exclaimed.
The werefox standing before her was in his half beast form, but was instantly recognizable by his cheerful (and decidedly toothy) smile and eye patch. His snout was smeared with blood and strange white streaks marred his fur. "'Ello, Miss!"
He might have meant to say something else, but Lina silenced him by slamming her fist into his snout. He yowled in pain and sat down roughly, seeming to expel a cloud of whiteness as he did so. "I thought ye knew it was me?" he whined as he rubbed his poor mistreated nose.
"I did," Lina replied with a huff. She was madder at herself than Jillas. If she hadn't been woolgathering she would have . . . "What is this . . .?" Her brow furrowed in thought, she reached out and plucked a bit of the whiteness from the air. Closer scrutiny revealed that she was holding a feather—a chicken feather if she wasn't mistaken. She felt her spirits sink and she groaned. "What did you do?"
"Well . . ." The fox's expression had gone from pained indignance to guilt in the span of three seconds.
Lina turned her head and listened as a new sound joined the symphony of the night: the baying of hounds followed by the yells of a very irate sounding man. In the blink of an eye, she turned her attention back to Jillas and seized the front of his tattered cloak. Shaking him until his teeth rattled, she bellowed, "What is your problem! Did the thought ever cross your tiny brain that we're fugitives—largely thanks to you—and that we're not avoiding the roads and attention for our health!" These were apparently rhetorical questions, as she didn't give him so much as a moment to answer. "Do you think we like living off nuts and berries! What do you have to say for yourself!"
Jillas wobbled back and forth a moment longer before finally focusing on Lina. "Um . . . I'm a fox?" His face lit up and he reached into his cloak and produced a blood spattered bird carcass. "Don' be mad. I saved ye some."
"Thanks. I'll remember that when we're about to be hanged," Lina sarcastically retorted. "We're about to die, but at least Jillas saved us some chicken!" She did a double take, examining the chicken again. "You've taken bites out of this! Of all the . . ." She trailed off with a grunt of annoyance and shoved the fox aside. Without wasting another moment, she hustled around the camp, cramming her meager possessions into a sack. "Amelia!" she yelled, nudging the younger girl with her foot when she drew close enough. "Get up. We're in trouble."
Amelia kicked her blanket off and sat up with a start. Her eyes were wide with shock and the firelight revealed a sheen of sweat across her face. She looked around nervously as if she hadn't expected to wake up where she'd fallen asleep. She mumbled, "What? Where . . .?" before finally focusing on Lina. Her hand suddenly flew to her left breast and she kneaded the flesh compulsively, as if trying to work out a cramp. She uttered a small pained noise as her face scrunched up in a mask of agony.
"You okay?" Lina asked, momentarily forgetting the rapidly nearing sounds of pursuit. She knelt down beside the acrobat and laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.
A quick shake of her head indicated that Amelia was anything but okay. "My . . . my chest hurts," she managed to squeak between gasps for breath.
Lina gritted her teeth and watched helplessly as Amelia struggled with whatever was hurting her. Not knowing anything else to do, she clapped the younger girl on the back. Her mind raced, flying through several possibilities and dismissing each of them in turn.
Could there be something wrong with Amelia's heart? In her years of travel, she'd met her share of people with weak hearts; mostly, it was old people though. And the few young people were sickly to begin with and not nearly as active as Amelia. She was an acrobat, for Ceiphied's sake!
Then it hit her: what if Amelia had somehow caught her illness? Lina felt her stomach lurch uncomfortably at the thought. That couldn't be true either though. She'd spent far more time closer to Gourry and he hadn't shown any symptoms. That and the fact that she herself was feeling a bit better made her think—hope, really—that she was wrong.
"Miss Lina . . . you're . . . hurting . . . me."
"Huh?" Lina blinked in surprise. She was still striking Amelia, but in her worry, she'd intensified her blows to the point that the poor girl was rocking back and forth with every strike. She still wore a pained expression, but thankfully, it seemed to be more from Lina's expert medical attention than any health problems.
Breathing a quick sigh of relief, Lina ceased her beating and hastily shoved the rucksack into Amelia's arms. "Carry this and head that way," she instructed, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at the dubious safety of the trees. Fixing Jillas with a withering glare, she added, "And keep your fox out of trouble." She was slightly mollified to see him squirm uncomfortably under her gaze.
"What's going on?" Amelia asked as she snatched up her blanket and shoved it into the sack.
Lina glanced at Gourry; she was a bit frightened to see that he hadn't moved. She had the unsettling idea that he didn't even know what was going on.
"Miss Lina?"
Lina shook her head and turned back to Amelia. "I'll tell you later. Get going. We'll be right behind you."
Amelia opened her mouth, closed it again, apparently trying to decide whether to pursue the topic. A withering glare from Lina convinced her to wait. Without another word, she turned and darted off into the underbrush, her self-proclaimed servant right on her heels.
The quiet hiss of a blade being drawn sent shivers down Lina's spine and she glanced up to see Gourry leaning against a nearby tree a dagger held at the ready. He was gazing intently—almost predatorily—at the approaching light of a lantern. She didn't like the expression he wore in the slightest. "Hey," she called, "take it easy. It's just a farmer."
Gourry turned and fixed his piercing gaze on Lina for a moment.
"You know, just . . . don't hurt him, okay?" Lina muttered. She forced herself to keep her eyes locked on his as she spoke. He'd never really looked at her so . . . so meanly until recently. She felt the first smoldering hint of anger stir within her. He'd had a rough couple of weeks, but it wasn't like it'd been a cakewalk for her either.
As if reading her thoughts, Gourry's expression softened and a faint hint of his old smile returned. He rubbed the back of his head and gave her a sheepish look. "Ah, I wasn't going to hurt him. I was just going to talk to him." The glint of firelight on the blade of his dagger negated any comfort his words might have given her.
Lina briefly considered ordering him to follow her into the safety of the woods, but what he said made sense. They were all heretics, but for some reason she, Amelia, and Zel were apparently being hunted far more strenuously than Gourry. She'd seen posters threatening execution for harboring them and he'd always been mentioned almost as an afterthought. He'd be safe. And even if he was recognized, he could easily overpower some yappy farmer.
"Put that fire out," Gourry instructed, suddenly becoming all business again. "I'd rather see him before he sees me."
Lina nodded and hurried to obey his instructions. She upended her waterskin on the fire. The flames hissed angrily, but quickly receded, especially once she began to stomp what little remained to ash.
She and Gourry stood there for a moment in the dark, listening as the baying hounds drew closer. Another minute and the farmer would be on top of them.
