Excerpt: Versipellis

The day had started out normally enough.

Normally enough for the abnormal, Lucian supposed. He’d only started to feel things once he’d arrived at the marketplace. The hairs on the back of his neck were still standing on end, as they had been for much of the day.

He’d sold his pheasants and his rabbit quickly enough. They would go into someone’s stewpot tonight, he was sure. A young mother had bought the rabbit almost before he’d set it down and had refused his help in carrying it away. She was a strong woman. Not only did she posses this strength physically, but she carried herself in such a manner that betrayed mental and spiritual fortitude as well. That strength had reminded him of his own mother.

It had probably been a mistake to stay in the market for as long as he had. From the very beginning, he’d felt as though someone or something was watching him. He’d tried, time and again, to shake off these feelings, to convince himself that no one was watching him, that no one would have any reason to be watching him.

Why would they? He’d asked himself that in an attempt to rationalize.

But the feeling that he was being watched had never left. And he’d just grown edgier and edgier. If this continued, there was no way he’d get any sleep. And without sleep, Lucian Beck was not a rational being. Not in any of his forms.

So, he’d found himself at The Fiery Morgan, the tavern nearest to the square. Lucian knew there was a story behind the name, but he had never heard it, and had never bothered to ask. He hadn’t been that curious.

The atmosphere of the tavern around him was jovial. It was the end of a long day for what seemed like many. From snippets of conversation he’d heard, an excellent grain harvest had been brought in, presumably the last of the season. Someone’s wife had had her first baby boy.

It was all remarkably loud.

It was amazing how loud, drunken men could tolerate other loud, drunken men.

An untouched pint of hot mulled mead sat in front of him. Lucian cupped the tankard in his hands, grateful for the pure warmth. The nights could become bitterly cold, he would be the first to admit that.

He hadn’t noticed the girl until she’d stopped directly in front of him, easily a shame on his connections to the keen ears of a dog or fox. He looked up. He hadn’t been expecting anyone to join him, and people didn’t usually some to sit with him of their own accord, especially not young women.

Often times, they’d heard something of his past, that he was related to a convicted witch, and didn’t want to be cursed or didn’t want to dishonor their good names. Either that, or something deep in their minds told them that he was not like them. He may have looked like them, but appearances could be deceptive.

But this girl did not sit down. She simply stood staring at him with eyes mere shades lighter than the teal of a robin’s egg, a beautifully uncommon color so far from the spring. There was intensity in those eyes, but easily a glint of mischievousness as well.

The girl leaned down on one hand, the minimal sleeves of her traveler’s cloak revealing a single thin arm of smooth, creamy skin, the same skin he could see on her face and neck. She was pale, however, in a way that didn’t seem to add up. She wasn’t a weak girl; she had a figure that, for a female, reminded Lucian of a runner’s build. Lithe and sinuous as his own. But her skin reflected nothing more than a normal amount of time spent in the sun.

She caught his gaze with her own, stunning Lucian for a moment. Who was this girl? He wondered. Perhaps she was a real enchantress, a real witch, a sorceress the likes of which the town had tried to eradicate with his mother’s murder. She was captivating in a way that was almost corrupt.

“Dear lady, you must be weary from your travels. Please, sit down.” He didn’t think he had managed to say that without stammering.

For a moment, the girl’s delicate eyebrows came together in an expression Lucian couldn’t quite label. Was it anger or frustration? Or something entirely else?
“Lucian Beck,” she said, her voice low and slightly ominous. Lucian wondered immediately how she knew his name, but that concern soon vanished. With her free hand, she reached into a bag at her waist and pulled out a long strip of leather. With just enough force to make sound, she slapped it on the table.

It was the belt he’d lost earlier, the one he’d thought had been dragged off by some creature of the forest. This girl had it. But why?

“I know your secret.”