Click.

A woman entered the room, helped Llew from the bed, and led her to the washroom. Llew could now walk, but her mind was once again groggy, something for which, this time, she was grateful. She felt bruised, and sick, and dirty, and, and... she didn’t know what else. Numb.

The woman had already filled the copper tub with steaming water. She unbuttoned Llew’s dress and helped her into the water, then sponged her gingerly across the shoulders and down the arms. The slightest downward slide sent a violent shiver through Llew, and the woman abandoned her efforts, dropping the sponge into the water and taking a seat on the wicker stool by the wall, leaving Llew to take care of herself.

Llew sat in the water, unmoving and unthinking. Water dripped from the drenched tips of her hair. It was as long as it had been that evening in Cheer, the night she’d killed a man. She needed to trim it. Damn hair. It didn’t take much to look feminine again, and that only led to trouble. Stupid hair.

The house filled with the baby’s wail again, so ghostly, yet so real and chilling. Still, she didn’t move, just sat staring into the water, seeing nothing. Thinking nothing.

The wailing continued.

The woman stood, hovering over Llew for a moment hesitantly, then left, pulling the door closed behind her. Closed, but not locked.

Llew’s eyes burned, tears filling them and overflowing, dropping into the bathwater. She made no sound. Her shoulders bounced with her silent sobs.

She noticed the chill of the water first, and then that her mind was clear of its fog; she could move her limbs of her own accord. And she was alone.

Her head came up. She was alone. Her head was clear. Her body was under her control.

She stepped from the bath, shook out the towel from the floor and pressed it to her face, chest, a shoulder. And then she began to rub, to scrub herself dry. Not just dry. She wanted to wash him from her, but he was still there, clinging to her, his breath warming her ear, his groans filling her head. Her own moan echoed too, startling her. She viciously scrubbed at her ear with the towel. She’d rub it off if she had to.

She stood and gripped the edge of the bath, fighting against the sobs racking her body. Anger flooded through her and she kicked the tub, stubbing her toe. Stupid. Stupid, she chastised herself while she squeezed the throbbing toe in bunched fingers, trying to squeeze out the pain. She cursed herself for allowing him to paralyse her with so much hurt and then to exacerbate it by injuring herself – not that a stubbed toe would stop her. The simple fact was that her head was clear of fog, her muscles were hers to control, and she was alone, unsupervised. What in the empire of hell was she still doing there?

She dumped the towel and pulled the dress over her head, suppressing the revulsion. It was the dress she’d been wearing and likely one her mother had worn too. If she got out of here, she would never wear a dress again. She pulled on the knickerbockers the woman had brought to the washroom. Llew would gladly have worn five layers of the ugly, scratchy, frilly things, if she thought it would offer her some protection.

She opened the door slightly and peered around the door frame, checking the hallway. The house still rang with the baby’s wail and it sent a shiver through Llew again. She’d never seen children in the house and couldn’t imagine Braph as a father. In many ways, it was less disturbing to think the villa haunted. But still... That noise...

The short hallway between the washroom and her room was empty. She pulled the door half-open and stepped through.

The rhythmic chug of hidden machines provided the chilly wails with background percussion. Braph was in his room, evidently so focused on his task he couldn’t spare anything to keep Llew under a haze.

She stopped at the top of the stairs. Peering into the dimly lit main hallway below, she considered her chances of escape. The door was just there: down a few steps, along the hallway, and past doors behind which were all the other members of the household. It was likely locked. But when would a better chance present itself?

Steadying herself on the banister, she placed a foot on the top step and eased her weight on to it, half-turning as she did. Just as she thought she could relax, the step creaked. She froze, closing her eyes and listening for a change in the sounds of the house. After several tense moments, she opened her eyes and saw it.

Hanging on the wall at the top of the stairs, in amongst all the clutter Braph thought important to display but which simply got lost in the mess of his walls, was Jonas’s knife. There was no hiding that ivory-coloured handle and perfectly crafted blade in the jumble of mechanical parts; it appeared organic, living, by comparison with the other artifacts. It just hung there; the pink ribbon hooked over a protruding piece of metal.