Sparing one last worried look at the dim silhouette of her protector, Lina turned and made her way off in the direction that Amelia and Jillas had fled. Just before she left the clearing, Gourry whispered her name. It wasn't really necessary to keep their voices down, as the noise from the dogs would almost certainly drown them out, but it seemed right, nonetheless.
"What?" she replied, pausing at the edge of the clearing. When he didn't immediately answer, she muttered something dark under her breath and growled, "What is it?" He was going to get her caught if he didn't hurry. She turned just in time to see a silhouette rise from behind the swordsman. She yelled his name and started forward.
Her movement must have betrayed her; a rough voice triumphantly bellowed, "I've got you!" There was a loud twang, a swoosh, and Lina felt a sudden pain in her right temple. The world spun sickeningly and she dropped to one knee. Shot. She'd been . . . Her vision pitched violently again and she abandoned all thought as her eyes slid shut.
"I've got you!" Ruun yelled as he pulled the trigger of his crossbow. A jolt ran up his arm and the immensely pleasing sound of a bolt being loosed from his crossbow drowned out the howls of the dogs for a split second. Somewhere ahead in the dark, a dark shape crumpled to the ground.
Ruun barked harsh laughter and spurred the dogs on with words of encouragement. The fact that he might have just committed murder never crossed his mind. They way he saw things, a man had what he had only as long as he had the guts to defend it. And he'd much rather take care of his own chicken thieves than wait for a worthless soldier to pull his head out of his ass long enough to listen to his problem.
This morning marked the third in a row that he'd risen to find chickens missing. Last night, he'd been awoken by worried whines of his dogs and made it outside just in time to see a shadowy form disappear into the darkness of the forest bordering the farm. And lo and behold, he was missing another pair of chickens. As if that wasn't infuriating enough, he'd had to drag his pair of mutts out from under the porch. They'd been tucked so far back that he wouldn't have even noticed them, had they not been whimpering. When he'd finally gotten them out, he'd been pretty well covered from head to toe in dirt and been scratched up on top of that. He'd given the dogs a stern talking to (he gave them food and shelter; the least they could do was protect his property) and resolved to catch the thief in the act tonight.
Things had gone as planned; he'd hidden himself in the carrot patch, loaded crossbow at the ready, despite his son's insistence that he was out of his mind. A few hours after dark, the chicken thief had shown up, just as expected. Well, not quite as expected. Ruun hadn't even seen the man at first; the first indication that he wasn't alone was aural. It was too late in the season for crickets, but the night still had its voice: the sporadic hooting of owls, the occasional growl of his dogs, and the whisper of the wind in the trees.
He'd laid there, feeling the cold mud cling to him, and gradually come to the realization that the night had fallen silent. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and suppressed a shiver. Something about the farm felt totally off kilter. Normally benign things—the occasional bale of hay, the scarecrow a dozen feet away—looked far more sinister than he remembered.
Despite his vigilance, Ruun didn't even see the thief until the intruder was almost on top of him. He'd just turned to look at the rows of corn standing a dozen feet away and the figure had just been looming there. The thief hadn't even made any sound, despite the fact that he must have emerged from the dry stalks.
Ruun's breath had caught in his throat and he could only stare, wide eyed, as the thief lumbered across the field directly towards him. His crossbow lay beside him, totally forgotten.
The thief moved gracelessly, seeming to stumble with every second step and not caring a bit about stealth. There was a raspy noise that Ruun quickly realized was the sound of the intruder breathing. Sadly, or luckily as the case may be, he couldn't see the man's features; they were concealed under the hood of a pale cloak.
Something about the intruder set Ruun on edge, and he cringed. In doing so, he brushed against the stock of his crossbow with his elbow. There was a rustle, horribly loud in the silence.
The intruder's most recent hiss was cut off suddenly and it slowly turned its head, as if looking for something. It stood less than ten feet away and Ruun found himself thanking Ceiphied that it was a new moon. He lay perfectly still and for the first time in years, he prayed. He felt the intruder's eyes roam over him as and barely suppressed the desire to leap to his feet and flee.
And then a chicken had clucked. The thief's head snapped back around, its attention focused on the chicken coop again. Uttering a little shriek that sounded to Ruun like a disgustingly joyous noise, it lurched into motion with frightening speed. It stepped up onto the flimsy fence surrounding the hutch and the wood splintered with a loud crack.
Somehow, that sound, followed quickly by the frantic clucking of a dozen terrified chickens, drove away all the fear Ruun had been feeling. This man was destroying his property! He leapt to his feet, crossbow at the ready and bellowed, "Hey!"
The intruder dropped the bird he'd been holding and turned just in time to catch a bolt in the chest. He doubled over and uttered a strangled howl . . . and then turned and bolted in the direction of the forest at top speed.
"What the hell . . .? Ruun muttered as he watched the thief disappear into the trees. He could have sworn that he'd hit him. He knew that he'd hit him. He hadn't been decorated for marksmanship in the army for nothing. But the intruder was fleeing all the same.
He bellowed for his hounds, Guts and Glory, and the chase was on. There was one brief moment when the dogs had differing opinions on which way to go—Guts had wanted to continue on the main trail with Glory wanting to break off to the right—but Ruun had waved a dead chicken in front of their faces to remind them what they were looking for and they were off again, plunging headlong into the darkness.
And now he'd caught the thief. Well, caught, killed, whatever. It was all good. His breath coming in ragged gasps by this point—he wasn't as young as he used to be—he moved into the clearing closing the distance between himself and the fallen shape. There was a wet crack and he looked down to find himself standing in the remains of a very recently extinguished campfire.
A traveler then? His brow furrowed in thought, he stopped at the base of the tree and looked down at the fallen form. The first niggling idea that he'd made a mistake flashed across his mind; this person was smaller than the man he'd been pursuing. Another oddity presented itself; why would the thief be camping out in the woods for several nights in a row? All for a few chickens? It made no sense.
Feeling more and more certain that he'd made a horrible mistake, he dropped to one knee and laid his crossbow on the ground beside him. He then gingerly reached out to touch the still form. Ruun glanced up at the sky and cursed the darkness that had just saved him a few minutes before. He couldn't see a damn thing. His fingertips found warm skin. A slender throat, a smooth face wet with what he assumed was blood, and long thick hair told him that this was a woman and most certainly not the person who'd just been menacing his chickens. He frowned as he moved back down to her throat. A pulse. She was alive then. He must have only nicked her with his shot.
