Hunter Chronicles:

The Sword of Tristan

She pressed her palms against the cold, shiny wood, holding her breath.

The dark wood was polished, and felt slippery against her clammy fingertips. In it's mirror-like skin, she could see the reflected flames of a dozen or so candelabras burning brightly in the narrow hall behind her. Both the cool hall and the door itself smelled of layers of polish, while the tapestries on the wall, emblazoned with a rainbow of colors, hung straight and unwrinkled-as immaculate as the rest of the place.

She wasn't supposed to be here. She knew it. It wasn't in her agreement with Barclay, but could she help that she was a little curious? Sure, Barclay was anxiously waiting for those gems she had just picked up from the Kolnae mines, but what light could those worthless red stones shine with when held up next the to the legendary sword of Tristan?

The sound of the doors hinges low groaning made her halt, breath caught in her throat, eyes the color of an approaching storm darting to look behind her.

Shadows danced on the black brick walls, flames popped and crackled, but no one had heard her. She hoped.

Getting into an argument here, whether verbal or physical, would not be an easy win. She didn't consider herself the best fighter in either respect. She'd just get a look at the forbidden sword and leave. That was it. No harm in that, right?

She turned her attention back to the door, breathing quiet but fast, almost giddy to see what lay beyond the door.

Lithe as a cat, she slid in, tucking her feet close so that only the slight sound of her legs brushing against one another could be heard.

Biting her lip, she closed the big door quietly behind her, wide eyes already taking in the wonder of this forbidden place.

Intricate tapestries of purple and magenta decorated the room, while golden candlesticks were set within cubbies that rose from her waist in a pyramid pattern that almost reached the beams overhead. Their glow was soft, angelic, almost ethereal, adding to the mystery of the treasure the little room held.

A narrow carpet of rich cherry red velvet led to a pedestal at the center of the room, set between to candelabras, and draped with long, silken blue and paisley runners, which were edged with tassels and glittering beaded fringe.

Her mouth fairly watered at the sight of the pedestals' main occupant.

"The blade of Tristan." the words slipped from her lips, soft and awed, carrying her native-born accent hushed to a whisper.

She had never in her life as a smuggler, seen such a priceless treasure. Standing at 5'6", and dressed in a faded, oversized red cloak, with baggy black pants that collected around the ankles of her laced boots, she felt slightly intimidated by such grandeur.

Her feathery auburn hair flounced around her jaw line as she moved into the light.

The hilt of the sword protruded from the pedestal, designed entirely of gilded, molded metal, in the shape of twenty curving vines, that came together in the hilt's center, to create the likeness of a dragon's head. The leaves of the vines were polished forest green gems, and the horns, rumored to be made of pure gold, were positioned as hand guards atop the dragons head. She doubted if the real Tristan ever actually carried such a thing in battle. It was far to ornate to be useful. But still. . .

" Just think of the price this thing would fetch." She said, already entertaining ideas of living in style, no more scraping around for jobs or working with shady characters; living in fineries, having servants to the work for her, and finally making her mother proud.

Mother.

The one twinge in this happy escape from reality. Her mother would cry in shame if she knew the occupation her daughter had taken up, just to keep the two of them fed. It was a blessing and, obviously, a curse that she was so good at transporting illegal gems, spices or liquor for the local rich folks back home who didn't want to get their hands dirty. It was better than being a thief; she'd never stolen anything. But how much better was it?

She stepped forward to finger the fabric of the table runner, her golden red hair, short and wavy, rippled with highlights in the candle's glow.

The fabric of the fringed cloth itself was probably worth more than Amber could make in a week, and she soaked in the feeling of its sheer, tightly woven threads against her thumb and forefinger.

With almost fearful approach, she used her other hand to brush against the swords hilt. It was cold, nearly icy to the touch, and just that brush of her finger tips left a slight smudge in the polished surface of interwoven vines.

