Free False Covenant (A Widdershins Adventure) by Ari Marmell Page B

maybe, if the gods smiled and he played the game just exactly right, he might also learn what peculiar secret the enigmatic Widdershins was hiding from her fellow Finders.
    Mind afire with plans and possibilities, Squirrel, too, made his way down the many halls and back out onto the rain-slick streets of Davillon. It shouldn't, he was certain, prove all that difficult an undertaking. After all, this strange assailant had been active for over a week, striking almost nightly, and it hadn't killed a soul. How dangerous could it actually be?

     
    Constable Carville raised a hand in salute as Paschal Sorelle, his arm wrapped in a sling, approached the post. Sorelle himself nodded his reply. “Report?”
    Carville straightened up and firmly announced that absolutely nothing of any importance had happened. It was a waste of time, and they both knew it, but procedure was procedure.
    It was a cushy assignment they'd been given, a chance to relax after a job well done—and, in Sorelle's case, a chance to recover from his injury—though it would have been far more pleasant without the rain. Tradition and law demanded that several of the Guard stand outside the walls of Davillon every night, watching for invaders, smugglers, or other illicit activity, as well as for messengers or other travelers whose purposes were so urgent that they could not wait for the main gates to reopen at dawn. In theory, it was a solid idea and an important duty. In practice, it amounted to several hours of standing around doing absolutely nothing. In the dark. In times past, there might have been a few late travelers to break the monotony, but with Davillon currently suffering the Church's displeasure, travelers of any sort, nocturnal or otherwise, were rare.
    Carville had been a part of the operation at the Ducarte estate; had, in fact, been one of the Guardsmen dressed as servants, and had been right in the middle of the group on whom Widdershins had dropped the banner. His hair and complexion were both darker than Paschal's—the former by quite a great deal, the latter only slightly—but otherwise they looked identical enough, especially as both wore the black and silver of the Guard.
    “So in other words,” Paschal said as Carville finished up his non-report, “you're bored as a blue blood without a mirror.”
    The other snorted, nodding. It wasn't a crack either would have made had Bouniard been present, but as soldiers of the same rank—even if Paschal technically had seniority by a year or so—they could justify a certain breach of decorum.
    “All right, Constable,” Paschal said. “You know the drill. Whistle if you need anything.” And with that he was off, continuing to walk the rounds of the wall so that he might check in with the other nighttime posts under his command. Carville saluted a second time, held the pose until Paschal was gone, and then resumed slouching against the monolithic blocks of the city wall, trying not to wince as the cold drizzle occasionally dribbled off his hat and down the back of his neck.
    When the figure first appeared, some cold and soggy minutes later, he wasn't even certain he was really seeing it. It looked, initially, to be nothing more than a denser spot amidst the drops, perhaps whipped up by an errant gust of wind. Only as it neared did it resolve itself into a human form, disturbingly long of limb and even more disturbing in how it moved. Shoulders shifted in an exaggerated gait; legs skimmed, rather than stepped, across the surface of the muddy road. It was less a walk than a ballet; less a ballet than a macabre glide. The traveler's forward movement seemed independent of those peculiar steps.
    Even as it—he?—drew closer, Carville could make out few details, save for a ragged coat and a wide-brimmed hat that sagged sadly in the rain.
    That and, peculiarly, the scent of peppermint, wafting clearly on the wet breeze.
    “Who…” Carville stopped, clearing his throat even as he dropped one hand