The dogs whined nervously and crowded around Ruun, licking his face nervously. He shoved them away with a grunt of annoyance. Stupid animals. They backed away from him with their tails tucked between their legs. A moment later, they bolted, moving with speed that he didn't even know they were capable of. They didn't even move that fast when he called them for dinner.
A loud hiss of indrawn breath drew Ruun's attention back to his current situation. He wasn't alone in the dark anymore. Realizing it was already too late, Ruun snatched up his crossbow and lunged to his feet. Hands flew instinctively across the weapon—drawing the string, loading the bolt. It took all of five seconds, but it felt like an eternity. He felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach as he turned and drew it up to eye level. If only he'd been paying attention.
The air was suddenly driven forcefully from his lungs. An instant later, he felt a strange sensation, like ice in his chest. He uttered a strangled and wet sounding gasp for air. Muscular arms suddenly had no strength and Ruun felt the comforting weight of the crossbow tumble free of numb fingers. His legs gave out and he dropped heavily to his knees.
Ruun had never been one to give up. Ever since he was a child, he'd fought on to the end, even against the harshest of odds. It'd caused many a headache for his parents when he'd constantly come home with bruises and a bloodied nose. Just because he was on the verge of dying—he could feel blood flowing from the wound in his chest—didn't mean that his philosophy was any different. He meant to fight on. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed his weapon, felt it slip out of bloody fingers and grabbed it again. If he was going down, then by Ceiphied he was taking his attacker with him.
A strong voice called out, "Light come forth," and Ruun found himself blinded by a crimson light that rivaled the intensity of the sun itself. A moment later, he toppled over, quite dead.
The first thing Gourry understood upon regaining consciousness was that his head hurt. Scratch that; "hurt" didn't do the injury justice. This was a sick throbbing that made it almost impossible to concentrate. His arms trembling violently with exertion, he shoved himself up to a kneeling position and shook his head. What happened? Lina had called out to him; he remembered that much. And he'd been struck. But, that couldn't be right. The farmer had still been a dozen yards away. He'd seen the man's silhouette.
Lina was down. Well, he couldn't be sure it was her—it was impossible to make out details in the moonless night—but the form was laying at the base of the tree where she'd been standing before. That was proof enough for him. And whoever or whatever was looming over her was an unknown factor.
Gourry shifted from fear to anger in the blink of an eye. He gripped the hilt of his dagger with such intensity that it was a wonder that it didn't buckle under the pressure. Whoever it was meant to hurt, or had already hurt, Lina. They were going to take Lina away from him, just as his family had been taken.
Before he even knew what he was doing, Gourry was on his feet, running forward silently, blade held at the ready. Leaping forward, he thrust the blade into the shape and was rewarded by a rush of warm wetness over his hand.
He didn't have time to celebrate, however. Feeling the dagger begin to pull away from his hand, he released it and leapt back; his foe was turning to face him. Steel met steel with a high-pitched screech and a brief flash of sparks. The next morning, Gourry would find a long angry line drawn across his breastplate.
Consumed with rage, Gourry's lips curled in an uncharacteristic snarl. His hand flew to the hilt of the Sword of Light. Before even landing properly from his retreat, he'd sprung forward again, drawing his weapon and calling out the words that would summon heat in physical form.
There was a moment of utter stillness in which Gourry held the empty hilt overhead. Instinctively, he knew that it wouldn't work; he was anything but calm and focused at the moment. Knowing that he might have lost her— she was so still—had his emotions roiling and churning about within him. He felt as if he might explode at any second.
In fact, there was an explosion, but it wasn't the swordsman. It was the Sword of Light, answering its master's very emphatic call. Heat erupted from the hilt, but instead of blade of pure light, it took a jagged form composed of an ugly crimson color that matched Gourry's feelings. The forest that had been dark a moment ago was suddenly bathed in bloody hues. The quiet, almost soothing hum that usually accompanied the blade was replaced by a sound not unlike a swarm of riled hornets. It was an angry sound that served to add fuel to the fire that was raging within the sword's master.
Gourry swept the blade downward in a deadly arc. Everything seemed to be moving at a fraction of its normal speed. He simultaneously heard and felt the long and meaty "thwack" of impact. The air was suddenly flooded with a sickly sweet odor: the scent of scorched flesh.
Time seemed to catch up with him after he finished his swing. The blade disappeared. He was exhausted. His hands felt as if they were aflame and he panted heavily, as if he'd been fighting for two hours instead of two seconds.
Then, his foe screamed in mingled pain and fury. It took all of Gourry's willpower not to drop the Sword of Light and clap his hands over his ears. Gritting his teeth, he flung his shoulder into the shape, knocking it aside. Without wasting a moment, he leaned forward, not even noticing another fallen form at his feet, and roughly grabbed Lina.
"Wha's goin' on?" she mumbled, sounding as if she didn't really care in the least what was going on. "Hey!" Apparently, she cared when Gourry snagged her arm and dragged her roughly to her feet.
"Let's go!" he growled, dragging her along behind him by the wrist as he plunged headlong into the underbrush. He was totally unaware of the tears that were streaming down his face as he charged into the unknown, his Lina in tow.
Although Jillas was moving at a rapid pace through the undergrowth—the fox flowed through nature with the ease of water passing through a sieve—Amelia had no trouble keeping up with him. The numerous times he'd paused in front of her, looking over his shoulder to see if he'd inadvertently lost her, she'd quickly motioned for him to keep on course, lest she run him down in her haste.
There was no moon in the inky blackness overhead, turning the forest into a dangerous maze of invisible dangers. The world was awash in blackness. And although that was fine and dandy for an animal with night vision (even one who was missing an eye), it should have been trouble for her.
Except, it wasn't, Amelia realized as she nimbly stepped over a gnarled root that even Jillas had missed. Part of it was because she was naturally nimble—she made her living juggling daggers for goodness sake—but there was more to it than that. Miss Lina was nimble; so was Mister Gourry in a way. She was almost feline in her grace.
The darkness wasn't black to her; it was subtle variations of a flat gray. It looked like someone had stolen all the color and vibrancy from the world. That was an unsettling thought. Amelia took joy in the "colors" that life had to offer. Happiness, beauty, and kindness brought a smile to her face and to find herself trapped now in world that was so . . . so clinical,was frightening.
Caught up in her thoughts, Amelia did stumble, this time almost falling. She clumsily reached out and planted a hand on the ground to catch herself. The ankle she'd twisted a few days ago wobbled painfully beneath her—a none too subtle hint that she'd be better off concentrating on the here and now.
