The Hunt

by Frost Kay

  Legs he wanted to run his hands and mouth along. Legs of the enemy.

  “Damn it,” he growled and abandoned his perch next to the window. She wasn’t a whore or his own woman to look upon. It was wrong for him to watch as long as he had. Pyre stalked around his house, keeping his footfalls soft. He was a bloody degenerate.

  “Pyre?”

  He turned around and scowled. Briggs was standing by his front door, clearly waiting for him.

  “How did you know I wasn’t inside already?” Pyre asked.

  “I could smell you on the forest air.” Briggs shrugged, a smile splitting his face. “With the way you’re riled up, I hope you weren’t doing anything indecent.”

  “Me, indecent? Never.”

  “Pyre—”

  “What is it you wanted to say, Briggs?”

  The healer stared at him long and hard, brow furrowed, but then he ran a hand over his face. “Nyx thinks we should leave for the village we discussed during the meeting at sunrise.”

  “An hour before everyone else?”

  “To scope it out, clearly. Your skills haven’t been used to their full potential over the past three weeks. Tempest—”

  “Tempest!” An idea slammed into Pyre.

  Briggs’s frown returned once more as he stared at Pyre. “What about her?”

  Pyre glanced at his house as if he could see through the stone wall to where she was no doubt lying in bed. He didn’t want to do this to her. It was cruel. It was heartbreaking.

  But he only had one day before things got a lot more brutal.

  “Take her with you to the village tomorrow, Briggs,” he ordered his friend, a grim smile curling his lips as he did so. “She needs to see what her family has done.”

  Tempest

  “Temp. Temp, you need to wake up.” Tempest blinked groggily as she was forced to rouse from sleep. For a few moments, she had no idea where she was, then she remembered with a start that she’d stayed the night in Pyre’s house. She bolted upright, searching through the dim, early morning light for who had spoken.

  Briggs.

  The giant of a man rested a large midnight hand on her shoulder and sighed. Going by the look in his eyes, he was not looking forward to what he had to do next. Tempest’s stomach lurched.

  “What is it, Briggs?” she asked, very, very quietly.

  He looked away. “There’s something you need to see. Somewhere you need to see. Get dressed, Temp. Wrap up warm; it’s cold out this morning.”

  Oh no.

  Tempest wasn’t stupid. Considering the topic of conversation at the rebels’ meeting the night before, there were very few things Briggs would take her to see with such a grave expression on his face.

  Either I’m walking to my death or I’m being taken to the village Nyx was talking about.

  She nodded her acknowledgement of Briggs’s order before waving him out of the room so she could get dressed. With a furtive look out of the window—Tempest had kept the curtains open all night to stop her feeling like she was trapped in a box—she threw off the nightshirt Pyre had laid out for her and began pulling on her clothes from the day before.

  Speaking of the devil… Where was he? She twisted in front of the window, using the reflection to help her braid her hair. Tempest hadn’t heard the kitsune return to his house after storming out. But that didn’t mean anything. The shifters had a knack for moving without making a sound.

  Tempest worked a kink out of her shoulder then spent five minutes stretching out her limbs. She had not felt limber in weeks; she knew she’d have to train hard to get her body back into the shape it had been when she’d walked into the Trial arena to face the lion. If an attack did come, she needed to be prepared.

  She glanced out of the window again, and her stomach fluttered uncomfortably, though she didn’t know why. Last night, it had almost felt as if someone was watching her, but she’d searched the house and found nothing. Though considering what she said to Pyre the night before, she wouldn’t be surprised if he’d had someone observing his house as a safety precaution.

  She let out a whoosh of air before exiting the bedroom. Tempest didn’t regret what she’d said to Pyre the night before, but she regretted the way she’d said it. Regardless of the truth of the whole plague debacle, there was one thing Tempest had realized for sure: the kitsune shifter was not a bad man.

  He might be on the wrong side. He might be on the right side. But, either way, he’s fighting with good intentions. Like me.