Llew eased her weight back to the foot not yet on the stairs and stood before the knife. She reached a hand up, stopping just shy of touching it. What was Braph thinking leaving it in plain view, unsecured? But Llew was never supposed to be alone and perhaps he sought to taunt her with the reminder of Jonas, never thinking she might be in a position to take it. But here she was, standing before it, unsupervised. Dismissing a niggling feeling that it was some sort of trap, she gingerly unhooked the ribbon.

A door opened, and she spun round, fearing it would be Braph. But it was the woman returning to assist Llew. Without looking up, the woman ascended the stairs.

Llew waited. A few steps from the top, the woman glanced up and gasped. Llew brandished the weapon.

“Keep coming. Act like nothing’s wrong. Come on.”

The woman took a last few tentative steps to draw level with Llew. She was calm in the face of the knife, perhaps confident that Llew wouldn’t use it. Well, Llew certainly would use it if the woman gave her cause. She was getting out of here, and as far as she was concerned, everyone else in this house had their own part to play in what Braph had done. Now she had the knife, their safety only extended as far as their cooperation.

“My room.” Llew gripped the woman’s shoulder, turning and pushing her toward the door at the end of the hallway. “Do you have the key?”

“No.” The woman sounded on the verge of tears.

Llew cursed silently. She couldn’t have the woman running straight to Braph before she’d had time to leave a decent distance between her and this house. But without the key, she couldn’t lock the woman in.

Inside the room, Llew floundered for a moment. She didn’t have a rope or belt to tie her captive, except the ribbon in her hand, and she doubted that would hold for long. Her eyes settled on the knife. Except this, Jonas had said. Wounds inflicted on an Aenuk with this blade heal at the same rate they would on any person. Perhaps now was the time to find out what he meant by that. It was the kinder option – certainly kinder than stabbing the woman, anyway. While Llew hated the woman for not protecting her from Braph’s behavior, she had to accept that this woman was likely as much his victim as she was.

Remembering the hand-shaped scar under Jonas’s jaw, she wondered if it really was all that much kinder. Perhaps if she did it slowly, it wouldn’t burn like that. She just needed her weakened.

Llew lifted the knife and drew it lightly across the mound of her thumb. The sharp blade sliced the skin easily and, despite her intention to appear unfazed, she snatched her hand away and sucked in air. The cut was tiny. She grabbed the woman’s wrist. The familiar tingling began in the fingers, subtle enough that she might have missed it if she wasn’t concentrating. She held her hand up, watching the self-inflicted cut. At first, it seemed nothing was happening, but as the tingling trickled up her arm, across her chest, down the other arm and to her hand, the injury began to glow, with the red blood sparkling pink. She nearly let the woman go, but her grip remained firm. She didn’t intend to kill the woman and hoped she could break the grip when the time came.

With such a small wound, it was slow, but it was working; she was draining the woman, and the wound was failing to heal.

“I’m sorry,” she said as the woman weakened.

She let the woman lie on the bed. “I’m sorry,” she said again, “But I can’t risk you going to Braph.” The woman nodded.

When she judged the woman weak enough, Llew peeled her fingers free of their grip.

Using the banister to minimize the weight she put on the stairs, she skipped down them several at a time. What sounds she produced were so light and brief she was almost certain Braph wouldn’t hear them.

The mechanical drone continued in his room, and the hall was empty, with every door closed. She pressed her ear to the first door on the opposite side of the hallway from Braph’s room and heard the faint but distinctive murmur of Nilv’s dry voice. She turned the handle and found the door unlocked.

Candlelight from below reflected off a banister post. More stairs.

She eased the door closed behind her, hoping the sound of the latch clicking home would be quiet enough not to be heard over Nilv’s drone. There was no break in his yammering, so Llew eased herself on to the stairs, feeling her way in the dark. She could make some words out now: he was talking about her. Surely, he wouldn’t blab on like that to captives other than her father? She couldn’t leave him behind, not when she was this close to having him back.

The stairway bent in a hairpin halfway down but was sturdy and there were no creaks to give her away.

It was her father who did that. As soon as the candlelight lit her, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. At first Nilv didn’t seem to notice, but when Llew reached the last step, he turned to see what his captive was staring at.