Cautiously, she gradually slowed her pace until she was standing motionless, chest heaving, and a stitch forming in her side. Why were they running anyway? Miss Lina had said something about trouble, but she couldn't hear or see anything. Maybe they'd lost their pursuers? She shot her self-proclaimed servant a questioning look and shrugged, silently asking his opinion on the situation.
Jillas's nostrils flared in the dark (why could she see that?) as he scented the crisp night air. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he looked back at her and hesitantly nodded.
That was good enough for Amelia. She dropped the heavy bag Miss Lina had thrust upon her with a sigh of relief. She plopped down beside it gracelessly and took a moment to catch her breath and think.
"What happened back there?" she asked with a bewildered shake of her head. She ran her fingers through unkempt hair, shoving it out of her face with a huff of annoyance.
Apparently mistaking her annoyance at the situation as being directed at him, Jillas grimaced and said, "Chickens."
Amelia blinked in bewilderment. "Say that again?"
"We're in trouble 'cause o' th' chickens," he elaborated. Somehow the explanation didn't help much, instead serving to increase Amelia's confusion.
Nibbling her lower lip thoughtfully, Amelia considered the fox's words. Finally, she took a deep breath and voiced the only logical conclusion.
"We're being chased by chickens?" she ventured, disbelief apparent in her voice.
Amelia glanced around incredulously. Although it seemed rather strange that they were being pursued by something as innocuous as poultry, stranger things had happened. She'd just spent a week in a village of ghosts for one thing. And if there was one thing she'd learned from her years in the circus, it was, "Don't underestimate animals." She recalled the incident where she'd teased a tiger as a child and the terrible results.
Thinking of the tiger made her think of Zelgadis. He'd known all about her most private memories and even now she shared some sort of strange bond with him. It'd faded recently, although she suspected that it was more due to distance than elapsed time. She could still hear his thoughts, but they were quiet and felt almost like an echo—feelings that had reverberated many times over before finally reaching her. Occasionally, she'd receive a strong sensation from him as clearly as if he were standing next to her.
Unconsciously, she moved her hand up until it hovered over her heart. The phantom pain from a few minutes ago briefly returned and she wondered if it had anything to do with Zelgadis. Amelia frowned. She didn't want to think about him right now. She was conflicted about her feelings for him.
It'd hurt when he left—like losing a part of herself. She knew that he could feel her pain, but he hadn't come back. That had angered her a lot more than she'd let on to the others. Inwardly, she'd seethed at him and imagined (with no small amount of satisfaction) his squirming at her mental harangue. Who did he think he was, running off on his own like that? It was incredibly selfish of him and darn it he was going to know it!
However, the more she'd thought about it—the glimpses she caught of his thoughts—had helped her understand that he hadn't left out of self interest; not entirely anyway. He'd gone out of fear for her and the others. She found herself sympathizing with him, even if she thought his actions were a mistake. It just made sense to her that it'd be easier to face your problems with your friends by your side. Two heads were better than one, right? Even Gourry could offer new insight into a situation when he really thought about it.
Still, she assumed that there was some reason that he thought that his demons had to be faced alone. And as much as it hurt that he didn't trust her enough to share his burden, it was his choice to make.
Confident that things were somehow going to turn out okay (and further reassured by the comforting lack of poultry in hot pursuit), Amelia thought Zelgadis an honest "Good luck" and laid down on the ground. Using the rucksack as a makeshift pillow, she found a comfortable position in the grass and gazed at the stars above. There wasn't much to do, other than wait for Miss Lina to catch up . . .
Despite the excitement she'd just been through, between the serene surroundings and the comforting sound of Jillas tirelessly walking in a perimeter around her, Amelia found herself drifting away into her memories and recalling a dream that'd almost been lost in the excitement of the evening.
"Gourry? Gourry, what happened!"
If her protector heard Lina's words, he chose to ignore them; if anything, he increased his speed, apparently assuming that if she could string three semi-coherent words together, she was just asking to run a marathon.
Lina grimaced in pain as she barked her shin against an exposed root. Gourry didn't slacken his pace in the slightest. Enough was enough, she decided. It felt as if someone were slamming a hammer into her right temple with every heartbeat, she was tired, Gourry was being an ass, and now her stupid leg was protesting too.
Gritting her teeth angrily, she dug in her heels and although she wasn't able to stop him, she did manage to slow his pace to the point of annoyance. His reaction was as unexpected as it was violent.
Gourry turned and fixed her with a furious glare. He snarled something that might have been a "C'mon" and gave her arm a vicious jerk, almost yanking her off her feet.
That did it. Nobody treated Lina Inverse, Slayer extraordinaire, like a mongrel on a leash. Even if it was someone she happened to care for. She twisted her arm, pulling up and away from Gourry, while simultaneously digging into a nerve on his forearm with the index finger of her free hand; she didn't envy how his arm was going to feel for the next hour or so. A hiss of pain and a sudden slackening of his grip rewarded her efforts. She was free.
No longer dragging her behind him, Gourry whirled around to face Lina. Judging by the growling noise he made, it was safe to assume that he was pretty angry at the moment.
Lina instinctively pulled back, dropping into a defensive stance. If he lunged at her again, she'd be ready for him. Her hand stole to the hilt of her sword of its own accord as she considered her foe. He was holding the Sword of Light. There was no telling if he could use it—he hadn't been able to back in the village—but for safety's sake she'd have to assume that it was a factor. Gourry was easily the superior swordsman, but he was angry too. If she could somehow capitalize on that and lull him into making a mistake . . .
Luna's silver bladed sword was half drawn before she understood what she was contemplating; she was ready to do battle with Gourry.
The incredulity of her actions hit her in the same moment as the terror. She might have hurt him—might have killed him—if she hadn't realized what she was doing. She took in a deep breath and forced herself to sheath her blade. Her sword arm seemed reluctant to obey and she hesitated for just an instant before sliding the weapon home with a subtle "click".
That simple noise totally disarmed the situation. Lina slumped against a nearby tree, her energy suddenly gone. At the same moment, Gourry began to sob and unceremoniously sat down on the ground. His long legs were sprawled and he covered his eyes with his hand.
Lina had the strange feeling that she was suddenly looking at the world's largest child. Cautiously, she approached, making sure to give him a wide berth as she moved around to his side. Then, compassion got the better of caution and with two quick steps she moved to his side. She dropped to her knees and flung her arms around his neck. She sighed sadly, laying her head on his shoulder. His long blond hair tickled her face, but she couldn't remember a time that she'd felt less like laughing.
