Tristan pushed the door open and instantly regretted being too lazy to grab a coat as the frigid air wrapped itself around him like an unwanted embrace.
The first time he’d ever known it to snow in the village, and he was already sick of it. Snow, he had decided, was basically solid rain that didn’t have the common decency to flow away after it had stopped falling from the sky.
You knew where you stood with rain, in a puddle usually. Snow was different. All sorts of things could hide beneath it, and you had to be careful with that stuff. Inherently suspicious.
He hefted the bin bag and took the steps one at a time, his feet sinking with soft crunches. He really shouldn’t be doing this in slippers, or in the dark, for that matter.
There were only four steps, but he treated each one like a carefully considered negotiation.
There were lots of ways to die, he considered. Being surrounded by loved ones at the ripe old age of ninety. A moment of heroic self-sacrifice. Or, of course, convincing yourself that scaffolding for a few loose roof tiles was health-and-safety gone mad, and you could manage perfectly well by balancing a few ladders on top of each other.
Yes. There were lots of ways to die.
Slipping on ice and breaking your neck while taking the bins out, especially in your slippers, ranked depressingly low on the list of ones he deemed acceptable.
If he’d emptied the bin four days ago, when it needed it, he wouldn’t be doing this now. But a bin that could be squashed down a little more was a bin that could last another day… or three. It wasn’t until the lid refused to close that you really had to start worrying.
Despite his concerns, he reached the bottom step safely. A small step for Tristan, but a giant leap for Tristan-kind.
The driveway was snow-covered, as expected. No point shovelling it. The forecast had it melting tomorrow at some point, and it’s not like he had anywhere to go.
Although now he looked properly, the snow wasn’t as pristine as he’d thought. The moonlight caught something in the snow—tracks, maybe?
Yep, footsteps alright. They cut through it with long, loping strides. Running then?
There was also a deep scuff, as if someone had fallen, then carried on toward the fence at the far end, where they stopped.
Had someone climbed the six-foot obstacle into his garden? Why? He’d not done any work there in years. It was mostly just overgrown at this point.
With a grunt, he dropped the bin bag to the ground and followed the tracks toward the fence, angling for the gate to one side.
He stopped there and listened.
Silence.
Steeling himself, he reached toward the handle, unsure what he expected to find beyond.
The gate was stuck. Of course it was. Snow. He put his shoulder into it and shoved. If anyone was on the other side, the element of surprise was well and truly lost as the gate creaked under his repeated efforts.
He wouldn’t be joining the SAS anytime soon.
Eventually, it gave enough for him to squeeze through. The garden before him was empty. No footprints. Nothing disturbed.
He glanced back toward the other side of the fence.
Someone was lying at its base, half-buried in snow.
Unmoving.
“Shit…” he muttered, stepping through the snow toward it.
It was a woman, unconscious–alive? He looked up at the fence she’d scaled. At least she’d fallen into the snow, which might have softened the landing.
How do you check for a pulse again? Was he even allowed to check for a pulse? Did you need to be a doctor to do that?
He looked her over. She was wearing some sort of strange leather armour over tatty clothes, but had no obvious injuries.
He extended a hand toward the gap between her chin and the armour covering her chest. The neck was where people checked, right?
Her eyes snapped open, and she launched herself at him faster than he could react. She landed on top of him, knocking him back into the snow. He tried to cry out, but the wind had been knocked out of his lungs.
A heartbeat later, she had already rolled away, scrambling to her feet as she took off across the garden.
She made it four or five steps before stumbling in the snow, trying to right herself but collapsed again without a sound.
He needed his phone.
Angry, unconscious women lying in the snow were definitely someone else’s problem—someone in a position of authority. There might even be a department for this sort of thing. Possibly a hotline. Although knowing the British government, it probably had a five-month waiting list.
He patted his pockets. Depressingly empty. Of course he’d left it inside.
Did he get it and leave her out here? In the snow? To freeze to death while he sat on hold?
That would probably be frowned upon.
He stepped toward her with his hands raised and palms out, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to help. Hello?”
No response.
He moved closer. She was still breathing, but otherwise seemed well and truly out for the count. Tristan bit his lip. He needed to get her inside—somewhere warm.
He tried to pick her up, hesitated, then tried a different angle.
