Free Unicorn Vengeance by Claire Delacroix

Truly the woman had tempted him deliberately, certainly she had initiated the embrace, but he had wanted her to do so. There was no escape from that. And lecherous thoughts were no less damning than lecherous actions.
    Indeed, he wanted her even now. The admission did naught to ease his mind.
    Mayhap ‘twas penance enough to endure this self-inflicted torture. Wolfram’s body recalled the lutenist’s kiss with unprecedented enthusiasm, though he had repeatedly tried to quell its response. He had but to think of her dark tangle of hair, or picture those startling green eyes, or see the delicacy of her hands darting across the lute strings.
    Or worse, hear the echo of her music in his mind.
    He tried to regulate his breathing and slow his pulse, endeavored to lull his body into sleep, all to no avail. The snores of the others troubled him, well it seemed that his blanket tormented him, and the dormitory was too cold. But moments later, ‘twas too warm, or his dinner troubled his innards, though Wolfram knew ‘twas all an excuse.
    He wondered where she was.
    Wolfram writhed inwardly with the guilty certainty that she had no pallet this night, and all because of his insistence on retrieving that coin. Not his fault was it that she was without a hearth, but still Wolfram could not dismiss the sense that she paid overmuch for his folly.
    Indeed, he could have lied to the Master.
    No consolation was it that that thought came too late to his aid.
    Less consolation was it that he considered a lie to the Master to be a reasonable solution. Truly his resolve was slipping these days, and he could not imagine the source of that.
    Nay. Wolfram knew precisely the source, though he refused to even give it voice in his mind.
    * * *
    Though Genevieve quickly lost sight of her attackers, still she could hear them cavorting ahead of her. She doggedly followed the sound of their voices through the darkening streets despite the ache in her ankle.
    Surprisingly, though she moved not at her usual speed, they drew no farther ahead of her. Had Genevieve not known better, she might have believed that they kept a constant distance before her that she might indeed follow them to their lair. Nonsense that was, for surely they wanted only her lute. ‘Twas clear the instrument alone had more value than all their meager garments and possessions collectively might fetch.
    If they sold her lute, how would she purchase it again or acquire another? How would she earn coin that she might eat? How would she lure the stranger closer? ‘Twas clear the music drew him, and without that, Genevieve had naught on her side.
    Too cruel ‘twas to have tasted a modicum of success only to have everything stolen away. Already Genevieve felt bereft without the instrument that she had played for as long as she could remember. Well it seemed that the chill of the night troubled her more than before, and she felt suddenly vulnerable in this great, strange city.
    She wished suddenly that she had never left the familiarity of home. She must recover the lute. Voices laughed harshly ahead, and when she saw the flicker of light playing on the stone walls, Genevieve dashed into the square without thinking. Fire! To sell her lute was one thing; to destroy it quite another!
    A band of beggars applauded as she burst into the square. The unexpected welcome brought Genevieve up short, and she halted to stare at them.
    Her lute was nowhere to be seen.
    Otherworldly they appeared in the orange glow cast by flaming torches, especially as the applause fell silent. Their faces were dirty, their clothing was worn and torn, their features were gaunt. She readily spotted the man in her cloak and the woman in her shoes, though their dance halted as they watched her with the others. ‘Twas clear the band that had attacked her were but part of the whole, for Genevieve could not even guess how many stood in the flickering light.
    A man in the center drew something from