Llew stepped into the room wielding the knife, orange light flashing down the blade.

“Release him.” She pressed the tip into Nilv’s shoulder. “Now.”

“How did—?”

“I said, release him.”

“You won’t get far with him, girl. He’ll only slow you down.”

“Release him.” She pressed harder and blood seeped through his shirt. “I’m not bluffing.” She raised the blade to his cheek.

Nilv hesitated for a moment before giving a small shrug, careful not to press his cheek against the blade. He reached down and unstrapped her father.

“Llewella, I’ll only slow you down. Get out while you can.”

“You saved me once. It’s my turn.”

“Llew—”

“Pa.” She fixed him with the kind of look she remembered getting from him when she’d protested having to work the smithy when the other kids were playing just down the road.

As soon as her father stood, Llew flicked the knife across and her eyes down, indicating for Nilv to take his place. Reluctantly, he did so.

“Tie him up,” she instructed. She kept the blade on Nilv’s skin.

“You can’t escape Braph, girl. He’s Karan, and he’s got your crystals. He’ll hunt you down.”

“Where’s he gonna start looking? Turhmos is a big place.” Once Nilv was secured, Llew searched him for a key to the front door.

“You think he trusts me with it? He doesn’t trust a soul.”

It was true. His pockets were empty.

“You have no idea what he’s capable of. And where are you going to run to, with enemies in all directions? You won’t get far.”

“Shut up. Come on, Pa.”

Her father hesitated, looking like he was going to say something, then he followed. They crept up the stairs and Llew checked the hallway was still deserted as her father made the last few steps; she urged him to follow her on.

The front door was locked.

Once again, Llew looked to Jonas’s knife, but dismissed the idea of using it. She didn’t know if the blade could withstand that kind of punishment and, knowing Braph, the lock would be solid and probably complex.

There was a door off the hallway just inside the main entrance. She tested the door’s handle, and it opened. The room was bright despite the time of day, and light from a streetlight-globe infiltrated a large window, with a degree of privacy maintained by net curtains: there was a large bed, a wardrobe, and little else. Unlike the rest of the house, apart from Llew’s room, the walls were bare. Braph’s room, Llew guessed.

Llew waved her father inside and crossed to the window, only to find the frame nailed shut, and the old catch dismantled. Braph must have been so paranoid about his security he wouldn’t even indulge a breath of fresh air in his room. There seemed only one way out.

Closing her eyes to make a brief plea to whatever spirits or gods might listen, Llew lifted her skirt and kicked the window. The glass cracked and shattered. She withdrew her blood-covered ankle and skipped away, knocking her father back and shielding her eyes with her forearm as glass cascaded down. Then she helped her father through the window and clambered through after him.

They were out in the cold night air of Turhmos, Llew in nothing but a light dress, and leaving a trail of blood. But the house was silent.

Llew gave a brief smile. She could survive the cold and she would heal. She was free. And her father was with her.

At first, they just ran to put distance between them and the house. Duffirk was a big city, larger than Cheer, and larger than Ryaen: taller, at least. But like any other city, Duffirk had a rhythm, and the nighttime measure was one of introspection; if you didn’t pay others any mind, neither would they show an interest in you. Unless they thought you had something they wanted. And a girl in a flimsy dress, accompanied only by a frail-looking man, drew rather more attention than Llew was comfortable with.

Fortunately, she only had to make her point once.

The man thought he would just push Llew’s old companion aside and take his place. But Llew wasn’t a stranger to a street brawl and playing the role of a young male had many benefits often denied young girls. She was on the man in an instant, straddling him, punching him senseless. It wasn’t just a man; it was men, and it was Braph, and Llew’s muscles grew hot with a desire to punish. One punch was followed by another, and another, and then another. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and she pulled his head up and threw it back down, slamming it into the road. His eyes rolled up and back.

“No, you don’t! You can’t hide from me!” She yanked him back up and shook him.

“Llew.”

Llew slapped the hand from her shoulder before her mind registered the voice as her pa’s, and she calmed instantly. She released the man and stood up, brushing grit from her knees.

