Wraith

by Helen Harper

Genres: Urban Fantasy; Literary Fiction

Synopsis

Saiya Buchanan is a wraith, able to detach her shadow from her body and send it off to do her bidding. But, unlike most of her kin, Saiya doesn't deal in death. Instead, she trades secrets—and in the goblin besieged city of Stirling in Scotland, they're a highly prized commodity.

It might just be, however, that the goblins have been hiding the greatest secret of them all.

When Gabriel de Florinville, a Dark Elf, is sent as royal envoy into Stirling and takes her prisoner, Saiya is not only going to uncover the sinister truth. She's also going to realize that sometimes the deepest secrets are the ones locked within your own heart.

Release date: February 25, 2018

Print pages: 277

Sample

Prologue 

 

Gabriel de Florinville, Dark Elf Diplomatic Envoy of the Realm of Scotland to give him his full title, gazed out across the shadows of the city. Other settlements in Scotland, even those whose population numbered in single digits, enjoyed electricity. In fact, they took it for granted as a basic human right. Stirling, however, was swathed in darkness, with only flickering torches and the odd gleam from buildings that boasted their own generators to illuminate the gloom. And gloomy it certainly was.

He sighed heavily and rubbed his forehead. Two full days of talks and all he’d managed was to get the Filits to agree to open up a new supply line so that ordinary citizens could at least get some real food to eat. In turn the Gneiss goblins had reluctantly agreed to do the same, although when he’d spotted the gleam in their eye he’d made sure they understood that any attempt to block, manipulate or coerce the supplies in any way would result in swift, harsh retribution. It was hardly a resounding success; everyone knew that those in power would cream off the best supplies.

‘Call that roc to fly us out of here. I can’t bear it any longer. This place is a shithole,’ Rymark said, coming up from behind. ‘Why are these people still here? Why don’t they just leave the city for the goblins?’ He shuddered delicately. ‘I was actually propositioned by a young man washing the stone stairs on the way up here.’

Gabriel tapped his long fingers against the balcony. ‘What bothers you the most? That you were propositioned or that you were propositioned by a cleaner?’

‘He wanted food, Gabriel. Not money or favours or a way out of this hellhole. All he wanted was enough food to take home to his family and he was prepared to prostitute himself to get it. How can we permit this to happen under our own noses? On our own doorstep?’

Gabriel’s mouth flattened into a grim line. ‘Believe me, that argument has been repeated over and over again to the Scottish government at Holyrood. You know how many times I’ve petitioned them to overturn the law. Just because we ceded Stirling to the goblins after the war shouldn’t mean that we abandon its people to their fate like this. But no one is willing to risk upsetting the goblins, whether they’re Filit or Gneiss. The law is on their side, not ours.’ He swept out an arm. ‘Nor is it designed to help the people who live here. To answer your first question, these people are still here because they can’t leave. All those who could afford to leave did so three years ago when the Gneiss first attacked.’

‘Some of the wealthy remain.’

Gabriel snorted. ‘Only because they’re waiting out the siege so they can ingratiate themselves with whoever is left at the end. Stirling was standing a thousand years ago and it will be standing a thousand years hence, regardless of its status as a goblin protectorate.’

Rymark rolled his eyes. ‘Protectorate? That’s a joke.’

‘Keep your voice down. We’re here under sufferance as it is. You know how long it took us to get to this point, to even be granted access to the city. There’s a strong likelihood that we’re being bugged. If you’re overheard criticizing our hosts then we’ll be out on our ear before you can say “renewed hostilities”.’

‘They wouldn’t dare eavesdrop on a government-sanctioned envoy! Especially when that envoy is you!’

Gabriel gave his companion a rueful glance. ‘They’ll do anything to get us out of here. You know that.’

 ‘Then why are we here at all?’

The answer, when it came, was soft. ‘Because those people down there need us. Someone has to fight on their behalf.’ He sighed. ‘Even unsuccessfully.’

Rymark gave him a pointed look. ‘When all this began, it was supposed to be a good thing that the goblins were busy with Stirling and not bothering the rest of us with their petty squabbling and never-ending avarice.’

‘Nobody thought things would drag on for this long. In truth, we should be thankful that the Prime Minister sanctioned this visit and the goblins agreed to it.’ Gabriel’s expression was thoughtful. ‘There’s more to this siege than ancient rights over the city. Stirling isn’t that valuable a place.’ He looked at his old friend. ‘Three years – nobody besieges a city for three years simply for bragging rights.’

