His successful hunts had left Bartok a very rich demon. Although he rarely took anything material from his hunts, he didn't find it sporting, Bartok's success had been noticed. Three times now, Bartok had received an unmarked parcel at his small hut outside of the village. Each time there was a note saying "Keep up the good work," or something similar, along with a generous stack of coins.
At first, Bartok didn't know what to do with such extravagance. He didn't need it for food. He hunted for his own. He didn't really need to spruce up the house that he rarely spent time in and of course he could generate create new outfits for himself as needed. Shapeshifters didn't have much use for expansive wardrobes.
He could give some coins to the tax-collecting service, but there wasn't much need. The previous owner of the Bartok's house had been an old witch who dealt in secrets. Before killing her, Bartok had made sure to learn both the secrets she already knew and her methods of divining them.
The joke, the cruel irony, was that the witch had been sought after by young women who were having romantic troubles, often with government officials. She learned their secrets, convinced them to do as she asked and then gave them love potions, which were useless, and poisons, which were not.
In short, Bartok, disguised as the old witch, could bribe various officials to keep her house secure and tax-free in exchange for not divulging their secrets to their families. He did the same to various merchants and craftsmen who found themselves besieged by love and managed to keep the house in working order. Plus, there was the small coinage he took from his clients. And no, he didn't hunt any of his clients either. That certainly would not be sporting.
Then, one day while Bartok was surveying the market, he overheard discussion of the new communal bathhouse being renovated. They had shortened the men's and women's baths to make four private bath houses. Soundproof, no windows, a door that can only be unlocked with a key. The privacy of the bath intrigued Bartok.
Assuming the guise of a wealthy businessman, Bartok found the owner of the bathhouse. Two of the bathhouses were still available and Bartok laid before the man nearly twice the amount of gold he had gotten for the previous two. The greedy look in his beady little eyes said it all. Bartok received his key and went to examine his new property.
Bartok chuckled at the extravagance of his private bath. There were in fact three baths. Each of them was larger than the kitchen and sitting room of his house. The first was a hot bath with its own boiler kept in a separate small room, the steam rising from the water. The second was warm. Bartok nearly jumped out of his skin when he stepped into the third, it was frigid cold.
More important than any of those features, Bartok found that all the privacy protection concepts worked perfectly. Already, an idea was forming in Bartok's head. He was ready for another hunt.
###
Willow and her father had barely entered the marketplace before her father started flipping out on one of the merchants. This was how Willow's shopping excursions went. Her father would lead her around, sometimes by the hand and sometimes by the arm, screaming and shouting his way from booth to booth. He haggled and complained and threatened. Who cares if he managed to get most of his goods at half the original cost? Willow's father had made an enemy of half the market. And cost Willow most of her friends.
He was the same way whenever a young boy tried to approach her. She was nineteen, older than her mother was when she and Willow's father got married. And while she may be small, she only came up to 5'5", she wasn't about to let any man get the better of her.
Still, it was safer to hide her new boyfriend from her father. They had almost been caught a month ago in her father's barn. Alan was leaving for at least six weeks. He, his father, and his two brothers were bringing their goods to sell at the North Gate, a good two week's travel in their wagon. The two of them wouldn't see each other for a long time and they were just saying goodbye. Without using their mouths ...
Willow suppressed a soft moan remembering her lover's touch. His hands running through her wavy, chestnut hair. His lips against hers. His stubble rubbing against her chest, her stomach, her thighs.
"Get a move on, Willow!" barked her father. "We have more shopping to do."
"Yes, father," she replied throwing the newly purchased blanket over her shoulders.
A few shops later and Willow could barely see over her dad's mountain of "treasure." Let alone walk with junk piled up over her pale, blue eyes. A small slit was the only thing keeping her from running into the side of a stall.
"Dad, can I go return these to the cart?"
"What?" he said spinning around. "Who's going to keep someone from running our cart straight into their yard? Use your damn head, girl."
"I'll take it home, then," she said. "How else can we keep shopping?"
"Fine," he said. "Be quick about it."
"Yes, father," she replied. She moved through the crowd to her cart and started home.
By the time she returned, over an hour had passed. Her father was not going to be happy. It wasn't her fault that old Mrs. Aberthy next door had needed her help. Not that her father cared for her excuses.