  “We’re going to have to eat on the move, Temp,” Briggs told her, tossing a hunk of bread and cheese her way when she appeared in Pyre’s kitchen.

  Pyre was nowhere to be seen, which meant he was clearly still out.

  “Where’s Pyre?” Tempest asked, deciding there was no point in wasting time by dancing around her questions.

  The healer grimaced. “You’ll see him in a few hours. Come on, we have a long walk ahead of us.”

  She was surprised to find three more rebel shifters waiting outside Pyre’s house for them. They glared at her, so obviously disapproving of her inclusion in this journey that Tempest could do nothing but stare at the ground.

  If they were angry at her presence, then she could assume they weren’t going to kill her – surely they’d be a lot more cheerful if they were marching her to her execution. One less thing to worry about.

  But none of the shifters said anything about her joining them so, despite the looks they gave her, the entire group set off through the forest in the opposite direction from the sound of the river. Deeper into the forest, then. Tempest nibbled on the bread and cheese Briggs had given her; though her stomach was roiling, she simply needed to have something to do with her restless hands. They kept twitching, wishing to hold a sword or a dagger or a bow and arrow to defend herself.

  Tempest had none of those things with her, only her pathetic wooden stake.

  What a sorry Hound she’d become. Out of shape, weaponless, and sympathizing with the enemy. My uncles would be ashamed.

  But Tempest’s uncles weren’t here. Tempest was alone, and she had to make her own decisions and form her own opinions without their help. She’d never thought it would be so difficult to do.

  As morning stretched into midday the forest grew much warmer. The sunlight on the trees brought out the smell of pine needles and sap, which Tempest found refreshing. She breathed in deeply through her nose, revelling in the memory of such scents from her childhood—from before her mother’s death. Dotae always smelled of a dozen different things at once; there was something to be said for the beautiful simplicity of a forest smelling exactly like a forest, and nothing else.

  Until it didn’t.

  At first Tempest didn’t notice the new scent, though her shifter companions clearly did. They wrinkled their noses and slowed their steps, clearly reluctant to move forward. Briggs waved them on regardless, and Tempest, confused, followed on behind them all.

  Then, as the first buildings of the village came into sight, Tempest’s nose wrinkled when an odor invaded her nostrils. A cloying, nightmarishly sweet smell that Tempest was sickeningly familiar with.

  Please no.

  It smelled exactly like the concoction Aleks had been brewing. It had to be a coincidence.

  Except it was worse, Tempest realized. A hundred times worse, because it was all around her, suffocating the air out of her lungs until she could scarcely breathe. This isn’t just the smell of some drug.

  She coughed heavily and wiped tears from her eyes as she forced herself through the village. There’s another smell here. It smells like—

  “Everybody is dead,” she gasped.

  The words caught in her throat like a hook. All around her were corpses strewn across the ground like dolls. At the end of the cobbled street was a blackened mound that looked disturbingly like a pile of burned bodies.

  Not a soul in the village was alive.

  “No,” Tempest whispered over and over again as she numbly check
ed every cottage and shop she passed by for survivors. Someone must have survived. But there were none—not even a stray dog or cat or chicken hiding in a corner. “No, no, no—”

  Her stomach rebelled as she spotted a little foot poking from around the corner of a house. She retched and fell to her hands and knees, vomiting up the breakfast she’d blindly eaten on her way over.

  “Let’s get you out of here, Temp,” Briggs said, very softly. “I’m sorry you had to see this. I’m—”

  “No,” she moaned. Tempest wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and staggered to her feet. Briggs wrapped an arm around her to keep her upright. “They’re dead. I’m not. I got the better end of the deal.”

  “Temp—”

  “Just need—to breathe,” she said, swaying dangerously against Briggs as he led her out through the other end of the village, where the sound of running water over gravel could be heard. It was a shallow stream, but substantial enough for Tempest to stoop down and slam her face into the bracing water to clear her head. But even after she dried herself, Tempest’s cheeks continued to grow wetter and wetter.