He reached up to touch her arm and Lina stifled a little gasp of surprise when she felt cold metal instead of soft skin. She turned a bit and found herself staring at the empty hilt of the Sword of Light. If he were so inclined, Gourry could say the words and she'd die.
She grimaced and laid her hand over his, gently guiding the weapon downwards so that it pointed in a less lethal direction. Somewhat surprisingly, she met little resistance in her efforts. Lina felt the muscles in his forearm tense for just a moment before going totally limp. His hand dropped into his lap lifelessly.
At that moment, Lina realized she'd been holding her breath for the last thirty seconds or so. She released it with an explosive sigh and nuzzled Gourry's neck, planting small kisses there that, under normal circumstances, would have elicited a laugh; she wasn't the only one who was ticklish.
It was like kissing a wall. Gourry's sobs from before had evened out a bit, but that could just as well be exhaustion as her efforts to comfort him. She wondered if he even knew that she was there. For that matter, she wondered if he even knew he was there or what was going on. He'd been so out of it lately—and it was getting worse. She found herself again considering the unpleasant possibility that he was cracking up; Gourry was strong, but there was only so much a person could take before snapping.
Lina shook her head stubbornly, and clung more tightly to her wounded swordsman, as if she could make such thoughts untrue by virtue of her own obstinance. She gritted her teeth and held him close as he struggled to work his way through what was seemingly an endless well of despair. It was all she could do.
Amelia watched with a sort of detached interest as a pair of hands worked their way up a wall in front of her. The surface beneath the fingers—her fingers, she corrected as she could feel the cool rough texture of the stone—opened up as if by magic, revealing handholds that were invisible to the naked eye. She must be very good at this!
Pleased that she was making such excellent progress, Amelia suddenly wondered where she was climbing anyway. She felt a little silly; here she was patting herself on the back for an accomplishment she didn't even know the reason for. Curious, she glanced around at her surroundings. The stone stretched on as far as the eye could see on either side of her, dipping and swelling occasionally like a series of waves frozen in time. Above, she could barely make out the faint, yet oh so inviting glow of a light. This was her goal, she understood immediately. She'd felt a surge of relief to see it so close.
Her joy faded in an instant when she looked down. There was nothing below her, save yawning darkness. She flinched and lost her grip momentarily. There was a sickening moment of weightlessness before nails found stone again. She dug in reflexively and felt rock give like soft clay beneath her fingers. She hugged the cliff face tightly, laying her cheek against the wall while she tried to catch her breath.
Stupid. She felt angry at herself all of a sudden; this was her element. How often had she done the high wire act back at the circus? Well, not too often—Uncle Christopher had been a bit leery of letting her work up there after the incident with the knives and cotton candy—but still . . .
Amelia cursed, long, loud, and extremely vulgarly. That was pretty strange in and of itself, but what really shocked her was the fact that she sounded so masculine when she did so.
Surprise faded at the same moment that realization struck. They weren't her hands and it wasn't her voice. Amelia was having one of her jarring visits with Zelgadis. She barely resisted the urge to smack her forehead. That would have been a bad move, given the circumstances. You'd think that as often as it happened, she'd learn to be ready for it, but for some inexplicable reason, it was always a surprise to find herself "visiting" him.
She was a moment away from greeting him when she paused. What was she going to say? "Hi, how are you?" Or maybe, "I miss you." Heck, even, "Why'd you leave, you big jerk?" had its unique charm. On the other hand, considering that he'd almost slipped while she was mulling it over, now might not be the best time for chitchat.
Trying to quiet her thoughts, Amelia sat back and made herself comfortable (well, as comfortable as a disembodied visitor in someone else's head could be) and watched.
Zelgadis held himself against the cliff face for a moment longer, and Amelia could feel him reaching out, perhaps trying to find her. She didn't break her silence and his attention soon returned to the task at hand.
If she'd thought his climbing technique was impressive before, there were no words to describe what he was doing now. He moved swiftly and confidently, hardly even looking before putting his hand down. There was always a handhold. She also noticed a quiet rustling sound that moved in time with Zelgadis. He had his wings pressed against the wall. She assumed it was because he hadn't wanted to be pulled free of his perch by a sudden gust of wind. It was very blustery this high up. That also explained why he hadn't just flown. He wasn't really experienced just yet and would as likely as not have been dashed against the rocks by the treacherous gusts. She also suspected that he didn't really like flying for some reason. She didn't know why. She thought it was pretty cool, herself.
A quiet clicking sound compelled Amelia to take a closer look at Zelgadis's wings. When she found the source of the noise, she recoiled in revulsion. His wings had sprouted ugly little fingers tipped by small black claws. They wiggled spasmodically, as if they weren't quite under his control just yet. The clicking she'd heard came when the talons occasionally tapped against the cliff face.
Zelgadis was still changing then.
Amelia turned away from the grotesque display. She found that she didn't want to watch him climb anymore. Thankfully, it lasted only a few moments more; Zelgadis's speed was frightening. He reached the top of the wall and covered the last dozen feet in a single bound.
A few feet away, a small cottage stood. It was an impressive bit of workmanship—not because it was physically impressive, but because Amelia honestly couldn't tell how it stood under its own weight. There were gaps in the walls and even in the dark, she could make out large open areas in the thatched roof. If not for the light flickering behind the shutters and the inviting plume of smoke from the largest hole in the roof, she would have assumed the house long abandoned.
Zelgadis wasted no time in moving towards the door. Amelia was momentarily worried—as much as she wanted him to be out of the cold, she didn't know if it was wise for him to intrude on strangers. The sound of cheerful laughter reached her ears and she breathed a sigh of relief. Whoever owned that voice was a kind soul. She could feel it. They wouldn't hurt Zelgadis.
Her feelings of relief made what happened next even more impossible to believe. Zelgadis didn't knock on the door. Instead, he thrust his fingers into the wood and with no effort whatsoever opened it as he would a curtain; the portal cracked loudly as he folded it up.
The next few moments were a blur. All Amelia could tell for sure was that Zelgadis was moving incredibly quickly and that the laughter she'd heard before had turned to screams. There was a flash as firelight reflected off cold steel and his sword was suddenly buried to the hilt in some poor soul's belly. He twisted his wrist and pulled to the side, all but cutting the person in half as he removed his blade. He quickly pivoted and with a quick flick of his wrist, separated another hapless victim's head from their body. A sheet of blood spurted from the stump of the neck and seemed to hang in the air, turning the atmosphere of the room as bloody as the deeds being performed.
