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is no dalliance. You have broken your oaths, not once but
three times. You overstep, my kasha, your arrogance
driving you to believe that you are wiser than Lady Death
herself."
"He was too young! He had such promise!"
"You are banned from these precincts and stripped of
all but the most rudimentary magic. You will learn humility
by serving humankind in their world, serving their petty
needs and desires, only gaining some of your strength
again when you are claimed and leashed."
"My lady, please! You cannot be so cruel! I only did
what I thought right and just!"
Perhaps that hadn't been the wisest thing to say. She
had flung him from her kingdom with such force, he lay
senseless for a number of months thereafter. He had
served faithfully since, though he had little choice with the
compulsions set upon him. An instrument of the gods'
whims, sometimes the humans he served were
contemptible, sometimes they shone with inner strength.
For good or ill, he helped them gain what they needed,
which was not always what they believed they wanted.
When they took back what they had given, he was free, or
when they expired, likewise.
Free. He snorted. It was always a hollow, bitter, short-
lived freedom, stripped to nothing but cheap conjuring, left
to his own devices only until the spirit winds called his name
again.
So often, he had served men of ambition, men who
shaped the course of those around them. To serve
someone like Willem was unusual, someone so...
He hesitated to say ordinary. It was less than accurate.
Someone of such narrow influence, perhaps, though Willem
was young. Who could say what events he would affect
eventually?
Getting as bad as the boy, sitting in the damp brush,
ruminating. He shook himself and pushed his way through
the blackberry bushes to stride across the lawn on two legs.
The house sat in a large clearing, surrounded by
flowerbeds and an expanse of lawn, still green this late in
the year. Here and there, sculpture dotted the landscape,
everything from a classically inspired male nude to an
abstract kinetic construct.
A young woman stepped out the backdoor, red plastic
bucket in hand, her golden hair cascading to her waist. She
stopped a few feet from the steps, reached into the bucket
and began scattering birdseed on the lawn. Songbirds
converged on her, settling at her feet, tugging at strands of
her hair, completely oblivious that a predator stalked out of
the woods.
Kasha's stomach growled at the banquet before him,
but pouncing on the young lady's breakfast guests to
devour them would have been a dreadful first impression.
"Good morning, miss!" he called out when he reached
polite hailing distance. "I wonder if I might trouble you for a
few moments."
She turned his way, cornflower blue eyes widening. For
one heart-stopping moment, he wondered if he had erred.
"Oh, what a cute kitty!" she cried out as she placed her
bucket down and rushed toward him. "Oh, my God, I just
love your boots! Aren't you just the most adorable thing
ever!"
To his horror, he found himself scooped up and hugged
tight. "Miss, please!"
"You're even cuter than the kitty in that movie, the one
Antonio Banderas voiced. And I just love Antonio." She
rubbed his whiskers with her cheek, not entirely unpleasant
but terribly undignified.
"Morgen!" A sharp voice cut through the young woman's
gushing. "Come away from there! Put it down and get
away, now!"
The second voice belonged to a handsome, middle-
aged woman with sharp gray eyes and midnight hair. Her
tone was commanding, but fear edged it.
"Mom! It's not like he's dirty. You're embarrassing me."
"Don't be stupid, Morgen. Don't you know what that is?"
The matronly woman glared at Kasha. "Who have you
come for, demon? You can't have my daughter."
The girl squeaked and dropped him abruptly. "Demon?"
"It's a kasha demon, child. Come over here." The
woman raised a hand against him, tracing what he
recognized as a warding.
Kasha sighed as he stood, brushing dust from his fur.
"Madame, I assure you, I have not--"
"Ettie, stop that!" A third woman emerged from the
house, white hair caught in a neat braid down her back, her
progress slow and deliberate on the steps. "Great Mother,
you girls have no sense. If the kasha has come for anyone,
it's me. Don't be rude."
She stopped and leaned on her cane, her winter-pale
eyes raking Kasha up and down. "But you haven't, have
you? You're wearing boots."
On the surface, the statement seemed absurdly
obvious. It was a sign, though, that she knew precisely what
obvious. It was a sign, though, that she knew precisely what
he was. He removed his hat and swept her a bow. "Yes,
ma'am. I am indeed wearing boots."
"Were you forced into service?"
"No, ma'am. I serve because I must, but this one I serve
willingly."
"Whom do you serve, pretty kasha? A sorcerer? A
necromancer? And what does your master want with us?"
"I serve the artist, Willem Aufderheide. He has long
been an admirer of your beautiful house and gardens, and
he sends me with a small gift." He reached into his
hatband, pulled out Willem's crane, and offered it to the old
woman.
She approached slowly, perhaps more from impaired
mobility than caution, but tendrils of powerful magic
preceded her, ghosting over Kasha, prodding at him. He
drew slow breaths, willing his body to relax, his tail to stay
smooth and still. He had no ill intentions to hide, nothing to
fear.
With an age-curled hand, she took the crane, holding it
in her palm to examine it. "It's a princely gift. His work?"
Kasha nodded.
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