How were you supposed to pick up unconscious women? Was there an approved method? Did you need training? This was why he needed his phone—although typing how to move unconscious women into a search engine was how you got added to certain lists.
Nothing for it, he groaned.
He lifted her as carefully as he could. She was floppy, and she almost slid straight through his arms. On the plus side, she was surprisingly light. Light, but ice-cold, which worried him. People should not, as a general rule, be cold to the touch unless they were—
Actually, best not to finish that thought.
He got her through the gate and inside the house, dropping clumps of snow all over the carpet. After a moment of consideration, he put her in the sitting room, lowering her onto the sofa and then placing a blanket over her. Which seemed like the sort of thing people do in situations like this.
As he stood there, trying to work out what the next step should be, his brain kept nudging him. Something about her. Something wasn’t right.
She was breathing, which was a good sign. What else? The clothes were strange. Rough, primitive, and stitched together haphazardly.
The armour also looked damaged, but she didn’t seem to have any obvious injuries.
There was something else he couldn’t quite put his finger on. He stared at her face and dark hair. The details weren’t adding up.
He moved over and knelt by her head. Something was there—dark like her hair, but the wrong texture. Softer. He carefully reached out and pulled at it.
“What on earth…” he muttered.
It was a long ear, like a rabbit’s, covered in black fur. Two of them lay flattened against her hair. He dropped it in shock, and it flopped back down.
As he was about to stand, a hand shot out and grabbed his throat.
The surprised, high-pitched gurgle he made was reminiscent of the sound a chicken makes just before a fox eats it.
She spun, knocking the blanket aside, her other hand flashing up with a knife, or short sword, inches from his face.
It had a rough bone handle and a dull, slate-grey blade. It reminded him of the butter knife in his kitchen drawer—the one he never sharpened, yet which somehow possessed unnatural levels of lethality.
Just several sizes bigger.
She hauled herself to her feet, keeping it trained on him.
“Where is it?” she snapped, glancing around the room. There was an edge of panic in her voice; she was breathing hard as if she’d been on a long run and had a wild look in her eyes.
“What?” Tristan squeaked.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
“Sanguivore.”
“W-what’s that?”
Her breathing slowed, her grip on the knife loosened a fraction.
“What are you?”
There was an odd inflection in her voice. Her lips almost seemed to move out of sync with the words.
“I’m Tristan,” he said, locking his eyes on the tip of the blade.
“Tristan…” She tasted the word, as if unsure of it. “What is a Tristan?”
“It’s… erm. Me?” his voice dropped from a soprano to a more normal octave.
“It is your name. Not your name. What are you?”
“…Terrified?”
The grip on his throat loosened. She took a cautious step back, her hand slowly lowering—three fingers and a thumb.
He was being held at knifepoint by a woman who spoke weirdly, had weird ears, and weird hands. This was the second worst day of his life. Not to mention his slippers and, by extension, his feet were cold and wet.
Her eyes darted around the sitting room, taking everything in.
“Where is this place?” she demanded. “Why have you captured me?”
Tristan’s eyes bulged. “Oh! No—no, not captured you! Certainly not! Feel free to leave! Lovely to have met you, shame you can’t stay… Please don’t drop by again!”
Still holding the weapon on him, she backed toward the door, then stopped in the doorway.
She glanced at the fruit bowl beside the door. Tristan couldn’t even remember why it was there. He threw out the mouldy ones and replaced them… when he remembered.
That was what fruit bowls were for, as far as he was concerned—just a small, decorative display of entropy in action.
“This is food?” She pointed at the bowl with her free hand.
“Ah—yep. Food. Take it if you want!”
She reached down and picked up an apple, turning it over in her fingers before looking back at him.
“It’s an apple?” he offered.
She threw it at him. “Eat it.” He flinched, fumbled, and caught it on the second try.
He took a bite. “See? It’s fine.”
She took another apple from the bowl, sniffed it, then bit into it. The crunch was slow, cautious. She chewed, swallowed, then took another bite. And another.
The knife dipped away from him as she devoured the fruit with both hands.
Tristan relaxed a fraction. Stabbing him no longer seemed to be at the top of her agenda.
She grabbed a second apple and ate it whole, core and all. Juice ran down her chin.
