Read Online Ladyhawke by Joan D. Vinge - Free Book Online Page A

around again, and began to walk quickly in the direction of the barn. The presence followed him, matching his pace. Struggling to stay calm, he began to jog. Whatever was behind him picked up speed, keeping perfect time.
    Phillipe panicked and ran. He bolted blindly through the trees, swatted by branches and scratched by thorns. His pursuer crashed through the brush after him. At last he burst out of the woods into the clearing, pulled himself up short with a gasp of relief. He turned, looking back—
    Moonlight gleamed on the razor-sharp blade of the sickle in Pitou’s hand. The farmer’s eyes shone maniacally as he brought it down in an arc toward Phillipe’s head. Phillipe threw up his hands, crying out.
    A ghastly snarl filled his ears as something huge and black sprang past him. Phillipe gaped in disbelief as an enormous wolf struck Pitou down, its fangs tearing at the farmer’s throat. He stood for an endless moment staring, as Pitou struggled futilely in the vise of its jaws. Then he turned and ran to the barn. “Sir! . . . Come quickly, sir! . . . Wolf! . . . Wolf!” He crashed through the entrance, flinging the barn doors wide. “Sir! You must come!” Navarre was nowhere in sight. Phillipe slid to a stop, spun around desperately. Navarre’s longbow rested against the barn wall in a shaft of moonlight. Phillipe grabbed it up, snatched an arrow from the quiver, and ran to a wide crack between boards. He peered through, sweat trickling into his eyes. Outside the screaming had stopped, but the snarls continued as the wolf crouched over Pitou’s body, finishing its grisly work. Phillipe wiped his forehead on his sleeve, and nocked the arrow in the bowstring. Taking aim at the wolf, he tried to draw the bow. His arms strained until they shook; the heavy arch of wood barely gave. He relaxed his grip, panting; realizing, exasperated, that the bow belonged to a man twice as strong as he was. He raised the bow again, throwing all the strength of his panic against the unyielding wood. Slowly, the bow began to arch.
    A hand draped in black reached past him and flicked the arrow from the bowstring.
    Phillipe spun around. “But sir! There’s a . . .” He broke off, struck dumb by the sight before him.
    Navarre’s black-and-crimson cloak shrouded the ethereal figure of a slender young woman. Beneath the folds of its hood her skin was as white as alabaster in the moonlight, her hair shone like silver; her luminous green eyes studied him with a strange fascination, as if she had not looked on another human face in a long time. He stared back at her, because he had never in his life seen a face as beautiful as hers. The beauty was not so much in the perfection of her features, he thought, as it was in the radiant spirit that shone in her eyes. In her hand she held the golden blossom of a sunflower, twirling it between her long, delicate fingers as she smiled back at him in gentle bemusement. “I know,” she said, and for a moment Phillipe couldn’t even remember what it was she knew.
    The wolf howled in the yard outside, a wail of bitter desolation. The woman’s eyes flickered toward the sound, her face filling with a strange emotion.
    “Who . . . ?” Phillipe whispered, trembling.
    The woman only turned away, passing him silently as she drifted toward the barn’s entrance.
    Phillipe flung up a hand. “Don’t go out there! There’s a wolf! The biggest one you ever saw! And a dead man!” She seemed not even to hear him. “Miss? My lady? Please!” Phillipe cried helplessly, as she disappared through the doorway.
    Phillipe shut his eyes, bowing his head as he waited, breathless with dread, for a scream which did not come. Slowly he opened his eyes again, blinking toward the empty doorway. He slumped against the barn wall, his damp hands tightening on the smooth wood of Navarre’s bow. “Maybe I’m dreaming,” he murmured. “But my eyes are open. Which means that maybe I’m awake and just dreaming I’m