"What are you doing!" Amelia shrieked as realization finally struck. She willed Zelgadis to stop—performed the mental equivalent of digging in her heels to slow him down. It did no good; he continued on, whipping his blade high in the air before bringing it crashing down on another victim's shoulder. She could feel the impact of steel on bone run up her arm. It was utterly sickening and she fought against the urge to retch.
Again, blood fanned from the wound and pooled in the air, adding another sheet of crimson to the room. And still Zelgadis showed no signs of slowing.
Tears stung her eyes and Amelia understood that she was crying; she was making Zelgadis cry. But, if she could affect him in that way, why couldn't she make him stop? "Please, Mister Zelgadis," she pleaded, unconsciously slipping into old honorifics, "you have to stop."
Then, the impossible happened; Zelgadis paused, his head cocked thoughtfully. And then, miraculously, he sheathed his sword. He was listening to her!
"That's right, Mister Zelgadis!" Amelia exclaimed. "You don't have to do this! Just stay calm and . . ." Amelia trailed off. And what? He'd done so many horrible things, but somehow, she knew she could help him. It wasn't his fault. It was whatever was tormenting him now. Somehow, she would make this right.
Zelgadis knelt down and peered under a nearby table. Cowering beneath it was a young girl, no older than Amelia and very fair. Pretty brown eyes stared out at Zelgadis from under chestnut bangs. There was fear written on her face, a very alien expression, Amelia thought. This one was very compassionate normally. She knew because, in a way, it was like seeing herself. Despite the fear she must have been feeling, she didn't cry or plead. She was a strong one.
A grin crossed Zelgadis's face and he extended a taloned hand towards the girl. Had Amelia been in her own body, she would have been holding her breath. She watched as he traced the line of her jaw with one dark nail. Then he reached up to brush dark hair out of the girl's face, showing amazing gentleness.
Amelia would have hugged him if she could. He was doing it. He was beating his demons.
Zelgadis threw his head back and laughed. He lunged forward, palming the girl's face and squeezing.
"No!" Amelia screamed, even as she felt the girl's skull give under Zelgadis's grip. It cracked loudly and she could feel the jab of bone shards combined with warm wetness on her palm. He'd just killed that girl. He'd killed her for no reason other than his own amusement. He swept his hand back, trailing blood that hung in the air and upending the table.
Amelia stared at the floor, unable to bear the thought of seeing that ruin of a face. It wasn't much better looking down however; instead of seeing the blood, she witnessed the spastic drumming of the girl's feet on the wooden floor—the last actions of a confused body that didn't know it was dead.
Zelgadis stood and Amelia shrieked a sound of hopeless despair. The room was full of people—beautiful, kindhearted people bearing the face of the girl he'd just killed. She felt his hand tighten around the grip of his sword, heard the murderous hiss as the blade was drawn, and knew that the slaughter was about to begin again.
It was intolerable and even Amelia had her limits of compassion. She curled up in a dark corner of his mind and quietly wept, no longer caring about what was happening outside, but just wanting it to stop. Even though she tried to block it out, she sensed everything—Zelgadis cutting or tearing and the blood flowing into a shimmering sheet of death. The cottage, seemingly so small on the outside, had become the size of a palace within and contained what seemed to be an infinite number of victims. And even though she didn't see, she could still hear the screams and gurgles of the dying, smell death in the air, and feel the featherlike, yet horrible, sensation of droplets of blood striking Zelgadis's face.
Even as she whispered a heartfelt prayer for the poor people, she became aware that the sensations of carnage were fading, as if Zelgadis was moving off into the distance. That didn't make sense though. She was trapped in him, wasn't she? Cautiously, Amelia opened one eye, unable to suppress her curiosity any longer.
She wasn't in the cottage anymore and Zelgadis was nowhere to be seen. Evidence of his presence was all around however; wave after wave of undulating crimson stretched out as far as the eye could see in all directions, even above and below—evidence of horrible suffering and pain. She was floating, naked and utterly alone, in an ugly world of red. Amelia's vision blurred slightly as her eyes welled up with tears. It was a sad and hopeless sight.
The nearest wave of red, no more than two feet away from her, rustled quietly as it reached out to touch her. She instinctively recoiled despite the fact that she had nowhere to go. It brushed against her face, as gentle and soft as silk. Her tears were wiped away and instead of fear, she felt a profound sense of comfort as the fabric (she knew it was blood, but somehow she couldn't bring herself to believe it) swirled about her, encircling her throat first, but quickly spiraling downward about her until it was snug about her hips. The sensation was surprisingly gentle. Somehow, it reminded her of Zelgadis. Or rather, she thought, turning almost as scarlet as the cloth, it reminded her of how she imagined Zelgadis—wild fantasies (wild to her inexperienced mind in any case) about how he'd touch her.
Thankfully, she didn't have time to dwell on such embarrassing thoughts; even as it bound itself to her, Amelia could sense a profound change in the blood silk. Where the gossamer had touched her face and now rested against her skin, it paled—first shifting to a bright shade of pink, but eventually shirking even this level of corruption to become a shade of most brilliant white samite.
A ripple passed through the surrounding crimson, seeming to radiate outward from her position. The undulating color drew back, giving her some much-appreciated space. In doing so, it revealed flashes of Zelgadis's handiwork. A ripple here exposed a pair of agony-ridden eyes, there a severed limb.
But, Amelia saw none of this. Her attention was focused on the form that had emerged before her: Zelgadis was kneeling before her, one hand resting on a floor that wasn't there to support his weight. His face was caked with gore, and it was obvious that not all of it was from his enemies. One of his wings hung askew on his back, dangling by a narrow string of meat; it twitched spastically, but with diminishing intensity. It'd most likely never heal. Blood flowed freely from several large gashes marring his body. His garments were identical to Amelia's, but if anything, they were an even darker hue than the surrounding area, actually bordering on maroon.
Zelgadis's attire moved over exposed flesh, soaking up blood where it touched him. It paused over an open wound on his arm. The fabric began to undulate grotesquely, bringing an image of a bloated leech to Amelia's mind. It was feeding on his pain and suffering and adding to it at the same time; she could see the cut he'd suffered widening under its none too gentle ministrations.
Amelia called his name in alarm as she started forward. She'd mouthed it and felt the expulsion of air from her lungs. However, their surroundings cruelly covered the anxious yell with rustling whispers. She hadn't even heard herself speak and was sure that he hadn't either.