‘Goblins would. They’re tenacious little fuckers.’

Gabriel shook his head. ‘No. There’s something else going on here. I can feel it.’

‘They’re certainly doing everything they can to keep us occupied instead of investigating,’ Rymark remarked. ‘I thought that fellow with the droopy moustache was going to have a heart attack when you suggested a trip down town to see how the ordinary citizens were surviving.’

A faint smile crossed Gabriel’s mouth although there was no real humour in it. ‘We’re being shunted from one sanitised place to another. You’d think the Filits would want us to see how their Gneiss cousins are making their lives miserable. Instead they seem determined to pretend that everything is alright. Even our night out was carefully arranged so that we only saw the better part of town.’

Rymark snorted. ‘Is that what you’d call Isabella Markbury? The better part of town?’

Gabriel grimaced. ‘You can’t blame her for her actions. She thinks I can save her from all this.’

‘She must know about the Fior Ghal though. After Saturday night, she must know it’s not her.’

Gabriel’s voice was quiet. ‘She knows about it but she doesn’t really believe it. Few people who aren’t Dark Elves do.’ He met Rymark’s eyes. ‘And it doesn’t help that even some of us are sceptical.’

There was a sharp scream from somewhere in the darkness that made both men start. Rymark shivered. ‘I really bloody hate it here.’

‘We’re going out after dinner. We need to see what’s really happening.’

‘The goblins won’t like it, whether they’re Filits or Gneiss.’

Gabriel’s mouth twitched. ‘Good.’

***

Gharshbreg, the latest in a long line of goblin lords who’d been trotted out to waste Gabriel’s time, let out a loud a belch and leaned back in his chair. The thick candles on the table, which were all that illuminated the dim room, flickered as if caught in a draught. ‘Chicken isn’t a traditional Filit dish,’ he said, ‘but we’ve learnt to love it. Those spices are quite extraordinary, don’t you think?’

Gabriel dabbed at his mouth with his napkin and smiled. ‘Indeed.’ Then his eyes hardened. ‘Do many of Stirling’s citizens enjoy chicken on a regular basis?’

Ghrashbreg might have been brash but he wasn’t a fool. ‘You already know the answer to that. There’s not much we can do when the Gneiss are barricading us in. They are the ones causing the problems in the city. Not us.’ He curved his lips into a twisted semblance of a smile. ‘Would you like some cake and coffee to finish? We have the most delectable chocolate confection that I’m sure you’ll both enjoy.’ He turned and gestured at a nearby servant who bowed once and hurried away.

‘I don’t want chocolate cake.’ Gabriel stood up. ‘I’m going out.’

Ghrashbreg remained where he was. ‘Out? Goodness me. I presume you are heading back to Kanji. Perhaps a lady took your fancy there after all.’

‘No, not there. I think a stroll in the other direction is in order. I’d like to see more of the city for myself.’

The goblin hooked a finger into his mouth and began picking at one of his teeth with a curved fingernail. ‘That’s not wise.’

‘I wasn’t asking for your opinion on the matter,’ Gabriel returned, although his tone was mild. ‘But I appreciate the sentiment.’

‘Sit down and have some cake.’

‘Thank you but no.’ He turned and headed towards the open door. Rymark hurriedly stood up and trotted after him.

Ghrashbreg coughed. ‘I know what you’re capable of, Lord Gabriel,’ he called out.

‘Then you know I can look after myself. I will be in no danger on those streets.’ He paused. ‘And I’m no lord.’

‘No,’ the goblin returned. ‘But you are one of fewer than fifty Dark Elves who reside in Scotland. Don’t overestimate your powers. You don’t know Stirling.’

Gabriel growled, ‘I know enough.’

Two large guards appeared from nowhere, blocking Gabriel and Rymark’s path. They were armed – and not just with the gleaming curved blades favoured by the goblins. Their expressions suggested barely restrained violence.

‘Are you threatening an Envoy of the Realm?’ Gabriel enquired. His tone remained calm. Everyone in the room knew that they could throw several such goblins in his direction and he’d barely lift a sweat while beating them to the ground. The goblins were merely making a point – and not a very subtle one.

