by Mason Thomas
In time, all that remained was Dax and Quinnar on opposite sides of the table and Hunter standing by the door.
“Go rest,” Quinnar said to Dax. It sounded more like a command than the voice of concern. He was irritated with Dax; that much was clear. He made a dramatic show of shuffling together the yellow documents on the table in front of him.
“I’m fine,” Dax said.
Quinnar’s face twisted into a look that said suit yourself. “Don’t know how you talked me into this, Dax. I don’t think you appreciate the headaches this is going to cause.”
“They will come around,” Dax said.
Quinnar gave Hunter a quick glance from the corner of his eye. “There are already too many whispers about him.”
Hunter stepped closer to the table. “I didn’t ask for any of this. Find a way to send me back home, then. That will solve everyone’s problems.”
Quinnar made a humorless noise his throat. “There is a far cheaper solution, frankly. And many will call for it.”
Dax leaned his knuckles on the table. “You gave me your word, Quinn.”
“And I intend to keep it,” Quinnar responded with a sigh. “From my hand, he will not be harmed. But Keya’s arrest has everyone shaken, Dax. No one feels safe, which has made managing the council tenuous at best. They grow more restless by the day. A time may come when my protection of him will not matter.”
“Their fear of him will subside,” Dax replied. “Their distrust will fade.”
“For his sake, I hope you’re right.”
“Why is my presence here causing such a freak out?” Hunter asked. “No one has ever joined your resistance before?”
Quinnar leaned back in his chair. “Only the most trusted of us are allowed down here. The most vetted of members. We’ve been very careful. We’ve had to be. And you’ve sidestepped a very basic rule. You can’t blame them for being anxious.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop, his mouth pursed in thought. “The question remains what to do with you.”
“You could start by giving me some answers. Like why you stole my mom’s broach. And who that woman was up there on that balcony.”
“Right now, the less you know the better,” Quinnar replied.
“Bullshit. I deserve—”
“Deserve? We owe you nothing,” Quinnar snapped, leaning in on one elbow. “I encourage you to remember that. You’re alive. That is the best you can ask for currently. And be very careful about making demands upon me. Accept the generosity I’m willing to extend to you and cause me no trouble.”
Hunter clenched his hands into white, shaking fists. Generosity? He was only here because they robbed his house. His only crime was chasing down the thief. Dax threw him a warning look. It was nearly not enough, but he managed to choke back a response.
“Get him food,” Quinnar said to Dax while rubbing his eye with the heel of his hand. “Find him a place to sleep. And keep him out of the way. But be here when we resume. I need your insight. Hopefully in a day or two I can figure out what to do about him, but right now, we have bigger questions.”
Dax nodded and departed, once again not bothering to check if Hunter followed him or not.
15
HUNTER STEPPED through the opening into the small room lit by a single lantern on a round table. Three low cots covered in brown blankets lined the walls, looking like freshly dug gravesites.
“Nothing with a door?” he asked. “Preferably one with a lock.”
“Those are few,” Dax replied from the corridor. “These are not residences, but merely temporary accommodations. A place to disappear, or sleep when needed.”
“Appears I’m the first permanent resident, then.” A familiar loose-weave sack was in the center of one of the beds closest to the door. Hunter reached in and pulled out his jeans. Someone had already claimed the cot for him. “And you had someone deliver my luggage. Let me know where I should leave the tip.”
“This will not be permanent,” Dax said.
No. Only until someone slits my throat, Hunter thought. He was a heavy sleeper—he was going to have to learn how to sleep with one eye open.
“This area was selected because it is more isolated than the others,” Dax continued. “You are less likely to have to share it with anyone.”
Hunter nodded, not wanting to appear grateful. Although the prospect of a little privacy right now, especially when everyone seemed hell-bent on seeing him dead, was welcome.
“How does anyone know what time it is down here?”
“You’ll hear chimes. From dusk to dawn is one sound. Dawn to dusk another. There is more to show you.”
