Free When True Night Falls by C.S. Friedman

don’t you think?
    And then there were the volcanos of Novatlantis and the flood tides of the Eastern Gate and the time never seemed quite right to suggest that there were more mechanical means they could resort to. Because they were beyond that, really. They’d fought enough over trivial things before her real fears came out in the open that recapturing those moments of intimacy would be all but impossible. Women were like that.
    Too bad, he thought. It was good while it lasted. That’s all you could really ask for, wasn’t it?
    He turned over to go back to sleep, half hoping his dream would pick up where it left off. Then a soft knocking on his cabin door reminded him of what had woken him up in the first place.
    He fumbled for the lamp, managed to get it lit without setting himself on fire. Then bunched up the blankets where it mattered most and called out softly. “What? Who is it?”
    The door creaked open, ever so slightly. A slender figure slipped inside, draped in a coarse seaman’s coat. With bare legs, he noted. Shorts, in this weather? How like her.
    “You up?” Rasya asked.
    It took all his self-control not to make the obvious wisecrack. “I am now,” he managed. “Tarrant gone?”
    She nodded. “Dissolved into night , as the poet would say. Quite an impressive display.”
    “Yeah. He’s an impressive guy.”
    Her blue eyes were fixed on him. Sparkling. Mischievous. God he still wanted her. “You up to some some company?” she asked softly.
    “Why? Has something happened?”
    “Not yet.” She smiled, somewhat tentatively. “But I was thinking maybe it might.”
    She came to the bed and sat down on it. By his side. Close enough that he could feel her warmth through the blanket.
    “What about your wards?” he managed.
    She grinned. “His ex gave them a boost for me when we reached shore. Why else do you think I rowed him there?” The coat slid off one shoulder as she spoke; she wasn’t wearing very much under it. Maybe nothing at all. “The way I figure it, we’ve just about completed the second most dangerous voyage on the face of this planet, and so I’m about due for a little celebrating. Right?” She cocked her head and studied him. “Of course, if you’re not interested....”
    Women. Don’t even try to understand them. You’re just not equipped.
    “Hell I’m not,” he muttered, and he reached for her.

    It was only later, in the depths of the night—much later, and after considerable exertion—that he thought to ask her, “What’s the first most dangerous voyage?”
    It was too dark to see, but he thought he sensed her smile.
    “Going home,” she whispered.

Three
    It was Sara’s first time out.
    Behind her, before her, all about her, the grim sentinels of the One God kept watch for faeborn dangers. As they did so they prodded her forward, pushing her when necessary, cursing her stubbornness under their breath even as they muttered the prayers of the Hunt. She was so afraid it was hard to move, the terror constricted her limbs, she found it hard to breathe ... but that was good, she knew. Fear would draw the nightborn. Fear would manifest demons who were otherwise invisible. Fear would enable the Church to do its holiest work ... and she understood all that, she understood the value of it, she just wished it didn’t have to be her in the center of all this, marching numbly at the heart of this macabre procession while the faeborn gathered just beyond the reach of their torchlight, eager for the promised feast.
    Her.
    With a constant litany of prayers upon their lips, the hunters of the Church wended their way through the depths of the untamed forest. The thick darkness parted grudgingly before their light and closed up behind them, hungrily, as soon as they had passed. She had never seen such a darkness before, a dank, heavy blackness that clung to the trees like syrup, dripping thickly to pool about their feet. The mere touch of her feet against the nightclad ground