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Authors: Josepha Sherman
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but . . .
The whore forced what was definitely a false smile of welcome onto her lips as she saw him. Osmod beckoned to her.
"Never mind the games," he said shortly before she could start the tired old bantering of seller-and-client. "You see," he added, jingling his purse, "I have coins enough."
She blinked, clearly a little startled at his bluntness. "There's a room nearby, my . . . ah . . . my lord, and—"
"No. I would rather not risk vermin." Too brusque. A wise hunter didn't frighten off the prey. Osmod hastily softened his voice to a charming croon. "The night's warm, my dear. We can find us a more pleasant place. Won't you come walking with me?"
Of course she agreed; she needed those coins badly, judging from the skinny body pressing up against him in simulated passion as he wrapped his cloak about both of them. Ignoring the not-quite-clean smell of her, Osmod strolled with her out into the night and took what he hoped wasn't too obviously a relieved breath of clean air.
"Now, isn't this better, my dear . . . what is your name?"
Her voice was a surprisingly shy whisper. "Emma, my lord."
"Emma," he purred. "A pretty name. Have you no family, poor Emma?"
She shook her head.
"Tsk, poor Emma, all alone."
Osmod glanced about. No one in sight. He suddenly pushed the startled woman off her feet into a narrow, not-quite alley, blank wooden walls on both sides. She twisted about where she'd fallen, trying frantically to recover her false smile of welcome, but Osmod could scent the exhilarating smell of her fear. Yes, ah yes, the Power was stronger when the prey was afraid. He threw himself down on her, slapping her when she struggled, seeing her eyes widen as she stared up at him and realized the truth for the first time, seeing her terror rise. Before she could scream, he had a hand over her mouth, whispering, "No, ah no, no sound, fear me, yes, fear me but silently."
Now. Now her terror was at its peak. Osmod slipped out his knife and neatly slashed the jugular vein, ready for the spurt of blood, careful not to stain his clothing. He drank as she struggled, tasting the salty sweetness, feeling the intoxication of her life force feeding his, and the Power, the wild, wonderful Power rising within him. . . .
The prey went limp beneath him. Osmod got to his feet, shaking slightly, fastidiously wiping his mouth with a scrap of cloth. He was growing very weary of this, of having to slip down into the city at night like some young idiot on the prowl, pretending to be interested in this whore so sadly without family, or that lonely beggar no one would miss. He was most definitely growing weary of finding places to safely dispose of same. Life must have been far, far simpler back in the days of slavery. Then, no one kept track of a man's belongings, human or otherwise, save himself. No one would have noted or cared if a slave or two quietly disappeared.
Ah well.
He knelt again, tracing a quick circle about the corpse. Rummaging in his pouch, Osmod drew out the runes Thorn and Haegl, symbolic of Chaos and Destruction. He didn't really believe in the Dark Forces, not as personified beings, but it never hurt to be careful. "For you, Lords of the Underworld," he whispered, touching the runes to the late whore's head and heart, "blood and a life for you. I worship you, I worship you, I worship you."
There. That should be sufficient. He scuffed out the circle, leaving the corpse where it lay; there was blood enough still draining out of it to make a suitable sacrifice to Whatever. A quick glance to be sure he'd left nothing behind . . . no.
He shuddered suddenly. How many times now had he done this? Osmod could vaguely remember the first, slain with his father's help. At the time, Osmod had been little more than a boy awestruck at being allowed to join that so very secret cult, to take part in so drastic a ritual. But as he'd tasted that first victim's blood and life, he had felt the first wild rush of Power,
The whore forced what was definitely a false smile of welcome onto her lips as she saw him. Osmod beckoned to her.
"Never mind the games," he said shortly before she could start the tired old bantering of seller-and-client. "You see," he added, jingling his purse, "I have coins enough."
She blinked, clearly a little startled at his bluntness. "There's a room nearby, my . . . ah . . . my lord, and—"
"No. I would rather not risk vermin." Too brusque. A wise hunter didn't frighten off the prey. Osmod hastily softened his voice to a charming croon. "The night's warm, my dear. We can find us a more pleasant place. Won't you come walking with me?"
Of course she agreed; she needed those coins badly, judging from the skinny body pressing up against him in simulated passion as he wrapped his cloak about both of them. Ignoring the not-quite-clean smell of her, Osmod strolled with her out into the night and took what he hoped wasn't too obviously a relieved breath of clean air.
"Now, isn't this better, my dear . . . what is your name?"
Her voice was a surprisingly shy whisper. "Emma, my lord."
"Emma," he purred. "A pretty name. Have you no family, poor Emma?"
She shook her head.
"Tsk, poor Emma, all alone."
Osmod glanced about. No one in sight. He suddenly pushed the startled woman off her feet into a narrow, not-quite alley, blank wooden walls on both sides. She twisted about where she'd fallen, trying frantically to recover her false smile of welcome, but Osmod could scent the exhilarating smell of her fear. Yes, ah yes, the Power was stronger when the prey was afraid. He threw himself down on her, slapping her when she struggled, seeing her eyes widen as she stared up at him and realized the truth for the first time, seeing her terror rise. Before she could scream, he had a hand over her mouth, whispering, "No, ah no, no sound, fear me, yes, fear me but silently."
Now. Now her terror was at its peak. Osmod slipped out his knife and neatly slashed the jugular vein, ready for the spurt of blood, careful not to stain his clothing. He drank as she struggled, tasting the salty sweetness, feeling the intoxication of her life force feeding his, and the Power, the wild, wonderful Power rising within him. . . .
The prey went limp beneath him. Osmod got to his feet, shaking slightly, fastidiously wiping his mouth with a scrap of cloth. He was growing very weary of this, of having to slip down into the city at night like some young idiot on the prowl, pretending to be interested in this whore so sadly without family, or that lonely beggar no one would miss. He was most definitely growing weary of finding places to safely dispose of same. Life must have been far, far simpler back in the days of slavery. Then, no one kept track of a man's belongings, human or otherwise, save himself. No one would have noted or cared if a slave or two quietly disappeared.
Ah well.
He knelt again, tracing a quick circle about the corpse. Rummaging in his pouch, Osmod drew out the runes Thorn and Haegl, symbolic of Chaos and Destruction. He didn't really believe in the Dark Forces, not as personified beings, but it never hurt to be careful. "For you, Lords of the Underworld," he whispered, touching the runes to the late whore's head and heart, "blood and a life for you. I worship you, I worship you, I worship you."
There. That should be sufficient. He scuffed out the circle, leaving the corpse where it lay; there was blood enough still draining out of it to make a suitable sacrifice to Whatever. A quick glance to be sure he'd left nothing behind . . . no.
He shuddered suddenly. How many times now had he done this? Osmod could vaguely remember the first, slain with his father's help. At the time, Osmod had been little more than a boy awestruck at being allowed to join that so very secret cult, to take part in so drastic a ritual. But as he'd tasted that first victim's blood and life, he had felt the first wild rush of Power,
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