“Sure. I’m sure I’ll have time to unpack later.”
Dax took Hunter through more corridors. The place was a labyrinth. He pointed out strange symbols carved in the walls. They looked like they might be some form of alphabet, but Hunter wasn’t sure.
“These will help you navigate the tunnels,” Dax told him. “Do not wander too far until you’ve learned them, lest you lose your way.”
“Don’t suppose you have a map. Or a key.”
Dax pointed out the basic necessities. The toilets, first of all—which Hunter could certainly have found on his own. Blindfolded. Scrunching his nose, he peeked his head into the dark little room that had a long bench along a wall with three ovoid holes cut into it. Mercifully, the room had a door, but he would need to remember to bring a lantern along. Dax showed him a storage closet, though Hunter had no idea what supplies he would need from it, and a room that had a trough in the middle. Water trickled down the rough back wall and collected in barrels. A place to clean up, obviously, but with the city directly above them, Hunter couldn’t help but wonder about the water source.
Warm air carrying the sweet smell of cooked meat wafted past him. They were nearing a kitchen, and his stomach responded with a groan. He hadn’t eaten anything since the morning.
The kitchen occupied a wide cavern and felt more like a hellish forge. The floor was wood, but the walls and ceiling remained natural rock. In the center, a round cookfire blazed red and fierce like something demonic. Pots hung from chains over the flames on one side, and a whole pig was skewered on a spit over the other, fat dripping down to hiss on the coals. A soot-covered iron hood caught the rising black smoke and led it away.
The air was sultry and hot, but the smell of cooked meat was intoxicating. Hunter’s stomach felt suddenly vacant.
“I must return,” Dax said. “Eat. Return to the bedchamber. I trust you are able to find your way back.”
Hunter glanced up at the symbol etched into the wall. “I’ll figure it out.”
Dax nodded. “Once we are concluded, I will look for you there.”
Sitting in a dark empty room. “And what am I to do in the meantime?”
“Stay out of the way,” he said as he departed back down the corridor.
“Hey! Dax?” Hunter called after him.
Dax slowed and looked over his shoulder.
“Thanks for sticking your neck out for me,” Hunter said. “I guess you didn’t have to do that.” The truth of it was, if hadn’t been for Dax these last few days, Hunter would have met a horrible death several times over already. The least he could do was acknowledge that.
In the dim light of the corridor, Hunter couldn’t quite make out the shift in Dax’s expression, but something had changed. Something subtle. Dax nodded and continued on his way.
Surrounding the central firepit were a number of wooden sawhorse tables and benches. Hunter approached tentatively, not knowing the protocol, and took a seat on a bench.
A hard thump drew Hunter’s attention across the room. The cavern was not unoccupied as he first thought. A man stood at a higher table against the wall. He slammed a cleaver down on a hunk of meat and scraped the pieces aside. At his side, a dog sat very still with its muzzle pointed up. The man flicked a chunk of meat off the table, and the dog snatched it out of the air and swallowed it without chewing. The man glanced ov
er his shoulder and took notice of Hunter.
“You waitin’ on something?” the man asked. He was older and looked haggard and frail, like he hadn’t left the kitchen in days. His white beard had dark bits hanging from it.
“Was told to come here to eat,” Hunter replied.
The man scowled. “My food’s for the fighters. Not strays.”
“Dax sent me here.”
His lip curled in a snarl as he turned away. “Ain’t no tavern, and I ain’t no serving wench. You want supper, get your ass up and get it. Plates and such over there.”
As Hunter pushed himself up, the man was already turning back to his butchering.
The only option appeared to be a large black kettle with a bubbling stew. He ferreted out a ladle and scooped out a portion onto a wooden plate with a high lip. Wedges of dark bread were in a basket nearby, and he dropped a chuck of it on top. Off to the side, he found a keg with a twisting wooden spigot. He grabbed a mug and held it under the spigot, expecting water, but amber liquid poured into the mug and frothed on the top. Beer. Warm—but still beer. At least this place had something familiar, something reminiscent of home. A cold comfort. But enough of it and it might make this place mildly endurable. He carried his meal back to the table.
