Stormchild: Emeline and the Forest Mage

Rise of the Last Apprentice: Fiends

Dirt clung to Yviä's splattered spit. 'I had to turn down another customer 'cause you two took so long.' She snorted, sneered, and launched another glob into the stone paving at Denirya's feet. 'Gods you're a waste of air, Rat.'

Denirya cringed, toes squirming. She hated that nickname, but the Fathers only knew what Yviä would do if she complained. She clenched her fists and ground her teeth. One night of this, and she could pay for Mama to see a healer. Just one more night.

'You stand over there,' Yviä said to Tesh who stared with wide eyes at the opposite side of the gloomy alleyway and--hands trembling--jingled over, Moon skirts hushing.

'Remember to do a good pose,' Yviä hissed. She reeked of arrogance. Thoughts of Yviä's smooth throat dripping with blood flicked through Denirya's mind. What she wouldn't give to slit her throat, but Yviä was too powerful. Her mother ruled the Outskirts with an iron fist--a whore-mongering iron fist, the worst kind. If the Mistress of Pleasure heard her precious daughter had died at the Rat's hands, there'd be blood to pay. Her Cats would come for the Rat and leave her stinking corpse in the muck. No, killing Yviä wasn't an option. Besides, Denirya had nothing to her name, not even food. She needed this money. Mama needed this money.

'You know what to do, right?' Yviä's dark eyes bore into Denirya's and brief images of blood, pain, and swinging limbs flitted through her mind. With both hands she clutched her black cloak tighter, its edges sticky in her sweaty palms, and nodded. It'd happened long ago, Yviä couldn't hurt her anymore. The lie tasted so good she almost believed it.

Yviä ran fingers through her hair and adjusted her breasts so they popped out of the corset more. 'Alright, don't bloody mess it up again.'

Denirya sneered at Yviä's back, mouthing don't bloody mess it up again. One day someone would put her in her place, swinging bloody and chained from a roof sconce perhaps. Or maybe bled out, wan and bloated, floating down the river.

A man walked into the alley whistling, hands in his pockets. Killing men was what Denirya considered a good example of the lesser evil. Papa had abandoned her before memory, the men of the Outskirts had abused her and mocked her, and even the Fathers, the gods Northerners worshipped, were thought cruel and cold. Mama worshipped Sheia, the female deity of the Sheian Kingdom, did her dance every morning. Nowadays the dance took longer, Mama's limbs trembled at each pose, and her breathing came staccato, interrupted by coughs. Mama needed fixing, some potion or the like to get the cough and shakes gone for good.

A coldness settled in Denirya's stomach. If she lost Mama, how would she live? Mama was the only one who truly accepted and loved her. Mama was the only sweet person in this abysmal world and tonight was Denirya's last chance to save her. Even a fool could see Mama would not last another four months, and what other chance was there for an Outskirter to make a bit of money but the Blood Moon Festival?

Sighing, she watched the building's shadow engulf the next victim and wished again she had known Papa. If he had lived he could have provided for them, kept them from the slums, kept Mama from trading her health for survival.

The man skulking into the alley smiled when he spotted Yviä, the most ravishing of them three: thin in all the right places, curvy in the other places, a dark tangle of hair with trinkets and beads, and eyes the shape of almonds. Yeah, hot as bells. Denirya rolled her eyes. Leaning against the wall, she squinted at the man and bit at a nail.

He towered a head higher than the men they'd taken before, a curved blade sheathed at his hip, a dagger tucked into his boot, a dark cape dancing behind his burly arms. Something about the way he walked was dubious, but Yviä wouldn't heed caution from Denirya's less than worthy lips, so she kept her mouth shut.