The Hunt
Jeremiah Farrer sat on the balcony of his estate, tending his bonsai as he watched the sun set. Spring, he thought. A time for new life to begin. He could feel the new life growing in his fields, the year's crop of grapes just starting to germinate and push their way towards the sun.
He thought briefly about the new life growing inside his wife, so far away. The wife who no longer needed him, the son who might never know him. With a sigh, he tugged off the plain silver ring she had given him at their meaningless civil ceremony and placed it in the nearest bonsai pot. He wouldn't be needing it again.
For a moment, his thoughts lingered on the beautiful and broken young necromancer who had lingered in his fields recently, but she, too, had moved on to greener pastures, not wanting to offer herself to a married man. Perhaps he should have taken her when he had the opportunity, but it wouldn't have been right, and now that time was past.
It wasn't right that a man like him should sleep alone in spring. Still, he wasn't beaten yet.
-----
Jeremiah hadn't been to Old Widow Rutherford's place in almost a year. She wasn't as old as all that, of course, barely ten years his senior - that was just what he and the other kids all called her when he took over the Kell's Creek estate back in 1994. Of course, since the first time she had invited the young, eager Farrer lad to tea, he'd had other names for her entirely.
To his relief, she opened the door when he knocked - her maid must be on her day off. "Young Mister Jeremiah! What a lovely surprise! You must come in and have some tea."
Jeremiah stepped inside, his nostrils flaring and his blood rising as he took in her familiar scent. Underneath the formal smells of clean linen and cooking oil, she was still as much a woman as the day they'd met. Granted, at forty, she wasn't quite the same physical specimen as she had once been, but he could still smell her animal passion buried inches below the surface.
She knew why he was here, of course. They exchanged the proper pleasantries over a cup of tea and a plate of scones, but a fleeting touch here, a gaze held too long there, reminded them both of what they wanted.
Soon, he was standing behind her, his hands upon his shoulders, his gentle breath caressing her hair.
But something was wrong.
This was not the fiery scent of a stabled mare waiting to be taken by a stallion. This was the contented scent of a mare that had already been taken. And beneath that, the lingering scent of a rival.
Jeremiah felt his hackles rising, and he released Mrs Rutherford's shoulders to stop himself from gripping them painfully tightly. Speaking through gritted teeth, blood tinting the edge of his vision, he asked, "Who is he?"
The widow sighed and put down her teacup. "Michael Havercroft. I think you know him."
"Mickey Havercroft? The kid who used to mow your lawn on Sundays? He's just a child!"
"Not any more. He's a handsome young man... reminds me of you a little..."
Jeremiah tasted blood from the lip he didn't know he was biting, and stalked to the door. "You know he just wants your money! He's noveau riche trash! What do you see in him?"
Mrs Rutherford sighed and looked sadly up at him. "You're not getting any younger, Jeremiah."
-----
The slamming of the door and the roar of the Mercedes's engine followed Jeremiah as he sped over to the Havercroft house. Not an estate, no matter how much they tried to make it look like one. Michael's parents had had a few lucky breaks in business, and now they thought they were the equals of the Farrers. Pathetic, he thought as he pulled up in the street outside the house. Gaudy ornamental garden pieces that do nothing for the harmony of the property, a silver Lexus that does more to show off wealth than taste... and now this worthless kid thought that he could steal Jeremiah Farrer's woman. Not this time.
Jeremiah didn't remember his cricket bat being in the boot of the Mercedes, but it found its way into his hands as he stalked up the driveway, blood in his eyes. The kid would pay. He didn't spend those years training with Fiacre to be brushed aside so lightly.
Crane kneeled before Fiacre, looking up at him in confusion. "But why? We both know Rosethorn's temper. Why are you making me swear this oath, and not her?"
Fiacre smiled and shook his head. "Rosethorn can be brutal, but she is simple in her violence. The line that she must not cross is clear to her vision. You, though... you are subtle, and clever. You may bring harm to people in ways that even I cannot imagine, ways that you yourself may not predict. You may not see the line until it is disappearing behind you, and you have become something unrecognisable. I cannot teach you more until you can assure me that you will not walk that path."
Crane nodded slowly. "I understand. I have... the ability for greater and subtler evil than Rosethorn, and so I must keep myself in check. I will swear."
Fiacre cleared his throat and gazed deep into Crane's eyes and soul. "Repeat after me. On my honour as a Thearch and on the blood of the Green Man, I swear these things..."
"First, to do no harm."
Damn the old man, Jeremiah thought, as the words of his oath crossed his lips again and he turned away from the door. I hope he's happy with himself.
-----
"More toast, sir?"
Jeremiah looked up from his morning newspapers and nodded to the housekeeper. "Yes, please, Geoffrey. Also, put out another place for breakfast, and tell that French backpacker that I want to chat with her." He wasn't quite sure what had happened to his standards, but the truth was, he wasn't getting any younger.
"At once, sir. Incidentally, sir, I hear that somebody took a cricket bat to the Havercroft's Lexus last night. Terrible thing, that."
Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. And this used to be such a nice neighbourhood. I'm glad I was at home all last night, then."
"Of course, sir."
He thought briefly about the new life growing inside his wife, so far away. The wife who no longer needed him, the son who might never know him. With a sigh, he tugged off the plain silver ring she had given him at their meaningless civil ceremony and placed it in the nearest bonsai pot. He wouldn't be needing it again.
For a moment, his thoughts lingered on the beautiful and broken young necromancer who had lingered in his fields recently, but she, too, had moved on to greener pastures, not wanting to offer herself to a married man. Perhaps he should have taken her when he had the opportunity, but it wouldn't have been right, and now that time was past.
It wasn't right that a man like him should sleep alone in spring. Still, he wasn't beaten yet.
-----
Jeremiah hadn't been to Old Widow Rutherford's place in almost a year. She wasn't as old as all that, of course, barely ten years his senior - that was just what he and the other kids all called her when he took over the Kell's Creek estate back in 1994. Of course, since the first time she had invited the young, eager Farrer lad to tea, he'd had other names for her entirely.
To his relief, she opened the door when he knocked - her maid must be on her day off. "Young Mister Jeremiah! What a lovely surprise! You must come in and have some tea."
Jeremiah stepped inside, his nostrils flaring and his blood rising as he took in her familiar scent. Underneath the formal smells of clean linen and cooking oil, she was still as much a woman as the day they'd met. Granted, at forty, she wasn't quite the same physical specimen as she had once been, but he could still smell her animal passion buried inches below the surface.
She knew why he was here, of course. They exchanged the proper pleasantries over a cup of tea and a plate of scones, but a fleeting touch here, a gaze held too long there, reminded them both of what they wanted.
Soon, he was standing behind her, his hands upon his shoulders, his gentle breath caressing her hair.
But something was wrong.
This was not the fiery scent of a stabled mare waiting to be taken by a stallion. This was the contented scent of a mare that had already been taken. And beneath that, the lingering scent of a rival.
Jeremiah felt his hackles rising, and he released Mrs Rutherford's shoulders to stop himself from gripping them painfully tightly. Speaking through gritted teeth, blood tinting the edge of his vision, he asked, "Who is he?"
The widow sighed and put down her teacup. "Michael Havercroft. I think you know him."
"Mickey Havercroft? The kid who used to mow your lawn on Sundays? He's just a child!"
"Not any more. He's a handsome young man... reminds me of you a little..."
Jeremiah tasted blood from the lip he didn't know he was biting, and stalked to the door. "You know he just wants your money! He's noveau riche trash! What do you see in him?"
Mrs Rutherford sighed and looked sadly up at him. "You're not getting any younger, Jeremiah."
-----
The slamming of the door and the roar of the Mercedes's engine followed Jeremiah as he sped over to the Havercroft house. Not an estate, no matter how much they tried to make it look like one. Michael's parents had had a few lucky breaks in business, and now they thought they were the equals of the Farrers. Pathetic, he thought as he pulled up in the street outside the house. Gaudy ornamental garden pieces that do nothing for the harmony of the property, a silver Lexus that does more to show off wealth than taste... and now this worthless kid thought that he could steal Jeremiah Farrer's woman. Not this time.
Jeremiah didn't remember his cricket bat being in the boot of the Mercedes, but it found its way into his hands as he stalked up the driveway, blood in his eyes. The kid would pay. He didn't spend those years training with Fiacre to be brushed aside so lightly.
Crane kneeled before Fiacre, looking up at him in confusion. "But why? We both know Rosethorn's temper. Why are you making me swear this oath, and not her?"
Fiacre smiled and shook his head. "Rosethorn can be brutal, but she is simple in her violence. The line that she must not cross is clear to her vision. You, though... you are subtle, and clever. You may bring harm to people in ways that even I cannot imagine, ways that you yourself may not predict. You may not see the line until it is disappearing behind you, and you have become something unrecognisable. I cannot teach you more until you can assure me that you will not walk that path."
Crane nodded slowly. "I understand. I have... the ability for greater and subtler evil than Rosethorn, and so I must keep myself in check. I will swear."
Fiacre cleared his throat and gazed deep into Crane's eyes and soul. "Repeat after me. On my honour as a Thearch and on the blood of the Green Man, I swear these things..."
"First, to do no harm."
Damn the old man, Jeremiah thought, as the words of his oath crossed his lips again and he turned away from the door. I hope he's happy with himself.
-----
"More toast, sir?"
Jeremiah looked up from his morning newspapers and nodded to the housekeeper. "Yes, please, Geoffrey. Also, put out another place for breakfast, and tell that French backpacker that I want to chat with her." He wasn't quite sure what had happened to his standards, but the truth was, he wasn't getting any younger.
"At once, sir. Incidentally, sir, I hear that somebody took a cricket bat to the Havercroft's Lexus last night. Terrible thing, that."
Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. "Indeed. And this used to be such a nice neighbourhood. I'm glad I was at home all last night, then."
"Of course, sir."