Voices echoing from a corridor announced the arrival of others. They erupted into the kitchen, laughing and shoving each other about like boys making their way back from the playground. They spotted Hunter as they broke the threshold, and the laughter cooled. They scooped up their food from the kettle and moved to occupy the table farthest from him.
Hunter ignore them while he ate, though he felt their disapproving stares the entire time, as if his presence was souring their meal. They spoke in low conspiratorial voices peppered with deep-throated grunts and snorts. Hunter didn’t need to understand what they were saying to know he was the topic of their conversation. Word of his arrival here had clearly spread, and the consensus was not in his favor.
He sopped up the remains of the stew with the bread and slid his empty plate aside. Warning tension knotted his shoulders and neck. He recognized the body language well enough to know what might come next. Should the group decide to wander over, he was ready.
Of course, he could push up from the table and return to that little cave of a room, sit in the dark and wait for Dax to fetch him. He could give these boys a bit of breathing room, a chance to get used to his presence. But after everything, he didn’t feel like being charitable. He didn’t ask to be here, and they were just going to have to deal with it. The last thing he wanted was to send a message that he was easily intimidated. Far tougher guys had tried, and he wasn’t about to be scared off by a sour look. So he leaned in on his elbows and locked eyes with anyone who looked his way.
From the corner of his eye, he caught someone else enter. The newcomer hugged the wall and entered cautiously, like a mouse scoping out the room for a cat. Hunter recognized the spiky, unkempt hair immediately. Uri. The kid who manned the entrance to the hideout. Here, in light that was better than in the corridor where he first saw him, Hunter got a better look at him. His skin was a pale blue, almost gray, and his ears were tapered upward to a rounded point.
Not Mazenti, like he’d seen outside the city walls. Or at least not entirely. The skin didn’t have the same vibrant blue color. The boy was mixed race, human and Mazenti.
He crossed over to the cookfire and ladled a plate of stew for himself. Bowl in hand, he scanned his seating options. His gaze touched on Hunter briefly before he veered away from him, choosing a table near the others. As soon as he lowered onto a bench, one of the men slammed the side of his fist on the tabletop. He looked up and sighed, as if irritated his meal had been interrupted.
“What do you think you’re doing, skeg?” he hissed.
“You know the rules,” said another. He shoveled a spoonful into his mouth and shook his head.
Uri slowly rose again. He stood there a moment, steaming bowl in hand, clearly unsure what to do. The only other table put him closer to Hunter. With no other option, he shuffled over and sat on the edge of the bench as far from Hunter as he could.
The men chuckled as they exchanged looks, titillated with the power they exerted. Their attention was no longer on Hunter but on the boy, and Hunter could see the gears turning as they continued to smirk in his direction. The group was looking for a reason to escalate this and cause Uri more grief, punish him for some imagined crime. They’d obviously decided Hunter wasn’t a worthwhile target and centered on the boy. Uri felt it too. He shoveled the food in his mouth as if someone might take it away from him. He couldn’t wait to be out of there.
Hunter leaned forward and stared at the four of them. One by one they noticed him, and Hunter made sure to lock eyes until they turned away. The wicked grins slipped from each face, the joy in their game quashed.
One of the men pushed his bowl away in disgust. “Lost my appetite.”
Hunter chuckled loud enough for them to hear. The plate was empty. The others nodded in agreement. They stood as a unit and left, plates abandoned in the center of the table.
Uri’s shoulders seemed to deflate once the men were gone. He grabbed the plate and started to lift from the bench, ready to retreat to a table farther away.
“What’s a skeg?” Hunter asked him.
