Female Demon

When Mila darted out the back door, night had already fallen completely.

She did not run fast. Her strides were short but quick, her feet making faint, rapid sounds against the flagstone road—just loud enough for those behind her to hear, yet just fast enough to keep them from catching her.

The alley forked ahead of her.

Mila turned into the left branch. The right was a dead end.

The footsteps behind her followed her in. She made three quick turns in succession: left, right, then left.

With every turn, the heavy footsteps behind her fell farther away.

The bearded man's bulk was a disadvantage in these narrow alleys. He had to turn his shoulders sideways at every corner, but the other two sets of footsteps were drawing closer. They knew these alleys better than she did.

The fourth turn came at an angle. The alley veered roughly thirty degrees to the right, where a protruding stone chimney base narrowed the passage by nearly half.

Mila turned sideways and squeezed through. Her heel struck the stone edge, slowing her for half a beat.

A hand shot out from behind and clamped around her right wrist, the one holding the knife.

Mila's thumb was pinned. She could not pull free.

He had gripped her wrist joint. The force was not great, but the position was precise. Mila's arm was twisted behind her back, and the short knife slipped from her hand, point down. It bounced once on the flagstones with a clang, then lay flat.

The other two men approached from both ends of the alley.

The bearded man's footsteps drew closer from behind. His heavy breathing carried the stink of smoke. Another man came around from the front—a thin face, with an old knife scar stretching diagonally from his cheekbone to the root of his ear. It had healed badly, the scar tissue raised like a centipede crawling across his face.

He stopped in front of Mila. He was a head taller than her, with narrow shoulders but long arms that hung past his knees.

Scarface looked down at her. Her arm was twisted behind her back, forcing her upper body forward. Her hair slipped loose from behind her ear, covering half her face.

Scarface reached out, pinched her chin, and raised her face.

He tilted his head, examining her from left and right. Then he brushed the hair from her face, his fingers lingering briefly on her cheek.

"Good, good, good." The corners of his mouth curled up, revealing several yellow-brown teeth. "You're a real beauty."

The bearded man chuckled twice behind her.

Scarface released her chin and took a step back, looking her over from head to toe.

From her face to her neck, from her neck to her waist.

He stroked the few sparse whiskers on his chin. "Melton's been needing goods like this."

He lowered his hand, shoved it into his pocket, and leaned closer to her face. "We'll make a killing this time."

His tone was exactly the same as when men bargained over the price of fish at the docks.

Mila looked at him and remembered a few things.

When she was five, boys in town said girls could not climb trees. She proved them wrong. When she jumped down, she scraped open her knee, and blood ran to her ankle, but she did not cry. She picked up the thickest branch on the ground and chased that boy halfway across town.

When she was eight, a dockworker patted her head and said, "What a pretty little girl. When you grow up, marry into a good family, and your father will have it easy."

She tore apart every fishing net that dockworker had left out to dry at the docks, pulling every single rope loose.

When she was nine, a fish merchant from the next town came to collect goods. Seeing her tending the fire beside the stove, he said, "This girl's quick with her hands. In a few years, she'll fetch a good price."

She threw that fish merchant's account book into the sea. Barlow said nothing. He simply switched to another fish merchant to keep the books.

When she was ten, she asked Marcus why girls in town could only get married once they grew up.

Marcus planed wood all afternoon. That evening, he called all four children before him and said, "Do whatever you want to do. Your father won't stop you."

When she was eleven, she held a short knife for the first time.

The handle was wrapped in hemp rope, fitting perfectly in her hand. She swung it at a white wax tree for an entire afternoon. The web between her thumb and forefinger was rubbed raw, and the hemp rope was stained brown with blood. The next day, she trained as usual.

Twelve years. She had lived for twelve years, and ever since she could remember, she had heard the same words: You are a girl. You should not do this. You should not do that. You will marry. You will bear children. You will grow old on White Wax Island, like every other woman.

Every sentence was like another rope tied around her. One at five, one at seven, then eight, nine, ten—one after another.