“We’ve got to keep moving Llew. Get as far as we can before Braph realizes we’ve gone.”

Llew knew they had to move, that they had no time to stop, but she’d needed that release. Breathing deeply and regaining her composure, she glared around at the gathered night-dwellers, daring others to take their turn. They weren’t Karan. They weren’t magicians with powers of mind-control, or body-control, or whatever hocus pocus Braph had used. They were nothing. She could take them.

None moved. They stood frozen as Llew pushed her short hair back and dashed off into the night with her pa close behind. Despite appearances, he was able to move swiftly.

Night had been well set in by the time they’d lit out of Braph’s place and with the lack of moon, there was no clue to the passage of time. It didn’t matter. The longer they ran, the greater their chance of remaining free, and they needed little else to drive them on. Sometimes Llew staggered and slowed as her legs and body tired. Her pa urged her onward. When he staggered, she replied in kind.

They were several miles out of town when they stepped among the roadside woods to catch their breath and rest. For a long while, nothing but nervous glances flickered between them. Llew didn’t know where to begin; there was so much to tell, and so much not to tell.

“Is that how it happened? You left to lead Braph away from me?”

Her pa’s face pinched at the memory, but he nodded. “Id’ told him too much. Id’ been drinking, and I talked too much.” He dipped his head in shame. Llew had begged him to cut back his drinking, stay home some nights, but, of course, she had just been a kid and he had known better. “He kept asking about you, your health, your life. At first, I wanted to talk. I was proud of you. What father wouldn’t be?” He risked a smile and relaxed at what he saw in Llew’s eyes. She’d forgiven him the moment she’d seen him at Braph’s. “Id’ already told him too much by the time I realized what he was doing. He followed me from the bar. I tried to lose him by taking stray turns, but he had only sipped his drink and was stone cold sober.” The self-derision returned, the “if only’ echoes almost audible. “Eventually, I just took the north road, hoping he would come with me. He did for a while, before turning back to Cheer.” In his eyes and the droop of his mouth, Llew saw how he must have felt back then, knowing that Braph was after his daughter and not knowing how to protect her. “But a few days later, he caught up to me, without you. I was so relieved.”

Llew smiled back at him. Her freedom had cost her father his. She drew him to her, and they hugged for a long while, the years of separation falling away.

“How’s the smithy?” Llew’s pa asked when they parted.

Llew had to fight down anger as she recounted the day, a week after her father’s disappearance, when the rival smith had come with his son and the law to uproot her, saying it was simply not the job of a girl, and certainly not a woman, as Llew would soon be. In fact, it had been suggested that she marry the son, passing the rights of the smithy to him legally. Of course, she’d refused. In that case, the Farry involved had said, the smithy’s ownership reverted to the town, who then passed it on to the son of the other smith anyway.

She had surrendered the family home by choice when she got sick of her father’s friends offering to “comfort” her in his absence; he looked both outraged and saddened at this, evidently unaware of the passes his buddies had made to his daughter right under his drunken nose. Going into hiding for a few weeks had been enough to reintegrate slowly into society as the boy, Llew. She’d always been boyish, anyway; it was just a matter of letting society forget they’d known of a girl called Llewella. It hadn’t taken long, but for a few of his drinking companions.

“I was a terrible father.”

The sorrow in his voice tugged at Llew’s heart and she drew him into a hug again.

“You missed ma. I always knew that.” She had forgiven him his failings. Until that day he hadn’t come home.

“But it shouldn’t have been an excuse. I’m so sorry, Llew.”

Llew shushed him and rocked him side-to-side, like her mother would have done for her back in the old days.

Eventually they parted again, and lay holding hands. Llew would never let her father go again. Braph might find them, but they would fight for their freedom or die trying. She wouldn’t live to be bled and raped by him, and she wouldn’t allow her father to return to it. They would go back to Cheer – it was her home, after all – and they would reclaim the smithy, and everything would go back to the way it had been, to the way it should have been.