Uri froze, not quite standing, not sitting. His fingers tightened around the edge of the plate. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“Why’s that?”
“People say you don’t belong here.”
Word sure traveled fast down here. “Can’t say I disagree with them,” Hunter said with a low grunt in the back of his throat. “But here I am.”
The reply seemed to confuse him a moment. His eyes flared with annoyance as he looked back down at the food waiting for him on the plate. “Doesn’t mean you’re welcome. Or trusted.”
The irony of that made him want to chuckle. “Seems you know something about that.”
Uri’s head snapped involuntarily toward the empty passageway where the others had withdrawn before he turned a hot gaze in Hunter’s direction. In the torchlight, his eyes glinted like a campfire ember. He was irked, and he only wanted to eat his dinner in peace. Hunter’s questions were as unwanted as the harassment he endured by the four other men. “They don’t mean anything by it.”
Hunter sighed. Uri didn’t believe that any more than he did. “My mistake.”
Uri started to move again, rising to his full height and lifting a leg over the bench.
“No,” Hunter told him as he stood. “Stay and finish your meal. I’m done.”
He set the plate in a wooden tub with others and left the kitchen.
16
HUNTER’S ONLY indication that he’d been asleep at all was a vague recollection of disturbing dreams.
He swung his feet off the cot and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. The dark cave of the common bunkroom hadn’t changed, except someone had taken occupancy of the cot closest to the door and was snorting like a grizzly with a head cold. It was likely what had woken him up.
As he sat, a tall figure stepped into the doorway. Zinnuvial.
“Good,” she said. “You’re awake. Follow me.” She disappeared down the hall again.
Hunter reached down to pull on the boots, but they were gone. Corrad had apparently stuck to his promise that he would reclaim them first chance he had. Either that or they’d been stolen, which meant he’d have to deal with Corrad about that. He considered putting on his own shoes, but athletic shoes with neon trim defeated the purpose of trying to fit in. He opted to go without and strode barefoot down the corridor after her.
He caught up with her in the kitchen. She glanced down at his naked feet. “Where are your boots?”
“Repossessed apparently,” he said. “Where’s Dax?” He’d not returned to talk to him like he’d said he would. Hunter stayed awake as long as he could, hoping to have a word with him, but Dax never showed up, and Hun
ter fell into a fitful sleep.
“Attending to more important matters. Eat, before we lose more of this day.” Her annoyance that she was shackled with him was palpable.
It was hard to even imagine it as daytime. His head felt foggy and his body sluggish as if he’d been roused in the middle of the night after a bender. This perpetual gloom was fucking with his internal clock. And heightening his sense of feeling trapped.
The only thing over the cookfire was a cast-iron pot filled with a viscous gray slop that bubbled and hissed. Hunter ladled himself a bowlful and took a seat. She filled a mug from a keg, set it down in front of Hunter, and sat across from him at the table, then watched as he ate without comment. She didn’t seem the type for small talk, so Hunter didn’t bother trying to engage her. The gray slop didn’t look like much, but it had flavor. And it filled him up.
As he scraped the last of it from the bowl, Zinnuvial rose from the bench and marched off again. Hunter deposited the bowl in the bin and hurried to catch up to her.
Zinnuvial grabbed a lantern that hung from a peg in the wall, and they delved into a series of unfinished tunnels of raw stone, part of the mine network not yet tamed by the resistance. The area was eerily isolated; the general hum of activity in the hideout had faded to nothing. He was putting a lot of faith in someone who easily admitted she would kill him if she had the chance.
The tunnel ended at a narrow set of wooden stairs. Zinnuvial climbed up and used the heel of her hand to punch up a trap door. Sunlight blasted down in a deluge of light. Hunter groaned and covered his eyes with his forearm as the pungent smell of a barn besieged his sinuses.
Half-blind, he climbed out after her, blinking and squinting. Even though it had been only a single day of being held in a dark hole, the sun on him felt like an emancipation.