Ghrashbreg still hadn’t moved from his chair. ‘We allowed you to come here. We have been gracious hosts who have met your needs and answered your questions. We have even made several concessions towards the Gneiss goblins at your bidding. Given all this, why would you want to risk creating a diplomatic incident over an evening stroll?’

Gabriel schooled his features into an impassive mask and turned back to face Ghrashbreg. ‘Am I a prisoner here?’ His tone might have been mild but his message was clear: mess with me and suffer the consequences.

The goblin chuckled, although the flicker in his bright eyes revealed his inner fear. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ He crossed his legs. ‘It grates though, doesn’t it? You’ve only been here a few days and you already feel the weight of being trapped within the city walls. Imagine how we feel after three years. It’s not Filits who are the enemy. We are as innocent of wrongdoing as you are. We’re simply trying to keep a hold on what is ours.’ He gestured at the door. ‘If you’re really so desperate to see the less salubrious parts of Stirling, you are welcome to visit them. But let us arrange a small escort for you. If any harm were to come to you, Holyrood would not be pleased. We wish to avoid the Prime Minister’s displeasure. In fact, if you can be patient and wait until tomorrow night, I will come with you.’

‘I don’t want a guided tour. I want to see the city for myself.’

‘Then you can lead the way and we will follow.’ Ghrashbreg paused. ‘But please, give us time to arrange it so we can do what we can to guarantee your safety.’

Gabriel watched him for a long moment. Eventually he inclined his head in agreement. The two goblin guards at the door melted away and Ghrashbreg stood up.

‘Excellent. In that case I’ll leave you two to enjoy the cake on your own. I’ll take my leave so I can begin to make the necessary arrangements.’ He bowed once and ambled out of the room as if he didn’t have a care in the world.

Gabriel and Rymark watched him leave. ‘Well,’ Rymark said, ‘so much for our temporary escape.’ He glanced at his smiling friend. ‘You let him stop you. Why are you so happy about it?’

Gabriel’s smile grew. ‘Because Ghrashbreg isn’t quite as good at hiding his thoughts as he thinks he is. When he said they were only trying to keep a hold on what was theirs, his left hand gave him away. He was holding onto the chair arm so tightly it’s a wonder it didn’t snap off. It wasn’t just proprietary concern over the city. It was excitement.’

Rymark was puzzled. ‘Excitement? What on earth could he be excited about? Are you sure you didn’t read him wrongly?’

Gabriel was prevented from answering by the return of the servant carrying a towering five-tier chocolate cake embellished with spun sugar and delicate decorations. She gave a nervous smile and carefully laid it on the dining table.

‘Wow,’ Rymark exclaimed.

Gabriel waited until the servant had departed. ‘Indeed. But are they trying to impress us or to divert us?’

‘You’re the one who seems to have a hotline to the goblins’ inner thoughts,’ Rymark grumbled. ‘You tell me.’

Something flickered in Gabriel’s dark eyes. He walked over to the chocolate cake and used the tip of his index finger to scoop up some icing. Rymark’s mouth dropped open at the uncharacteristic movement. Gabriel smiled then, in a sudden blur of movement, he spun to his left and snapped out a hand, muttering under his breath. His bare forearm tensed and a band of glowing symbols appeared on his previously unmarred skin, encircling his wrist then extending upwards, stretching up beyond his cuff. His hand grabbed at air, snatching shadows, while Rymark gaped further.

Gabriel hissed out an expletive and pulled a dark shape into the light. It was as insubstantial as the air itself but it writhed violently as it tried to free itself. Gabriel grunted, beads of sweat breaking out on his forehead as he fought for control. The symbols on his arm grew brighter and yet still the wretched dark thing squirmed. It swiped out a long limb and Gabriel’s head whipped away from its reach just in time.

‘Cease,’ he commanded, his voice a strained whisper.

The shape tried to attack again.

‘Cease,’ Gabriel repeated. The tendons in his arm strained. ‘My pocket,’ he said to Rymark. ‘There should be a binding in there.’

His friend nipped over, doing everything he could to stay out of the reach of the flailing shadowbeast. His fingers fumbled as he searched, his face white with tension and fear.

‘Well, this is a little closer than I wanted to get to you,’ Rymark joked weakly.