Even if Zelgadis couldn't hear her concern, he could still feel it. Amelia dropped to her knees before him and gently cupped his chin in her palm. She tilted his face up until they were gazing into one another's eyes. Behind the gore matted hair and blood streaked face, something dark and ugly stared out at her. His eyes, once a beautiful shade of blue, were dark and slitted—more fitting for a cat than a human. His lips curled in a noiseless snarl, revealing pointy canines.
Unafraid, Amelia smiled at him and gently stroked his cheek with her thumb. The blood on his face dried in an instant and flaked off, revealing pale skin underneath. She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertip and watched in wonderment as the stain of corruption retreated from her touch. She was helping him. She felt a giddy sense of elation at that revelation. She could save Zelgadis!
The fierce look on his face was replaced with serenity. He fell forward into her arms and that seemed to complete the effect. The gore shot away from his skin, revealing smooth toned muscles beneath. His wings twitched momentarily before crumbling to ash and his more bestial features quickly followed suit. His feral eyes glazed over with a milky white haze and Amelia found herself worrying that she'd somehow blinded Zelgadis. The film quickly receded to reveal a familiar and much beloved blue. Claws that had been digging into her back when he embraced her a moment ago were gone. She knew that if she'd been able to see his hands, she'd have found normal fingernails very much like hers.
But, the most wonderful thing—the thing that made her heart swell with elation—was his smile. It was normal. He no longer possessed the exaggerated canines that he'd had as long as she'd known him.
Their surroundings shied away, as if offended by Amelia's happiness. Many of them didn't retreat fast enough, however; some that had strayed to close to Zelgadis in their eagerness to feed were touched by her influence—were cleansed. The brilliance leapt from wave to wave like lightning moving between clouds. Soon, a gently flowing field of red and white filled her vision.
Judging by Zelgadis's widening smile, the cloth wasn't the only thing she'd touched with her joy. He rose to his feet never loosing his hold upon her. He pulled her close and she felt heat in her cheeks. There was nothing between their bodies save the sheerest of materials; every feature of his form was sensuously apparent. She felt as if she were on fire. Every point of contact brought an amazing feeling of heat and energy. The feathery touch of his fingers running up her spine sent tremors through her body.
There was a caress, little more than a whisper, and her gossamer shift fell in a pile at her feet. Amelia drew back from Zelgadis and gazed at him, taking in every detail of his expression. She so rarely saw him smile; that in itself was a small miracle. She reached up to caress his face, but he caught her hand in his own before she could make contact.
Zelgadis pulled it close and kissed her palm. His lips were warm and gentle, totally opposite the coolness he usually displayed. This act of affection complete, he released her, allowing her to complete her original course. Her fingertips found pale flesh and dark hair as soft as silk.
Laying her other hand upon his shoulder, she looked into his eyes again and found a wild look there that matched her own feelings. A moment of fumbling later, his clothing fell away to mingle with hers at their feet.
Even as he pulled her towards him, she moved of her own accord and they met in a passionate kiss. Amelia moaned as she closed her eyes and fully gave herself over to the moment and to him.
She thrilled as she felt his hands roam over her body and she responded in kind, running her fingers through his long hair—very long it seemed, as it extended midway down his back—tracing the curves of his decidedly petit form, cupping decidedly feminine breasts . . .
Amelia's eyes flew open and she gasped in surprise. "Miss Lina!"
While she'd been holding Zelgadis a moment ago, now she shared his body again. And in her place, Lina stood, wearing a cruel smirk that Amelia had never seen cross her face before. It was a predatory look, full of malice and hatred.
The red and white had closed in around them again and with good reason; every sheet tapered to the breadth of a strand of hair—was a strand of Miss Lina's hair. Somehow, ugly gray had replaced the beautiful waves of white that Amelia had created.
Lina's lips twisted in a sardonic little half-frown. "Poor little girl," she sighed, "don't you know? Once a monster, always a monster." She leaned forward and pecked Amelia on the lips.
The transformation was as violent as it was quick. Wings exploded from Zelgadis's back, bearing chunks of his skin and flesh to mark their rebirth. There was a swift series of pops and niggling aches as his fingers reshaped themselves into claws.
The redhead shook her head ruefully. "A Slayer does not suffer a creature of darkness to exist. It's one of the first rules of the credo. I told you that, Amelia. Have you listened to a thing that I've taught you?" Her tone positively dripped with superciliousness.
Amelia shook her head and opened her mouth to protest, but instead of words, she vomited up a gout of blood. There was an unpleasant sensation of pressure in her chest. She looked down to see that Lina had effortlessly slipped a stake into Zelgadis's heart. There was a crack—Zelgadis's ribs splintering—as Lina twisted, driving the wooden shaft deeper.
"No!" Amelia yelled in Zelgadis's voice. Or rather, she would have yelled, if she could catch her breath. What actually came out was a wet croak. She shoved Lina away and turned to run. If Miss Lina could just see what he could be with just a little help, she'd understand. Amelia could save him! She had saved him!
Her retreat was a sad thing to watch; she staggered a few steps on rapidly weakening legs before listing to the side and collapsing. She lay on her back, her breath coming in weak gasps, as Lina approached. A fresh torrent of blood welled up around the haft of the stake and Amelia gritted her teeth as she felt Zelgadis's dying heart spasm violently.
Even then, she wasn't ready to give up. Exerting every ounce of willpower she possessed, she willed his limbs to move, to pull the stake from his body. The fingers of Zelgadis's left hand twitched, but that was probably more a reflex action than a result of her efforts.
And then, Lina was there. She knelt down and seized Amelia's shoulders, shaking her insistently, all the while yipping, "Boss, ye got t' get up!" in a surprisingly animalistic and masculine tone.
Amelia screamed and sat up with a start. Realizing she was in control of herself again, she lashed out instinctively, meaning to defend herself—defend Zelgadis—to the best of her ability.
Another yell split the air, but this time it was that of her poor servant; Jillas's nose had just suffered its second beating in just under an hour.
"Ooh, I'm sorry, Mister Jillas!" Amelia hastily scrambled to her feet and moved to her injured servant's side. "Is it bad?" Thankfully, the dream could be shoved aside for the moment. She didn't really want to ponder it just yet.
Jillas gave a quick shake of his head. "No, Miss. It was jus' a small . . ." He trailed off, apparently remembering why he'd been trying to wake her to begin with. "We 'ave t' leave, Miss," he said in a low whisper. His ears were laid low against his skull as he glanced around. "We 'ave t' go, right now."