She felt the knife at her hip and was reassured by its presence. Then she looked at the cut in her hand. It was so small, yet it had drained that woman to a state that allowed Llew to escape without fear of anyone coming after her too soon. If Braph caught up to them, she wouldn’t hesitate to make it bigger, deeper. She would use the knife on him, one way or the other. In her hands, it was more deadly than ever; a smile touched her lips at the thought of wielding such power. The second she felt her mind cloud, she would cut herself. Just try and take me then, you bastard.

Remembering why she’d cut herself in the first place, she pulled her hand free of her father’s. She hadn’t been aware of any ghi transference, and she doubted it would have an effect – he was Aenuk, too, after all – but she couldn’t ignore the niggle in the back of her mind.

She groaned as the first drops of rain hit the leaves above them.

“I haven’t felt rain on my skin in years,” her pa said.

She turned to him and smiled. With that simple statement, he had washed away her annoyance, replacing it with appreciation. The rain did feel good. It meant they were free, and it wouldn’t kill her to get a little damp.

She closed her eyes and, eventually, she dozed.

Enveloped in the fog of lingering sleep, Llew rolled onto her side. The hand that had been resting on her arm slid across her back and hit the ground. Jonas! She smiled and rolled over. Not Jonas. Pa. They’d escaped. Braph hadn’t caught up to them in the night. They were free.

But he didn’t smile back. His staring eyes didn’t even blink.

“Pa?” The smile slid from Llew’s face.

She reached out a hand and snapped it back. He was as frozen as the ground beneath them. Only his hand remained supple where it had been warmed by her skin.

She hoisted herself up on an elbow. “Pa?”

She touched him again, and he flopped onto his back, his hand reaching grotesquely high before his staring eyes. Her eyes pricked with hot tears. No! It couldn’t be.

Death stretched in every direction: left, right, up, and down. So slowly she could hardly feel it, her bare skin was draining ghi from everything... even her father.

But it couldn’t be. He was Aenuk, too.

“Pa?” She tried to shake him. His solid form just rocked back and forth, hand raised and grotesquely waving farewell. “No! Pa?” Same action. Same result.

She looked at the cut on her hand. It had scabbed over. A scab! She’d never had a scab in her life. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Her father had saved her by leaving her behind in Cheer, and now, after all these years, she’d killed him trying to take him back with her.

She pulled the offending weapon, flinging it into the woods, and bawled. She gripped her face in her hands, unable to look at the devastation, unable to look at her father. What a mess she’d made of everything. She was somewhere in the middle of Turhmos, and she’d killed her father, and in doing so had also created a huge signpost to anyone with an interest in her whereabouts. Braph would find her soon and she didn’t know if she could fight him. He would take her again, bleed her, rape her.

And what was she doing to stop him? Kneeling, crying into her hands. She sat up straight, sniffed, and wiped her nose on her forearm.

She should find the knife and take her own life. It was the only way to end her suffering and the devastation she caused. No more killing. Yes, she still wanted that ordinary life she’d always dreamed of. She still wanted to slot in with the rest of society and live life. But who was she kidding? She was never going to get that. Her options were to live as Braph’s slave, Turhmos’s slave, or Quaver’s prisoner. Better to just end it now.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of her father’s stiff corpse, and nearly choked up and bawled again, but she couldn’t. She had to stop this; she had to move.

Half stumbling, half crawling after the weapon, she got down on hands and knees and sifted through the undergrowth until she found it. Kneeling, she brandished it before her. The knife. The weapon that could kill her and end it all; pink ribbon trailing down her forearm. Strangely pretty in the moment.

But what if she failed? What if she only managed a near fatal wound? What would happen then? Would she drain everything even faster? Would she kill the whole Phyos continent and everything and everyone on it? Jonas? Anya? Cassidy? Alvaro? She couldn’t take that risk. As important as it was to end it all, it was just as important to do so without making an even bigger mess.

Jonas was the one who could do it. And if he wouldn’t, she would pester him until he snapped. If she couldn’t kill herself, then Jonas had to. He just had to.