  She was silently sobbing and couldn’t stop.

  Tempest strode back toward the village. Briggs tried to grab her arm, but she jerked away. Death surrounded her, and she dropped to her knees, gazing at the vilest crime she’d ever witnessed. Who could do such a thing? Her gaze kept straying to the small foot. Who could hurt children? She dry-heaved again, tears and snot mixing on her face.

  It took her a few moments to realize that she and Briggs were not alone. A few feet in front of them stood a green-cloaked figure with flattened fox ears, hunched over another dead body. Another lurch in Tempest’s stomach insisted that she look away—that she run away and never come back—for the sight that lay in front of her was one that she desperately did not want to see. But she forced herself to look and to inhale the cloying scent she knew wasn’t a coincidence.

  “Pyre,” Briggs called over to the kitsune shifter. “Pyre, who is that? Do you know them?”

  Pyre took far too long to answer. It was the kind of pause that made Tempest certain that she should cover her ears to avoid hearing what he’d say.

  She didn’t.

  “Grandfather,” Pyre said, his voice flat and devoid of all emotion as he stood. “He was my grandfather.”

  Tempest

  She didn’t know what to say to Pyre. He stared out, desolate, at the remains of the village as if he didn’t dare look at his grandfather. Perhaps he was scared of what he would see in the old man’s face—or, rather, what he wouldn’t see.

  Either way, Tempest was a novice at dealing with such situations. Though she had lost her mother at a young age, Tempest had been fortunate enough to never have to deal with another death that directly affected her. Since living with the Hounds, no one she knew who had fallen victim to illness or grievous injury had ever died. Even Juniper’s family was healthy.

  She did not know what to say other than, “I’m so sorry for your loss,” though the words felt hollow. Of course she was sorry for Pyre’s loss—that was a given. But she couldn’t think of any words that could make the man’s entire frame stop shaking.

  Perhaps there were none.

  Pyre’s visible display of grief achieved one thing, though; Tempest finally managed to stop crying and regain control of her mental faculties. She followed his stare to look at the village with less emotional eyes. The place had been all but torn apart, and several outlying cottages were smoking as if their roofs were on fire. The final blow to this place was sudden and recent.

  Guilt weighed down on her. She somehow felt like it was her fault.

  Tempest braced herself for the stench of death once more and left both Pyre and Briggs and wandered through the village again. Old, young, male and female alike hadn’t escaped the plague.

  The drug. Someone did this on purpose.

  Her heart hurt whenever she saw the frail figure of a child lying in their bed or on the street, never to open their eyes or take a breath again. When she found a mother huddling a baby, she began crying again, and all of Tempest’s hard-fought-for control was lost.

  “Evil,” she said, not bothering to wipe away her tears. She wanted to feel them—wanted proof that she was not part of the evil. If King Destin and the Hounds were truly responsible for the massacre in front of her…

  Then I want no part in it.

  But that wasn’t enough.

  She turned to look at Pyre and discovered that he was already staring at her. She nodded her head.

  I will take down whoever is responsible for this, no matter who they are.

  But, though anger and vengeance were swelling in Tempest to overcome her grief, there was an undercurrent of dread beneath it. How was she supposed to discover the truth? How was she supposed to go home and confront Aleks about the herbs and the drug? Was he innocent? What if he admitted to knowledge of the crime? How was she supposed to do anything? She was only one person. A chill ran down her spine. What did she do if all of the Hounds were in on it?

  And what about King Destin?

  Tempest shivered despite the warmth of the afternoon sunshine filtering down from above her. The king had scared her when she’d met him, and he terrified her still, but Tempest had not thought him possible of this kind of mindless depravity. He seemed to rule well, after all. Dotae was flourishing with trade deals, and the level of poverty in the city was no worse than it had been under the rule of his father.