Gabriel gritted his teeth. ‘Hurry. I can’t hold on for much longer.’

Rymark swallowed and nodded. Then, with an audible sigh of relief, he found what he was looking for. Drawing out a long, thin strip of leather, he pressed it into Gabriel’s free hand and stepped back.

Gabriel twisted away from the thing’s grasp before lashing out with the leather. ‘Cease,’ he said, for the third and final time as the leather wrapped itself round the darkness. The thing immediately stopped moving and sank down as if in submission.

‘Is that…?’

Gabriel nodded. ‘A wraith. A shadow assassin. No prizes for guessing who is his target.’

Rymark took an involuntary step backwards. ‘Those goblin bastards.’

Gabriel stared down at the indefinable mass of dark shadow. ‘Not the Filits. Ghrashbreg was right about one thing; they can’t afford for either of us to be hurt.’

‘You think the Gneiss sent this … thing?’

‘It’s certainly possible. They could blame my death on the Filits and then reap all the rewards from the resulting fallout. They have the numbers to force a large-scale city-wide breach if they deem the time is right. Or maybe there’s a third group we are unaware of.’

Rymark was still pale and trembling. ‘You should kill him now. Use the binding to strangle him.’

Gabriel shook his head. ‘No.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘I want to see whose shadow this is. I’ve come across wraiths before but never…’ His voice trailed off.

‘Never what?’

‘Nothing. No wraith can survive without its shadow form for more than twenty-four hours. Whoever this is, they will come here. They’ll have no choice.’ He gazed at the creature. ‘Do you hear that?’ he said softly. ‘You’ll have to come to me. Tell me who you’re working for and I’ll let you go.’

The wraith drew himself up, no doubt expending the very last of his energy to do so. Then he floated in front of Gabriel, turning his head to the side so his form sharpened and the outline of his features grew more distinct.

Rymark hissed. ‘Did he just stick out his tongue?’

Gabriel let out a sharp, short laugh. ‘Yeah. I think he did.’

 

 

Chapter One

 

Twenty-four hours earlier

My shadow detached itself from my body. It peeled away, its loose dark shape almost invisible against the growing dusk. It shimmered and shivered, elongating itself as it stretched, against the light thrown across the far wall. As always, the sensation of losing part of myself was faintly painful – and faintly satisfying. If anyone asked, I’d describe it as similar to the feeling when you pull off a plaster. No one ever asked, however. That’s because no one knew what I really was – or what I was truly capable of.

Tonight I had no agenda and no specific destination in mind; I was simply on the prowl to see what I could unearth. There was always something and even the smallest scraps of information had potential. Everyone possessed secrets, deep dark whispers that dwelled in their own shadows and clung to their souls. Very few people had the skill to root them out; in that regard, I was very, very special.

Flitting out through the open window of my fifth-floor flat, my shadow mingled with the other less sentient shapes thrown by the overflowing rubbish bins and towering structures of unwanted furniture. Garbage was supposed to be collected every month but that rarely happened. I’d been told that you could go to the castle to complain. Sometimes the whispers that complaints and pleas were being taken seriously would surge forth like a tidal wave, before ebbing back in their usual disappointing manner.

Just last week, Mrs McTavish, the old widow who lived on the ground floor and pretended to be a cantankerous witch when she was really quite the opposite, told me she’d waited in line for over five hours to put forward her case. Actually, it was our case. She’d been given a number and told to return the following day when someone would definitely speak to her. They’d provide answers. They’d help her out – or so they promised. Except if Mrs McTavish appeared at the castle on a Tuesday, she would miss her slot at the Cowane Street food bank. Given the choice between talking to a proverbial brick wall about the growing rat problem and increasing stench from the uncollected rubbish and having enough food to stay alive, she’d abandoned her campaign before it had begun. After all, it wasn’t as if you could nominate someone else to take your place at Cowane; they were scrupulously strict about IDs. In theory this was good because no one could steal your rations but in practice it meant that if you were ill or infirm you went hungry. And goodness knows, there was enough hunger already.

I’d picked my own neighbourhood clean of its secrets long ago. In truth, burrowing away at people I smiled at during daylight hours was not something I enjoyed. The pathetic titbits I gleaned were never very valuable either. To have a truly successful night, I had two choices – they were very different in style but very similar in foulness. But I did what I had to in order to survive.