The important thing was to find him quickly. If she found him soon, she could blame part of the time lost on not being able to find him in the crowd.
Unfortunately, that was easier said than done. The market was huge with rows of stalls stretching back to a massive building that hold a half-dozen or more storage rooms. Her father could be anywhere. So she quickened her pace.
Her frantic search ended quickly as she struck something, hard. A sharp jolt of pain shot from the small of her back to every inch of her body. She crumpled to the floor.
"Ma'am," said a voice. "Are you alright?"
The man lifted her head up and Willow found herself staring at a young man with dark hair and eyes the color of her hair. She tried to murmur something but the words wouldn't come. The pain seemed to radiate from her back.
"Take it easy," he said. His voice, Willow found, was soft and soothing."My name's Roland. What's your name?"
"Willow."
"Like the tree?" he laughed. "What a lovely name. Come on, let me help you to your feet."
With some effort, Willow stood up leaning against Roland's muscled body for support. "Thanks."
"Not a problem. I ..."
"Willow! What the hell happened?" It was her father, pushing through a few surprised onlookers. They probably mistook his tone for concern. Willow knew better.
"It's fine, father," she said. "He was helping me up."
"Yes," he said. "I'm sure." He eyed the man suspiciously. "What's your name, boy?"
"Roland," said the young man.
"Well, Roland," said her father. "You have my ... gratitude."
"Alright," Roland responded. He may be young, Willow thought, but he isn't dumb. Her father wasn't grateful. Not at all.
"Take care, Willow," he said. He said the same to her father and then, with a tip of his brown top hat, he walked away.
"How does he know your name?" her father asked. "How do you know this boy?"
Willow brushed the dirt off of her clothes as best as she could and straightened herself up. "I told him when he helped me up. I just met him, father."
"Well, I don't like him."
Surprise, surprise, Willow thought
###
Bartok watched from a distance as Willow's father led the young girl back through the market, his wrist wrapped tightly around her arm. The first part of his hunt had been successful, but just barely thanks to her father's interference. He had chosen right to appear as a younger man than he usually attempted; it was obvious this girl didn't have a stunning relationship with older men. She was more like that man's ornament than his daughter; something exquisite to show his fellows, not a person. But then, who was Bartok to judge?
And she was certainly exquisite. Her pale, blue eyes were ever so dazzling as they gazed up at him in demure wonder. Her skin was soft and smooth. Yes, this young Willow required a gentle hand, Bartok could see that. Desire flooded through his veins. He had made an excellent choice.
If only for her father, that was. Something had to be done to separate the two. He certainly couldn't count on her to ask his permission to leave. Especially to the bathhouse. No, this required a plan.
And Bartok could always be counted upon to come up with a plan.
###
Her father's rude attempts to drive the young man from Willow's mind weren't working. In fact, the opposite was occurring. Except for the occasional, "yes, father" Willow hadn't said a word or mumbled a complaint. Her mind was thinking of Roland.
He couldn't be more than a few years older than her, but he seemed so much more mature than the farm hands who kept crawling around her father's house. He was tall and handsome. She remembered how it felt to be pressed against his muscled chest, his strong arms wrapped around her for the briefest of moments.
And those eyes. Dark brown eyes so intense that they seemed to swallow her whole being. She had been told by more than one lustful youth how her own pale eyes were intoxicating. Well, Roland's were beyond that.
Every few minutes, Willow would swear she had seen her mysterious rescuer flitting through the shops. A flash of black hair here, a husky laugh there. Twice she had nearly run into her father chasing Roland's shadow.
Ahh, if only she could see him again. This whole embarrassing, teeth-grinding excursion with her father would be worth it. Her father hadn't even let her go change her dirty clothes. They just kept right on exploring the market, now doubling back on stalls they'd already combed over.
Her father was amidst another screaming match with some jewelry maker. Luckily, there was a bench nearby and Willow was able to rest her feet. With her arms free of packages, her mind began to drift back to her fateful encounter.
In her mind, Roland was sitting beside her. His face was inches from hers, their eyes locked in warm regard. Slowly, he leaned forward. His mouth covered her own and he kissed her slowly and passionately. His hands traced down her back, his fingernails running across her soft skin. He leaned past her and nibbled gently on her ear. "Oh Willow" he whispered into her ear.
"Oh Roland," Willow whispered.
"Willow!"