Her head shook barely from side to side, too amazed to say anything, and too enthralled by the weapon to move.

Right now, all she could do was stare at it, and wish it was hers, smiling wistfully at the images her imagination concocted.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" The male voice cut through the silence, and she spun, pulse racing. The rush of air made the candle flames waver, while her stormy eyes darted to every corner of the room. Who said that? And where were they hiding? Was it her imagination? She swallowed hard against her dry throat, groping for a feeling of assuredness and calm, when all she really wanted to do was scream at herself for ever daring to enter this room. Who knew what the penalty was for entering a forbidden section of the governors’ museum? Stupidly, she had never taken the time to look it up.

The more she searched the room with her eyes, the more uneasy she felt. The room was undoubtedly empty. There was no way someone could hide from her in here.

"W-who said that?" Amber spoke finally, her voice strong despite her worries, pronouncing her “s’s” with a slight hush sound, as she always had, since she was young. She had been working to correct it, because it annoyed her to no end, even now, as she was faced with an invisible foe.

"I did." The voice replied calmly. It was a cool, even voice , framed with confidence and experience. Not gritty, it resembled liquid ice, easy and rolling, bearing just a hint of her own accent. Whoever he was, he was unhurried and deadly.

Amber's grey eyes narrowed, her impatience getting the best of her, spurring her on, and prompting that through whatever reckless means, this guy would have a real fight on his hands if he tried to stop her escape.

Still positioned like a fighter, feet spread and bent slightly at the waist, she pulled her dagger from her belt.

"Oh, like I couldn't figure that out." She snapped at the darkness, crouching slightly, ready to strike as soon as he poked his head out.

"Come on, Amber." The voice said,

"You mean you've forgotten me already? I'm hurt."

Her pale pink lips curled in a sneer of recognition, and she relaxed her pose, hand gripping the dagger drooping.

Now she recognized the voice. How could she have forgotten it? It belonged to the only man who'd ever managed to thwart her smuggling attempts more than once. Five times, actually. And each time was more frustrating than the last.

"Cougar." She snarled through her teeth, eyes still searching the blackened corners of the room. Clever and deadly, he never missed a chance to track her down. He was aptly named.

Curse him and his persistence.

"That's me." Came his response, voice a little louder this time, causing Amber to turn in a circle, frustrated.

"Well, don't stall the reunion; show me your pretty face." She snapped, words laced in sarcasm, waiting to plant her dagger in one of his vital organs once she found him.

"Up here."

She rolled her eyes, feeling flushed and stupid at not thinking to look at the rafters, but she followed his instructions.

There he was, crouched up on the rafters, black cloak draped over his shoulders and covering most of bent legs. His primarily dark colored outfit, including his smoky metal armguards, tattered black fingerless gloves and coal colored, snug fitting pants, denoted his ability to stay out of sight. He was well built, but not bulky underneath his cobalt blousy sleeves, which appeared suddenly when he shifted his arms out from underneath the protection of his cloak. His solid upper body was complimented by a black chest plate, with stylized golden accents to emphasize abdominal muscle tone. He draped one arm over his bent knee and looked down at her. Pale skinned, with a strong, good looking face , deep-set eyes and narrowed, arched dark eyebrows on either side of a prominent but not hawkish nose. If she didn't despise him as much as she did, she'd agree with her first instinct that he was indeed, a handsome person to be apprehended by. Handsome, that is, if you didn't notice is inhuman qualities. But that was almost impossible.

Yellow eyes, the color of summer sun flowers, gazed down on her, marked with feline pupils in their centers, which, due to the low light, were eerily large and threatening. Thick, dark brown hair, parted far to the left side, was mostly swept back and tucked behind his ears, but his parted bangs gathered in two separate, sloping and unruly peaks at either side of his forehead, strands of the larger collection of bangs to his right falling over his right eye. Hair that had missed being swept up in the style hung in thin collections around his earlobes.