Tristan watched her. She was shivering now. The dark circles under her eyes, the ferocity of her hunger… it all suggested she hadn’t eaten or slept in a long time.
Despite the knife, he felt oddly responsible for her, even if that responsibility might end with him being included in a violent-crimes statistic.
Still, at least being shanked to death by an angry rabbit-eared woman would make for an interesting obituary, he concluded. A conversation starter, if nothing else.
Assuming he wanted to start any.
“Do you want more?” he asked.
She stopped halfway through her third apple. “More food? Where?” she said, mouth still full.
The hair on the back of Tristan’s neck stood on end. She was still chewing, but her voice was perfectly clear, as if the sound wasn’t coming from her mouth at all.
Her lips barely moved.
His brain was struggling to decide where the sound originated.
“The kitchen,” he managed.
“What is a kitchen? A trap?” One ear twitched.
“Nope! It’s where I keep the food. Just through there.” Tristan pointed.
She didn’t turn, but drifted away from the door, still watching him.
“Show me,”
He stood and crossed the room. She was short, only coming up to his chest—but the way she shifted her weight, the speed she’d shown earlier, marked her as a predator.
Something that could kill.
Tristan, on the other hand, would be the first to admit he moved like something likely to die of its own accord. Usually from gastrointestinal complications.
He stepped into the kitchen, flicking on the light as he passed. The fluorescent bulb clattered to life with its usual death rattle.
She followed, eyes sweeping every corner, every shadow. After a second, she slid the blade back into its sheath at her hip.
“You are no threat,” she said. “You are slow. Fleshy. And have poor reflexes.”
Tristan looked down at himself, pinching a roll of stomach. “Fleshy? You think I’m fleshy?”
She frowned. “I do not think. You are.”
“Oh.” He patted his belly. “Well, at least you’re not trying to kill me now, I suppose…”
“Not worth the effort.”
“Something we can both agree on,” Tristan said, edging toward the fridge without taking his eyes off her.
She could have killed him. She hadn’t. That was promising. For now, she seemed more interested in food.
He opened the fridge and stared inside, trying to work out whether he owned anything that could reasonably still be called edible.
“What is it?”
He jumped. She had moved up behind him without making a sound.
“Gah! Yes, it’s a fridge. Keeps the food fresh” For a certain length of time, anyway, he added silently. Not as long as he kept it.
She took a cautious step closer, hand outstretched, her nose twitching at the unfamiliar smells.
“How does it work?”
“Well, you… um…” he paused. “Actually, I don’t know. It just does.”
She didn’t press the point. Instead, she closed her fingers, as if trying to grasp the frigid air spilling from the open fridge.
“I can make a sandwich?” he offered, glancing down at her.
She looked back blankly.
“You don’t know what a sandwich is, do you? No. Of course not,” he muttered.
He rummaged through the fridge and settled on the cheese—which was probably fine—and a jar of pickle. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bought pickle, but pickle didn’t go off, did it? That was the whole point, surely.
He turned back to her, leaving the fridge door open so she could continue marvelling at his inability to stock it with anything resembling actual food.
“Here,” he said at last, sliding a plate toward her with his rushed attempt at a sandwich.
Her gaze moved from it to him, and then back to it. Holding the bread in both hands, she picked it up and squeezed it.
She took a bite. Chewed. Then another, larger this time.
It didn’t take long for her to devour the entire thing.
He watched her finish the last mouthful. “What’s your name?”
She went still, ears flattening. Eyes fixed on him. The silence stretched.
“Yesa.”
Her lips barely moved around the word.
It was like a real-life dub—fine as long as you didn’t try to match her lips to the words; otherwise; you got a headache.
“Where are you from?”
“Not here.”
They stared at each other in silence.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Do you want to call someone?”
“No.”
So either she had run away from home, or she was an escaped psychopath. Although you rarely got many of them this time of year. Neither of which explained the ears, but maybe not leaving the house for weeks was having an effect.
He let out a brief sigh. “Do you need somewhere to stay tonight? It’s dark, and the snow has locked down the entire country. So…”
“Here is safe?”
He scratched the back of his head. “Well, yes, I think so. Safest place I know.”
He’d left his keys in the door for three days the other week, and the postman had eventually just posted them through with the bills and a slightly passive-aggressive note.
