unclench from the hilt of his sword, to hang casually at his side, only to find before long that it had wrapped itself about the weapon once more, seemingly of its own accord.
Oh, he recognized this mood when it came over him. He wanted trouble to find him, wanted someone to give him an excuse to burn off some aggression. Enough self-awareness to identify the feeling, not remotely enough to dismiss it. The scrunch of his leather gauntlet was accompanied by a soft, unintended growl of his own.
He didn't even like the bloody woman! Oh, he'd developed a grudging respect for her during the Iruoch affair, and he no longer nursed the sizzling coals of hatred he'd once felt, but that was about the kindest he could say. He didn't like her attitude, he didn't like her presence, he didn't much care for her friends—though he still harbored more than a bit of guilt toward the girl, Robin—and he sure as hell hadn't wholly forgiven her for burgling his family's ancestral tower during the years the d'Arras clan were “political guests” in Rannanti. He wanted nothing from her but to never see her again (and perhaps the return of the rapier she'd stolen).
So how does she keep talking me into these things?!
He was fortunate enough to come across a discarded bottle at that point, a rare occurrence in this nicer district, and kicked it across the road with a vicious, childish glee. It shattered against someone's doorstep; the clatter set some nearby dog to furious barking.
He knew how it felt.
Everything the damn thief had said was true. He did care deeply for his family's name and honor; he didn't care to let people suffer when he was in a position to stop it; and he did, indeed, feel that these new fae meant last year's task remained undone.
He would even admit to himself, if no one else, that fear drove him as well. If he did have to face more monsters like the nightmarish Iruoch, he wanted it to happen according to his plan, not theirs.
But none of that explained it, not really. Wanting to preserve the d'Arras name, to help people—a far distance indeed separated that from “volunteer to hunt monsters and criminals.” Evrard was neither guardsman nor professional soldier, for all that he was a better duelist than most who did practice those professions. Refusing to get involved in this mess would have left no blemish at all on his honor, personal or familial.
Then why the ravenous burning hell, he began again, am I—?
At which point an abortive scream and a dull crunch sounded from behind. With barely time for a quick flicker of Careful what you wish for, Evrard, he pivoted, dropping into a defensive stance, his rapier flying free of its scabbard…
In time to see that his skills weren't precisely required.
Jogging and leaping along the rooftops—only the easiest gaps and smoothest roofs; she still hadn't fully recovered, even with Olgun's aid—Widdershins had followed Evrard for blocks. Or, rather, she'd followed the two men, dressed in shabby coats more than large enough for hidden blades, lingering a short ways behind him.
She'd been almost certain they were tailing him, and she lost the “almost” when they halted in their tracks the instant he'd stopped to kick that bottle. They clearly didn't want to be noticed.
“Let us,” she breathed at Olgun, reveling in the feel of his magic as it began to surge through muscle and flesh and bone, “notice them.”
Shins landed on the first one's shoulders, felt a few disturbing crunches beneath her feet as he just folded under her. He managed maybe one quarter of a scream. She felt a brief pang of sympathy, but…well, it was better than if she'd just up and stabbed him.
Wasn't it?
A crumpled human, especially one now capable of bending in a few spots that nature had not intended, makes for very unstable footing, and even Widdershins's enhanced reflexes weren't perfect. She stumbled a step toward the squishy fellow's companion.
As he appeared locked in place, however, his senses and his brain arguing over what had just happened, she decided to turn it to her advantage.
(Mostly so the whole wobbly landing would appear—to her enemy and Evrard both—planned and deliberate. But she wouldn't have admitted it under torture, and neither of the witnesses could hear Olgun snickering about it.)
The stagger transformed into a forward roll, her palms slapping wetly on the cobblestone, and the thug had just enough time for the strangest expression