Mortal Heart (His Fair Assassin 3)

One of the souls stares after Begard hungrily, and with no more words or arguments, he follows him through the door. The other two seem to lose their resistance and stumble forward, almost as if they welcome the pull of that which they feared was lost to them.

And then they are gone, swallowed up by the darkness. In the moment of stillness that follows, the mood around me shifts almost imperceptibly. It takes me a moment to recognize that it is a feeling of accomplishment. The hellequin are eager to do their task, not just because it earns them redemption, but because it affirms there is rest for all souls—eventually.

Chapter Seventeen

AFTER ONCE AGAIN STICKING to me like a leech as I slept, Balthazaar completely ignores me once I am awake. Indeed, it is as if I have somehow contracted the plague and he is afraid of catching it. Which leads me to wonder just how many physical ills hellequin are vulnerable to. I shall have to ask him. If he ever gets close enough for me to speak with him again.

After very little preparation—I am the only one who bothers with such comforts as a bedroll and food—we are off, moving out into the night like an undulating serpent across the grass. We ride, slowly at first but gaining speed with each moment that passes until we are galloping into the cold night air. For a moment—just a moment—I give myself over to the sheer pleasure of being out in the world once more, lift my face to the night breeze and simply enjoy the pleasure of being alive and moving to fill my skin. A part of me cannot help but admit to the thrill to be had in such unrestrained wildness, riding faster than the wind itself, the entire pack moving like one graceful entity.

Spending so much time in the antechamber of the Underworld gives one an entirely new appreciation of life.

Again Balthazaar rides in the van and assigns his minions to watch over me. Either we do not set as grueling a pace as last night or I have already grown accustomed to it. We ride in silence but for the pounding of the horses’ hooves. There is a buoyancy, a rush of something akin to joy, for all that it is naught but joy’s thin, darker cousin, that drives home for me why the hellequin relish these rides. Not only does it bring them that much closer to redemption, but it allows them the chance to be free from the confines of their daily prison.

I too am glad to be free of the cromlech, for it disturbs me as much as it fascinates me. It is easy to feel one’s spirit become dampened, quiet, as if it is making ready for the final journey to the Underworld.

Besides, since I do not know if Mortain hunts me or not, it seems foolish to tarry on His doorstep.

And yet, what choice do I have? A lone woman, even one of Mortain’s own, cannot go against so many any more than a leaf can swim upstream. So like a leaf in a stream, I will let myself be carried along in the hellequin’s current and hope that it will take me where I wish to go. Eventually.

The trees on either side of us brush by, seeming to give way before our approach. The sharp bite of winter still hangs in the air and our breath comes out in puffs of small, white clouds, giving the riders an altogether otherworldly appearance.

Balthazaar falls back to ride beside me, and as if by some silent agreement or command, the others disperse. He says nothing. Does not so much as look at me, but simply rides at my side, his demonic horse crowding me and Fortuna.

As we journey in silence, his moodiness seems to fall away from him so that by the time we slow to give our horses a break, he looks far less forbidding. Relieved, I finally allow myself to ask one of the scores of questions clattering in my head. “How could you tell the souls you caught last night were only lost and not wicked? Do you see marques, like daughters of Mortain do?”

He brings his head around and pierces me with a fierce gaze. “How do you know of the marques? That is knowledge only those who serve Mortain should have.”

Merde. In my eagerness for answers, I let my fool tongue run away with me. “Do not be angry. My mother’s sister meant no harm in telling us. She was just awed by the gifts and mercy Mortain bestows upon the world and those who serve Him that she could not contain herself.” I hold his stony gaze for a moment, and then another, to impress upon him that I am telling the truth.

When Balthazaar finally looks away, I allow myself a silent sigh of relief, then quickly change the subject. “Can you coax a soul to follow you while it is still in its mortal body?”

“Only Mortain can do that.”

“Have you ever seen Mortain?”

His scowl deepens, and I cannot help but wonder what fault he finds with this question. “Yes. I have seen Him, but He is the god of Death, not some knight to be swooned over.”