  Dotae is but one part of a very large kingdom, Temp. You’re not so naïve as to assume the state of one place reflects what life is like everywhere else.

  Which meant that Tempest had to be smart about what she did next. Careful. Calculated. If King Destin had perfected his veneer as a good and just ruler, and the Hounds truly were his unrelentingly loyal lapdogs come thick or thin, then Tempest could not come blazing back to Dotae with wild accusations, screaming of murder.

  I must have cards of my own. Think, Tempest. Think.

  And then it hit her.

  King Destin’s war council. She needed to be on his council and gain his trust.

  She rushed over to Pyre’s side, her footsteps thumping across the cobbles. He watched her do so with a completely expressionless face, his fox ears completely downcast.

  She hesitated and then squared her shoulders. “You brought me here for a purpose.”

  He laughed hollowly. “I did.”

  “Again, I’m so sorry…”

  “You have already said that you’re sorry for my loss,” he said. “Do not feel as if you have to express such sentiments a second time. I believe your grief for me to be genuine, no need to worry that I think you are lying.” His words were sharp and held an aristocratic tone of indifference.

  She shook her head. “I wasn’t.” Don’t hesitate. If Tempest didn’t ask Pyre now, then she was fairly certain she’d lose her resolve altogether. She forced herself to lock onto Pyre’s glassy, dispassionate eyes. The gold of his irises had never looked so dull.

  “Do you trust me?” she asked.

  Pyre barked out a humorless laugh. “After all this time, you want to know if I trust you? I’ve trusted you all that I can so far. That is all I can give you.” He gestured to the carnage around them. “I can offer death and decay.”

  “Then, Pyre, can I…” Tempest trailed off, the next words of her sentence stuck in her throat as if she were choking on food.

  Spit it out. Just spit it out. Even if it’s outrageous. Even if he’ll never say yes.

  A faint spark of interest lit up Pyre’s dead expression. He frowned at her. “Can you what, Temp?”

  She closed her eyes. Took a deep breath. She knew she had to ask.

  “Can I have your grandfather’s heart?”

  Tempest

  “His heart,” Tempest said again, hating herself for having to push on with the request but knowing she had to. Only a kitsune shifter heart would suffice for the king, for her ruse to work. “Ca
n I have it?”

  Pyre stared at her in confusion as if Tempest had lost her mind. His eyes grew wide, golden irises flashing with anger.

  She took a step toward the stunned man. “Pyre, I know it sounds insane but—”

  “I’m assuming you have a particularly valid reason for asking for it?” he bit out.

  “I do.”

  He scanned her from head to toe, his lip curling. A growl rumbled in his chest. “I can’t deal with this.” Pyre jerked his chin toward Briggs. “Take her home.”

  “I need you to listen to me,” she said with quiet desperation.

  “Not now. My grandfather is dead, and I can’t look at you without wanting to hurt you.”

  She fell silent and allowed Briggs to lead her away. Her resolve grew with each step they took away from the village. She’d been thrown into a game she knew nothing about, but she’d sworn to protect the innocent and bring justice to those who found delight in hurting others. Tempest had always believed herself to be strong—she had been through so much and come out fighting at the other end, regardless—but now everything Tempest had previously associated with strength felt hollow.

  What use is being a Hound if the entire group is corrupt? What use is physical strength when there is nobody to protect? What use is intellect and logic in the face of senseless massacres and illegal wars?

  Tempest glanced over her shoulder as Pyre bent low by his grandfather’s side, stroking the man’s sparse, graying hair away from his forehead with a tenderness Tempest herself had experienced first-hand the night before. She turned abruptly away, feeling as if she was watching an intimate moment that shouldn’t have spectators.

  “I stand on the side of the innocent,” she said with conviction, tipping her head up to stare at Briggs. No one should lose their loved ones to such senseless violence.

  The healer nodded gravely. “Good. They need all the protectors they can get.”