The Ouroboros Cycle, Book One. G.D. Falksen

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      Summer, 1861

      Babette flew across the park, past the line of trees, astride her chestnut horse as it galloped onward, obeying her direction without hesitation. Caught in the wind, her hair streamed out behind her. She had lost her hat amid the chase and cared too much for the thrill of pursuit to stop to retrieve it.

      Her vision had gone crimson like the color of her riding habit. She might have thought it was odd, but in the thrill of the moment, it seemed perfectly natural. The deer was no longer in sight, though she swore she could both hear and smell it. It was afraid. Elegantly afraid. It had fled for the trees in the first minutes of the chase and now lurked there—if a fleeing thing could be said to lurk—seeking an escape that would not come.

      It was already dead and she knew it.

      That realization formed a warm tingling on Babette’s tongue. It made her hungry. Eager.

      In a rush of leaves and brush, the deer burst from the trees and tried to cut across Babette’s path. Korbinian emerged a moment later atop his dappled gray, driving the deer into her path.

      “Shoot!” Korbinian shouted.

      Babette reached for the carbine in the scabbard in front of her saddle. It did not come free. She pulled harder, growling in frustration. Ahead of her, the deer continued running. Babette nudged her horse after it as she continued to tug on the carbine. She leaned forward, pulling with all her might. The back of the horse struck her in the chest twice, knocking the breath from her.

      The wind was too fast, too hot for her to breathe. Suddenly she was suffocating.

      No matter. Either the deer would die or she would die. She would not give up her prey.

      Finally the carbine came free. The jerk of motion nearly knocked her from the saddle, but she grabbed her horse’s mane and held on hard.

      Righting herself, Babette banked her horse to the side and reined it in. The creature whinnied at being denied the chase, but it obeyed. Ahead, the deer kept running, no doubt entertaining some illusionary hope of escape.

      Babette raised the carbine and fired, just as Korbinian had taught her. The deer jerked, stumbled, and fell, pierced in the chest. Babette kicked her horse and hurried across the field to where the deer lay.

      It was not dead—far from it, indeed. It thrashed about, trying to stand again that it might yet escape. Babette tilted her head and watched it with a sort of dread interest. How strange to see the weaker animal struggling for survival. How cold and detached the sensation, far removed from the delicious bloodlust of the chase.

      Korbinian rode up alongside her and drew his rifle. It was a peculiar repeating weapon from America, a “Volcanic” as he called it. Babette watched as Korbinian took aim at the hapless deer and shot it twice through the head.

      “The chase always begins in cruelty,” he said, “but ends in mercy.”

      Babette felt the hint of a smile creep upon the corner of her mouth.

      “As in love,” she said.

      Korbinian took her gloved hand and pressed it to his lips.

      “Ja,” he said, “but in the hunt, it is the prey who suffers cruelty and is relieved by mercy. In love, it is the hunter.”

      “A gentleman should not speak of love so freely,” Babette said as she withdrew her hand. She reached up and touched her wild hair. “My hat is gone. I must retrieve it.”

      “Leave it. I prefer your hair as you are: free and spirited.”

      Korbinian caught her wrist and pulled it toward him. Babette gave a token resistance before allowing him to take her hand. She sighed as he pressed his soft lips to the underside of her wrist, just where the sleeve and glove met. Babette closed her eyes and allowed the sensation to enfold her senses. Soon there was nothing in the world but her wrist and Korbinian’s gentle kisses.

      At length, Babette finally found the strength to pull away.

      “My hat,” she said, opening her eyes.

      She thought that Korbinian would be angry with her, as men were when they did not get their way. Instead, he smiled at her with his mysterious, knowing expression and said:

      “Fetch it, then.”

      Babette turned her horse and retraced their path along the park. After a few minutes, she found the hat where it lay discarded among the grass, black upon green. She dismounted to claim it and walked back to Korbinian, leading her horse by the reins.

      When she returned, she found Korbinian stripped to his shirt and vest, his sleeves rolled up to reveal long, graceful arms. He had his knives and tools spread out upon a blanket of leather on the ground and was already in the midst of butchering. Babette caught the scent of fresh blood and smiled, not knowing why. They had hunted together for the past three months, and each time it was the same: they chased, they killed, and then Korbinian prepared the carcass. Three months ago, Babette had only СКАЧАТЬ