“I am not swooning over Him! I have heard stories all my life and want to know what is true and what is not.”

We are saved from further arguing when the hounds begin to bay. Within moments, the entire hunt picks up its pace. Our path takes us darting between trees and leaping over streamlets, galloping past newly tilled fields and small stone cottages with the windows tightly shuttered and the doors barred.

The hounds’ braying grows even more frantic and Sauvage takes the lead. I do not know if it is because he is the most terrifying or if it is simply his turn. Instead of going farther into the woods, the hunt veers to the left. That is when I see the two men—souls. They are racing toward the wayside cross that sits where our path intersects with the main road.

The hunt increases its speed, the hounds pulling ahead, teeth bared. Their manner is so different from last night that I can only assume that their prey is different as well. Not innocent, perhaps, but wicked.

The riders in the front of the pack, led by Sauvage, get out ahead of the souls, effectively blocking their path to the stone cross. Their hope of sanctuary cut off, the souls stop running and turn to face the arriving hellequin. The hounds do not lunge at them, as I feared they would, but instead hang back, milling about the horses’ legs, growling as they keep their feral gazes fixed on their quarry.

While their eyes are wide with terror, they also exhibit a large helping of defiance. I look around, waiting to see which hellequin will talk to them, the way it was done last night, but none of them dismount. Instead, Sauvage takes a rope from his saddle, swings it out and around and then down over the two men, capturing them. He jerks hard, yanking them off their feet, then waits. After a moment, the two rise uncertainly, glaring at the hellequin. Sauvage jerks on the rope once more, but not so hard that the men fall again, only hard enough to get them moving. Thus roped and surrounded by grinning hellequin, they are escorted to the nearest cromlech.

It is not hard to wonder where rumors of demon spawn come from.

When we reach the cromlech, the hellequin dismount. Sauvage, with Balthazaar close on his heels, shoves the men through the entrance to the cromlech, and the rest of the hunt follows. They drive them toward the door to the Underworld, where the darkness waits, beating like a pulse.

Then, surprising both me and the souls, Sauvage removes the rope. They stand free once more. “It is time for you to pass from this world to the next,” Balthazaar says.

One of the prisoners spits off to the side. “The Church says you will lead us to hel

l.”

“The Church is wrong. Hell does not reside beyond that door.”

“If you want me to go through there, you’re going to have to carry me yourself.”

“I will not. If you cross, you must do so by your own free choice.”

“What if I do not?”

“Then we will hunt you again and again, until the end of time, if necessary, and each time, we will bring you back to the mouth of the Underworld until you grow tired of the hunt and surrender to what must be.”

While the one man argues, the second one glances over at the blackness that fills the doorway. He must see something there that comforts him, for without so much as a word to his companion, he steps through the door.

Gaping in surprise, the other man stares after him, as if awaiting screams or cries for help. None come. The darkness that lurks in the narrow passageway seems to swell forward, almost as if reaching for him. Instead of fleeing in terror, the soul remains still, and something on his face shifts, the fear replaced by . . . wonder? Relief? He steps forward to greet the darkness willingly, even eagerly.

I look at the hellequin around me, yearning sitting heavy upon them, and for the first time, I understand the hunger I see on their faces. They cannot wait for their turn to be welcomed into their final resting place.

There are tears in my eyes when I turn and walk away, nearly ramming into Balthazaar. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, keeping my gaze downcast. “I did not see you there.” He is so close, I can feel the rise and fall of his breath. I hold myself still, waiting for him to say something.

Instead of speaking, he reaches out to capture one of the tears falling down my cheek. “Why are you crying?” His voice grows soft, intimate even, and I cannot help myself—I look up so I may see his face. “They will not be harmed,” he says gently. “It was their own fear reflected back at them, not because of something we had done.”

“I know,” I whisper. “I am just overwhelmed by the immensity of Mortain’s grace. That even if we are lost or wandering, He will find us—always, He will find us—and try to bring us home.”