Pausing at Mercat Cross, I tried to decide. Turning left would take me towards the dank chasm of organised crime. There was a feud currently erupting between the Badgemen and the Understreets, which I could certainly make use of. The trouble was that feuds of that nature often fizzled out before they really got started; if I filched information from one side to sell to the other, I could make more enemies than I needed. I liked my head where it was, thank you very much.

Heading right would take me to party land. This being a Saturday night, there would be plenty of our supposed lords and masters out on the lash and ripe for my picking. The wealthy humans in Stirling enjoyed considerably greater privileges and freedom than the rest of us because the Filits were always prepared to grant them concessions to keep them on side. The trouble was that sifting through the murky silt of their lives to obtain something I could sell on was harder than you might think – and there was the chance that I’d come away with little of value. On measure, however, it seemed a better bet. I was certainly better at nit-picking than I used to be; in this line of work, experience counted for a great deal.

I shrugged and my shadow rippled against the lit torches surrounding the semi-circle of hanging nooses, all the more sinister for lying empty as if in wait. I turned right, allowing my dark form to mingle and disappear against the darkness of the stone wall. The fake smiles of the semi-bourgeoisie it would be. I decided that an unplanned pregnancy or some new, spiked designer drugs would go down well. It was time to begin prowling in earnest.

The nearest club was wealthy enough to afford its own generator, although the light outside the door was not exactly bright. Still, it marked the place as glitzy and helped to illuminate the long, snaking line outside. I cast an experienced eye along the queue. There were a few faces I recognised, but those stars had already fallen. If I could discover someone who’d not yet begun their descent, I might be in with the chance of making some real money. And real money meant real food. The prospect of buying bread that hadn’t been bulked out with sawdust made my mouth water.

As it was early, I decided to look for a less busy but more up-and-coming venue, the sort of place that was too trendy for its own good and still had strict guest lists. The more exclusive the clientele, the greater potential there was for valuable secrets and high gains. I’d give myself an hour, ninety minutes tops, then I’d wheel back here and aim at some lower targets. The nights were short at this time of year and I had to get home before dawn. I couldn’t risk my shadow being spotted – and that was very possible in the full light of day. The reason I was still alive and free was because I was both cautious and careful.

I pitter-pattered down the street, veering round a gaggle of girls who’d stopped briefly to re-do their make-up. I kept one ear cocked for any interesting scraps of conversation but their focus was on Elizabeth Arden, Bobbi Brown and Coco Chanel, none of whom aided my cause. A rickety bicycle with a small lamp trundled by, throwing enough light to make one of the women blink as my shadow brushed against her bare skin. It wasn’t a problem; the contact was too brief and I was gone too quickly for her to realise what she’d seen and felt. All the same, I picked up the pace. Time was ticking on.

I danced past the Wonky Wallace and slid away from Sparkle. I’d gleaned enough on recent outings to know that Kanji had finally opened, offering a supposedly Zen-like escape from the pain of living in a besieged city. If a Japanese nightclub was an odd thing to find in a small Scottish city under both goblin siege and goblin rule, no one commented on it.

To enter through those hallowed gates you had to be more than able to obtain branded lipstick on the black market, or have enough money squirrelled away to pay for a dusty bottle of Glenmorangie instead of its lethal home-brewed equivalent. Word was that the club was owned by a conglomerate of Japanese baku, minor demons with enough spare cash to settle in for the long haul and wait for the siege to end. They must have greased plenty of Filit and Gneiss palms to get the club opened. Apparently they wanted to forge relationships and prepare deals for whoever was still alive, wealthy and powerful when all this nonsense was finally over. Except this was already our third summer in and there was no end in sight.

I’d heard enough to know that the facts didn’t sit straight. I didn’t know who really owned Kanji but I reckoned it was something far nastier and less honourable than a few long-sighted baku. If I’d thought for one second that the real owner’s identity was a good enough secret to unearth, I’d have moved hell and high water to get to the truth but I couldn’t think of anyone who’d pay sufficient money for the knowledge to make the effort worthwhile.

In any case, I knew that the clientele currently being lured towards Kanji’s wooden torii were considered elite. They had to offer something worthwhile to the owners to gain entrance. Money wasn’t the only valuable currency; given that Kanji’s owners were located outside the city walls, far away from the siege and the problems it incurred, they would trade for favours and promises as much as for hard cash. And the owners had to keep those black-market alcohol import lines open somehow. There was no doubt they were playing both sides and hedging their bets until there was a winner and life settled back down again to a semblance of normality.