A sick feeling of dread washed over Amelia, and she put a hand on his shoulder, as much to support herself as reassure him. "Mister Jillas . . . is . . ." she swallowed hard and continued, " . . . are the chickens back?" The fox's expression of frightened befuddlement was answer enough. Without another word, she seized his arm and darted off into the woods.
Had she looked over her shoulder, she would have seen something enter the other side of the clearing just as she'd left—something decidedly non-poultry. However, it would have been anything but reassuring.
A figure, clad in an ugly brown cloak, stood where she'd lain a moment before.
Keith coughed and waved his hand in front of his face in a vain attempt to dispel the haze that had settled over the room. He squinted at the man seated across the table from him, but in the gloom, all he could really discern was that his companion was quite large, with broad shoulders and a long mane of hair.
The stranger took a long drag on his cigar and expelled a copious amount of smoke from his nostrils, creating the illusion that he was a dragon belching fire. He flicked a bit of ash on the dirt floor and leaned back in his chair. The wood groaned in protest beneath him and Keith prayed that it wouldn't give out. Not so much because he was worried about the furniture, but because he wasn't particularly eager to see the man's anger.
Suppressing a shudder, Keith said, "Anyway, he's been missing for several hours now and I know the old fool's gone and gotten himself in trouble." He scrunched up his nose in disgust as he struggled to ignore the sickening stench of cigar smoke. It was a struggle that he had no chance of winning.
Just as before, there was a quiet hiss as the other man inhaled, and then a fresh cloud of smoke. Cold calculating eyes momentarily shone in the feeble light of his cigar.
Keith fidgeted momentarily under that gaze before deciding to go on. "I woke up about an hour ago. The old fool was yelling his head off. I ran outside to check—thought he'd gone and shot himself in the foot or something—and he was running off."
"Towards the woods," his companion finally replied in a deep voice. It wasn't a question.
"Into the cornfield," Keith corrected. "He might have been heading for the woods though. I lost sight of him after that."
"And you didn't follow."
Keith squirmed in his seat under the man's intense gaze. "It was dark. He took the dogs and by the time I could have gotten another lantern from in the house, he would've been gone anyway." Although these were perfectly valid reasons, he found himself feeling guilty—almost as if he were a child again and feeding his father some stupid excuse as to why he couldn't work in the field that day.
Taking a final puff of his cigar, the man stood, drawing himself up to his full height. Keith remained seated, but doubted that the top of his head would have even reached the other man's wide jaw.
The guy was intimidating, but Keith wasn't complaining. It was a stroke of luck that he'd found a SCG patrolman. Sairaag was two days away and although the guard patrolled the countryside around the city, it was exceedingly rare to see them this far out. Better that they hunt through the forest than him in the dead of night, right?
The guardsman was staring at him, his head cocked to the side thoughtfully. Finally, apparently bored of seeing Keith squirm, he stubbed the remains of his cigar out on the corner of the table before standing. Producing another from within his coat, he growled, "We'll find your old man. All in a days work of serving and protecting, after all." With frightening speed, he leaned forward and seized Keith's hand. He smiled wickedly and gave it a vigorous shake.
Actually, "vigorous" was something of an understatement. Keith found himself seriously wondering if the guard meant to yank his arm out of its socket. Somehow, he managed to get out a "Thank you, Mister . . .?" He was grateful that the shaking stopped immediately after that. His grip, however, only seemed to tighten.
"Gaav," came the crimson haired giant's reply, "Captain Gaav."
Next chapter: Lina's group is scattered and Gourry's all but helpless. And with Gaav on their trail, things are looking dire. However, events on the horizon may turn hunter and fugitive alike into prey.
Notes: First off, I'd like to say that I'm really, really, really sorry about the stupidly long delay on this chapter. Let's just say that life, writer's block, and a nasty case of reality struck all at once.
This isn't the first iteration of this chapter. I actually had another 60 pages of material done about 3 months ago that I threw out. With good reason though—I almost threw my hands up and gave up with the story while I was struggling through it.
Anyway, for those of you who are still reading, I thank you and for those of you who are still reading and remember what's going on, I say, "What's wrong with you? Get a life!" I'm only joking! Don't throw anything at me!
Thank you very much to Kaitrin and Ichiban Victory for their help with the chapter.
And a very special thanks to my Sis. Without her encouragement and kind words, I almost certainly would have left this story behind and never looked back. Love ya, Sis, and I hope you liked your scene.
Reviewer response:
Muffles, it was pretty stupid of Zel to leave, but at least they're still together . . . kinda . . . sorta . . . right?
Stara, thanks for the compliments! As always, your questions will be answered in due time. As for the wild sex reviving Gourry, I think you saw how that came out.
As always, a lot of questions, Otaku Girl. Rezo is Rezo and I think it'd be sort of strange for him to welcome a vampire into his church, don't you? There have been a lot of interesting views on Luna's background, but I think we'll only find out the truth when she decides to talk, and she isn't telling at the moment. Valgaav? Just a star, for the moment. Poor Xellos is in pieces. As for Martina, Zangulus, and Sylphiel, I can say that one or more of them will be returning to the story soon. Thanks for the concern. I have been getting more sleep!
Ichiban, thanks for the comments. And did you have to bring up Southern Lina again?
Wesley, I wasn't mocking. The smoke thing would have made for a very cool image, I think. I wish I'd thought of it sooner. As for the cat, it was quite obviously a ghost cat and ran off to chase ghost mice for the rest of the arc. Creepy, no? And for the purposes of this story, you can assume nothing about Xellos or any of the other characters. I'll honor their personalities, but the origins and upbringings are totally different. That being said . . . don't trust Xellos.
Thanks, Miss Gabriev! What happened the second night was what actually happened to the village. After the soldiers slaughtered the villagers, they returned to their grave. As for Amelia being able to find Zelgadis . . . it's an interesting idea.
Kaitrin! You said "kewl!" twice! That's so kewl!
Sorry, Brenda, no wild sex in this story. I have to keep it fit for remember? On the other hand, should I ever find an alternate place to host the story, who knows what I might write?
I can't believe it! This is one of the first things you ever said to me, isn't it, Linachu! That was a while ago! Whoa, nostalgia trip!
Thanks for the compliments, Ishy! As for looking forward to Lina's trip home, don't tell her that. I don't think she's too thrilled about it.
Hi, Kia! I still can't believe how quickly you read the story. On the other hand, I read the entirety of Stephen King's "IT" in 36 hours. I guess we've got some things in common!
Tsukiko . . . I hope you're still reading this even after all this time. I miss you.
Peruru, you gave me the last bit of inspiration I needed to get this done! Thanks!
Until next time, all!