She re-emerged into the clearing where her father lay, that hand still pointing to the sky, and kneeled by him. Once again, she scanned the surrounding area, but not a hint of life remained, probably not for miles. She reached for his hand, but it wouldn’t move under her light touch, and she feared breaking him with more. She closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Pa.” She pressed her fingers to her lips and then to her father’s cheek. “I love you.” She made to move and found she couldn’t leave. She kneeled by her father and wept again. It wasn’t fair. Her father had loved her more than any man ever had, ever could, and she’d gone and killed him. And now she had to leave him. She had no spade, no way to bury him properly. She had no horse, no way to take him with her.

She straightened his dirty, old, gray shirt over his waist and ran her hand down it, smoothing its rumples. She could do little for him now except leave him looking his best. She ran her fingers through his hair, smoothing it. And then she was combing it with both hands, parting it nicely, styling it. He had gone gray since she’d seen him last, but he still had a full head of hair.

She sat back, puffed out a sigh, wiped her eyes dry with the back of her hand and sniffed back the next wave of tears. “I won’t let you down, Pa.”

She stumbled through the trees, away from the morning sun, hopeful that she was heading towards Brurun, and barely able to see through her tears. Then she noticed something. She wasn’t just running. She was running faster than she’d ever run before. She was fast. She didn’t know how, but she was super-fast. She kept running into trees. After only a couple hours of sleep, fatigued by grief, vision blurred by tears, her brain simply could not deal with the speed at which obstacles came at her. But with every bare-footed step, she simply healed each bruise and graze. Llew ran on.

After half an hour or so, she crossed the border from death into a living landscape again. Half an hour of super-speed running: the area must have been huge. As heart-breaking as it was to fly past the dead bodies of a hundred or more animals, from rabbits to hedgehogs to birds, it was a relief not to see another dead person. She fought back the niggling feeling that she’d only seen a small fraction of the destruction she had caused. She had to run. If she was caught, how much more killing would happen, either at her hands or as a result of the power obtained from her?

She ran for several days, mostly under forest cover. The sun-starved floor offered enough bare ground that her trail of death wouldn’t give her path away, and she didn’t have to worry about running into (literally, at the speed she traveled) other people as she might have on the roads. As the evenings encroached, she selected the barest patch of ground and cleared it of all living material, even pulling out shallow roots that might be linked with others beneath the surface. It was impossible not to leave signs of her passage, and either she left patches of death or wide clearings where she slept.

She lost count of the days since she’d left Braph’s, but she was sure that was because she was hungry and tired, not because Braph had control of her. It felt different. Still, her hand went to the knife handle. She would risk it all not to return to Braph’s.

As yet another evening set in with her racing across the Turhmos back country, she was not only hungry and tired, but very, very thirsty. She had drunk at a river about a day out from the city, but nothing since. Each step was an effort. One more step and she tripped on her own feet, falling face-first into the grass. She had to keep going. A patch of dead grass spread out from her.

She was still hungry and thirsty, but her muscles no longer suffered the effects of fatigue. She picked herself up and forged on, until before her there stood a farmhouse, in the front yard of which was a well. She rubbed her eyes, and it was still there. She pushed herself forward, running for the sweet water.

The house seemed quiet. She climbed the fence and went straight to the well, dumped the bucket over the side and watched the rope unwind violently behind the plummeting weight. It stopped, and she waited, allowing the wooden bucket to fill with enough water to weigh it down, then she hauled on the rope, scooped up the bucket and drank deeply.

“What’re you doin’ there?”

Llew nearly choked on the water.

“Technically, that’s thievin’, that is.”

She put the bucket down and wiped her mouth, slowly turning to face the speaker. He was middle-aged and wore overalls that clung snugly to his round belly. If he had been a woman, he might have given the impression of being pregnant. He was balding, and the hair on either side of his head was gray, almost white. Despite the fact that he was holding a large pitchfork, he didn’t look threatening.

And he’d said technically. He knew the difference between out-and-out theft and survival.

“I’m sorry, mister. I was just so thirsty.” Llew wiped her mouth again and then wiped her hands on her dress.

“You look more ’n thirsty. Come on, the missus is about to put dinner on. You should come in, have somethin’ to eat.”

Llew stared at the man. Was he being serious? He was inviting her to stay for dinner. She eyed him suspiciously; Braph’s visit to her room still very fresh and very raw.

The man turned for the house, leaving her to decide whether or not to follow.