She sidled over to the window, pressing her face against the glass. Eyes scanning the snow-covered garden, the fence, and the darkness beyond. Her ears quivered slightly.
She turned back to him. “Cold. Good. Safe… For now.”
“Oh, good…” Tristan replied, and for the first time that night, the darkness outside didn’t feel empty.
This was probably a terrible idea, he knew, but what else could he do? Kick her back out into the snow? He doubted even the police could reach him tonight. They were busy with actual emergencies, and Porthkelgh was in the absolute back of beyond.
“Okay, do you want something dry to wear? I’m sure I’ve got an old hoodie or something you can have for the moment.”
She looked down at her current attire, still wet from the snow.
“Wait here a second.” He dashed into the utility room, found the pile of clothes he’d been sorting earlier, and grabbed the old hoodie lying on top.
“This should do you.” He said as he returned, holding it up for her to see.
She stared at it. “I can not fight in that; it is too… large.”
“You don’t need to fight in it, just stay warm,”
“You wish to encumber me. A trap?” Her head cocked to one side, ears twitching as she analysed the heavy fabric.
“Well, I doubt that would help me anyway on account of my being so fleshy.”
“Correct.”
She took the hoodie but didn’t put it on right away. Instead, she sniffed the fabric, nose wrinkling.
She glanced back at him and then, after a moment of hesitation, she pulled at a knot on her side and the leather armour slid off as she peeled it away, leaving just the torn, wet clothes beneath.
She handed it to Tristan. “This needs to dry. Do not steal it.”
“I’m not sure it’s my size,” he said, examining it. “Looks damaged. Is it supposed to be?”
“No. Needs fixing. No Time.”
“Oh, right,” he said, dropping the armour onto the work surface.
She had draped the hoodie over her head. The sleeves dangled six inches past her fingertips, and the hood threatened to collapse over her ears. She looked as if she were playing dress-up.
“Why don’t you stay in the spare bedroom?” He walked toward the door, then looked back at her, nodding.
Yesa followed silently.
He climbed the stairs to the spare room. It had remained undisturbed for months, though he’d set it up in case someone dropped by—not that anyone ever did.
Yesa stepped inside and began surveying the room as he flicked the light on.
“Should be everything you need. The bathroom’s just next door.”
She prowled around the side of the bed, glancing out the window at the village below and the dark sea beyond. Lights from houses flickered here and there. A large ship, maybe a tanker, was lit up in the bay.
She turned, looked at the bed, testing it with a hand, and then lifted the covers up. She pulled them away and after a second dragged them off the bed onto the floor.
“Erm…” Tristan began, watching this.
She ignored him, disappearing behind the bed. There was a scuffling beneath it, and her head poked out, ears flattened to squeeze through the narrow gap.
“I will sleep here,” she announced before disappearing again.
“Oh, okay… good. Shall I turn the light off?”
“...No.”
His hand, which had been hovering over the switch, pulled back. “I’ll… leave the door too.” After a moment of consideration, he turned on the landing light, just in case, and walked back downstairs to the kitchen.
He stood staring at the counter. Sleep felt impossible; adrenaline still coursed through him, replaying the encounter in jittering loops.
“Oh, bugger…” he said; he’d left the bin bag outside. Could go and sort that out… He looked out of the window into the darkness and shivered before drawing the curtains closed.
He could have sworn at the last second that he saw movement outside. He held the curtains closed for a moment, tempted to check. But if he looked, he might see something.
That would be worse.
He turned away, desperate for something else to occupy his mind. The armour still lay where he’d left it, rough and damaged.
He picked it up, turning it in his hands. It was a mess. One tear in the leather gaped, going through both sides.
Cosplay, probably. LARPing or some historical re-enactment thing. That would explain the weird clothes, the weapon, and the intensity. She must have been doing something out in the countryside, hit her head, and now she was convinced she didn't know what a fridge was.
That was a comforting thought, it explained everything. Almost everything. Except the ears. And the three fingers. And—no. Don't think about it.
Still, she’d said the armour needed fixing. His gaze drifted to the sewing equipment gathering dust in the corner, Sarah’s. She made repairs look effortless. Could he...?
Better than lying awake, staring at the ceiling.
At least he’d have something to do. And he’d get his hoodie back when she left. Tomorrow, probably. He sat down at the kitchen table and got to work.