Perhaps the club owners could be thanked for the recent break in shelling by sending oily whispers in the direction of the Gneiss goblins. I would never know for sure; the circles where those sort of deals were struck were well out of even my reach. Still, the chatter of the high-class guests sipping champagne and lounging within Kanji’s high walls could feed me for a month. I just had to find the right conversations to eavesdrop.

As I slid up to the entrance, which remained free of the hopeful queues that had adorned the other clubs, a group of rowdy men rocked up. Their banter was as distasteful as their clothing; the latter displayed the fact that they could circumvent the siege and get whatever designer gear they wanted.

‘I’m telling you,’ the nearest said loudly, in a voice that grated on my ears, ‘if you head down towards the old quarter, you can find girls of any age who’ll drop their kegs for you. I had a blonde thing the other night who agreed three hours in return for a pound of rice. She wasn’t smart enough to ask for a down-payment first, so I took what I wanted and left her with nothing. There wasn’t a thing she could do about it. The militia don’t care and she knows it.’

‘Nice work.’

He gave a self-satisfied smirk. ‘Yeah, I know.’

‘In that case, Murthers,’ drawled another, ‘why don’t we go there instead of here? They’re not going to let us in.’

‘They’ll let us in. They know who I am and what I’m capable of.’ Murthers sauntered through the torii towards the shuttered door, raising one fist to hammer out an insistent knock.

The door opened a fraction and the swarthy face of a goblin appeared. Even I was surprised at that. Kanji’s owner, whoever he was, really did have friends in high places. I slid my shadow past him, only brushing lightly against his stocky body. The goblin shivered slightly while I shuddered – but his focus was on the men. ‘Get lost,’ he muttered to them, as I moved deeper inside.

‘Don’t you know who I am?’

The goblin slammed the door shut, swallowing up the rest of Murther’s words. I grinned before skulking into the belly of the Kanji beast.

The interior of the club surprised me. It had a far more authentic air than I expected. I trailed down a wide, wooden-floored corridor, wondering how they’d managed to acquire so many fragile objets d’art to adorn the high shelves. No doubt they’d been ransacking long-abandoned mansions.

Unable to resist, I reached out and touched a tall vase, using just enough energy to send it toppling to the floor with a crash. Behind me the goblin gasped and skittered forward. It was a petty thing to do but it was satisfying. If, despite the siege, they could bring in pretty chinaware then they could bring in food. A thousand years of history was all very well but if there was no one left to appreciate it, it was pointless. You couldn’t eat art.

I followed the murmur of voices and low music until I arrived in a large, dimly lit room. No showy, expensive electricity was wasted here; the sparse tables were illuminated only by candles. They had to be a fire hazard with all the draped wall hangings and paper wall dividers. I resisted the urge to knock over a candle and see what happened because Kanji could prove very fruitful for me, both now and in the future. I sneaked round, pausing to identify various occupants and see what I could learn. There were fewer than eighty people there, including the staff who almost outnumbered the guests. Yep. This place was all about exclusivity rather than profit. How very, very interesting.

Seated at a table by the front of the stage were four people I recognised instantly: Isabella Markbury and her ever-present entourage. The last rumour I’d heard concerning her was that she’d been killed in the four-day-long April bombardment, when the Gneiss goblins had sent a barrage of Greek-fire canisters flying over the river towards the Forthside District. Apparently only Tilly, her best friend, had managed to escape, pausing just long enough to snag Isabella’s Jimmy Choos. Neither Isabella, Tilly, nor the purple-haired twins beside them had been heard of since. Clearly none of them were actually dead, however. It wasn’t earth-shattering information but it might be worth a few bob.

I sidled up to them, hovering just out of the candle’s range. Come on, I prayed, give me something good. I rarely had an opportunity to get close to society women like this and Isabella Markbury in particular had always been good at playing her cards close to her chest.

There was something odd about her that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. She moved with a sort of lithe elegance that I supposed was the result of years of ballet and tap lessons. I’d always felt there was more to her than met the eye; maybe it was the spark of self-serving intelligence that gleamed in her eyes.