The whole appearance dictated a neat haircut that, now that it had grown out, was no longer fussed over.

"Don't look so thrilled, Amber." He commented dryly at her sneer and performed a neat drop and flip to land with bowing flourish at her feet, brown hair resuming it's shaggy style, cut short in the back and long in the front, with hap-hazard parted bangs covering his forehead and falling over his right eyebrow.

She grimaced. Darn right she wasn't thrilled to see him. Not only was he a pain to get rid of, was so strange looking. So inhuman, despite his apparent good looks. He wasn't pretty, just handsome, and she couldn't pick a single feature from his face that was actually remarkable in terms of attractive, but when his well rounded chin, high cheekbones, and nose came together, they seemed to work in total harmony, giving him the appearance of regal dignity, far beyond his twenty-something age. But it was his other qualities, his mutant side, that made her cringe. It was those "things" that made him disgusting.

She didn't wait another moment; she lashed out with her dagger, slim frame dashing forward.

But true to his name, he was faster than a mere human opponent, and, much like a cat, he seemed to just slide under the blade's strike, and instantly had Amber by her wrist.

"Tsk, Tsk." He shook his head, slitted pupils showing little emotion, yet his mouth curved upward in a decidedly vicious smile as he clucked his tongue. His mutant fangs flashed in the light, two times longer than normal human canines, they locked in scissor like bite with his bottom set of smaller fangs, making Amber feel as if she were staring into the face of a monster rather than a human,

"You know better than that." His voice was unflustered and even; liquid ice, as usual.

Amber glared into his eyes, having finally trained herself to look into those slits without gagging.

His grip was surprisingly loose on her wrist, but she knew the moment she struggled, his fingers would tighten with the strength his mutant side offered him. Cougars were known to be quite powerful, and this particular namesake was no different than the creature that gave him his strength.

His fingers on his left hand, the hand he held her with, were clawed with long, gray nails, and they pressed through her thick elbow length gloves when she pulled herself free.

He'd let her go, and Amber knew it, but she didn't address it as she stood back, massaging her arm with other hand as she kept his gaze, silent and stony.

"You know I'd never let you get away with the museums greatest treasure, don't you?" He tilted his head to one side and flipped her dagger neatly, letting it turn over twice before catching the bladed side neatly and passing it back to her. She grudgingly accepted the dagger he returned to her. He wasn't afraid of her, that much was certain. He knew he could beat her in any fight, and so did she, so what was the point of resisting? She slid the blade into her belt and shrugged in response to his question,

"I'd hoped you'd make a mistake and loose my trail." 'For once', she wanted to add, but she left it at that, crossing her arms.

"I never make mistakes." He smiled again, an expression as devoid of humor as the fangs he possessed. Cougar never laughed; never really smiled. For as long as she'd known him, any 'happy' expression he ever made was a trained expression, used to intimidate his opponents. Amber hated to admit that it worked very well.

"I just laugh at all of yours." He added, raising his clawed left hand, clad in a fingerless glove, to make a flippant gesture toward the ceiling, assuring her that her mistakes were many.

His hand retreated back under his gold-buckled cloak, and he strolled past Amber, regarding the treasured sword behind her with mild interest.

Amber's eyes followed Cougar, exhaling through her teeth. She hated how confident the mutant hunter was. How at ease he seemed in any situation. It sawed on her nerves and made her want to scream at him and kick and punch him with all her might.

But not only would that mean she'd probably get her brains bashed in, it also meant her mother would have no way of getting money or food, being as weak as she was, if Amber was a charred pile of bones somewhere.

It wasn't just that however, and she knew it, and she was almost certain, that somewhere under that facade of rock-hard expression, Cougar felt the same way. And, if he was anything like she was, he hated to admit it just as much as she did.

They could never face each other in battle. Never really try nor want to kill each other.

He could arrest her, probably. But nothing more.

He was, after all, family.