And just now.

"Good, good, good. You're a real beauty."

"Melton's been needing goods like this. We'll make a killing this time."

A rope. Another rope.

A thicker, dirtier, more disgusting rope.

She was not a person. She was merchandise.

Merchandise that could be sold, bought, passed from hand to hand—merchandise that could "make a killing."

Mila's pupils contracted. Then she heard a sound.

The sound of every rope from the past twelve years tightening at once. All taut, all cutting into her flesh, all at the same instant...

Snapping.

Scarface leaned even closer. His breath hit her face as his eyes traveled downward from hers.

Mila stretched her neck forward slightly, as though she were about to whisper something in his ear.

Scarface's grin widened, and he leaned in as well.

Mila bit into his throat.

Her teeth sank in at the carotid artery. Her upper and lower jaws clenched together, biting through skin and into the hollow between his windpipe and carotid artery.

Blood sprayed from between her teeth—warm, salty, fishy blood that tasted of rust. It flooded into her mouth and nose, splashing across her face and soaking the front of her clothes.

Scarface's mouth was still stretched in a grin, but the smile froze on his face. His eyes bulged wide, the whites especially clear in the dim alley.

A series of muffled popping sounds bubbled from his throat. His hand rose, trying to grab Mila's hair, but halfway up, his fingertips brushed past the loose strands beside her ear without catching anything.

Mila clenched her teeth tighter and tore open his throat, like ripping apart overcooked meat. Her teeth bit down, then she twisted her head to the side, tearing skin, flesh, and windpipe apart together. More blood surged out.

Scarface's body began to sink. His knees buckled first, then his waist, and finally he fell backward in full. The back of his head struck the flagstones with a dull thud.

The hole in his throat gaped outward, exposing pale gray tracheal cartilage beneath the blood.

He was not dead yet. His chest still rose and fell, and his fingers still twitched.

Mila wrenched her wrist hard. Crack.

Her hand could move again. She had dislocated her own joint, giving herself far more range of motion than normal.

She bent down, picked up the knife, straightened, and turned in one smooth motion.

The bearded man took a step back, but it was already too late.

Mila gripped the knife in reverse and slashed upward.

The blade entered the left side of his throat, cut straight across his entire neck, and emerged from the right.

One slash—the exact same spot, the exact same angle Roy had used to kill One-Eyed Dragon on Gravel Beach.

The bearded man raised both hands and clutched his throat.

Blood forced its way through his fingers. His mouth opened as if he wanted to say something, but only a gurgling string of bursting bubbles came from his throat. His knees folded, and he fell face-first onto the flagstones.

The third man stood several paces away. He had seen everything.

He saw Mila bite through Scarface's throat. He saw her dislocate her own joint. He saw her turn and cut open the bearded man's neck with one slash.

From the bite to the bearded man falling, the whole thing took fewer than five breaths.

His legs were shaking. His knees knocked together, his trouser fabric making a faint rustling sound.

Mila stood up.

Her hair hung loose, whipped into a mess by the sea wind. Several strands were stuck to her cheeks with blood.

Her mouth was covered in blood, from her lips to her chin, from her chin to her neck. Dark red blood trickled downward.

Her right arm hung at her side, her shoulder sagging slightly at an unnatural angle. Her left hand gripped the short knife, its point aimed at the ground as blood dripped from it onto the flagstones, one drop at a time.

She raised her head and looked at the young man.

Her eyes were blood-red, two black Tomoe slowly turning across her irises.

The young man stared at Mila. His mouth hung open, his lips trembling, his chin trembling too.

"F-female... female demon..."

His voice broke into fragments. He wanted to run, but his legs would not obey. His feet scraped twice against the flagstones without taking a step. His crotch darkened as urine spread from between his legs and ran down his inner thighs.

Deep in the alley, the sea wind poured in from the other end, carrying the scent of blood toward the town.

Mila took a step forward. Her boot came down in a pool of blood. She did not look down. Her blood-red eyes glowed in the depths of the alley.