Araneae Nation: The Complete Collection

by Hailey Edwards

  Warning Daraja off had failed. The easy trust she inspired pried the scabs from old wounds, and they bled freely, but talking to her made him more at peace than he had been in a long time.

  Her quick laughter eased the burden of his conscience.

  “I think my feet would hurt less if I carried my boots to camp.” Daraja flexed her toes.

  He found himself staring at them, then up her bare calves. Soaked fabric clung to her curves. Tendrils of midnight hair had come undone and now curled at her nape. His fingers itched to twist those strands around them. He longed to claim her mouth, taste her skin, draw her scent into his lungs and trap it there to savor in the endless days ahead of him, after she had gone on her way and he was alone again. Daraja was vibrant, alive, and he craved that taste of mortality.

  “Are we going to leave her here?” she asked.

  Cupping her chin, Brynmor angled Daraja’s face toward him then smoothed his thumbs over the dark skin beneath her eyes. “You’re exhausted. How long has it been since you slept?”

  “I’m fine.” She stepped out of his reach. “What about Karenna?”

  “I’ll bring Errol and the others. We can take care of Karenna.” He advanced on her until she hit a large rock covered by vines creeping from the forest. Grasping her hips, he lifted her, set her on the highest point and turned his back on her. “Climb on. I’ll take you to the den so you can rest.”

  Expecting her to hesitate, he grunted when Daraja nimbly leapt on his back and wrapped her legs around his hips. He clasped her ankles at his navel, then used the rock for balance while she squirmed into position. While reminding himself to breathe for show, he thought if he needed air to survive, her chokehold would have crushed the life from him. He coughed and she patted him.

  “It’s been ages since someone carried me.” Her arms slid down to lock around his shoulders.

  He twisted to face her. “I’m surprised you accepted my offer.”

  “I’m not a fool. My feet hurt.” She squeezed his arm. “And you have plenty of muscle to get me where we’re going. Do you think you could hand me my boots? I’d rather not leave them.”

  Gingerly, he scooped them up and passed them to her. “Will there be anything else?”

  Her breathy laugh made him smile. “I’ll let you know if I think of something.”

  “You do that.” He wished he could do more for Karenna, but he couldn’t without proper tools. She had been rescued from the river. She could wait a while longer to be laid to rest.

  Scent trails crisscrossed this section of forest, and Brynmor had no trouble finding a familiar path. He readjusted Daraja, and her nails pierced his skin, drawing a sharp hiss from him.

  “Are your heels hurting?” She leaned forward, peeking over his shoulder. “Should we—?”

  “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” He had no intention of setting her down until he was forced to.

  “Did you hear that?” Daraja tugged on his collar.

  His ears weren’t as keen as hers. He exhaled until his lungs emptied, then drew in a gulp of night air. Neglecting his senses had cost him before. If he wasn’t breathing, he was a scent-blind target. He shook his head. Daraja’s company was more than pleasant. She heightened his senses, made him remember what it was to live. “I smell charred herbs.” He sneezed. “Burnt grass too.”

  Daraja kept her voice low. “Do you think it’s the hunters?”

  “It could be,” he was loath to admit. “There are other animals in these woods people hunt to supplement what can be purchased at the market. They’ll cover their tracks to prevent game from smelling them.” He inhaled again. “I don’t like this. Hunters are careful, but not to this degree.”

  “You can’t scent them?” He heard her sniffing the air. “I don’t smell anything.”

  “It’s very subtle.” He scanned the area for hints of where they had gone. “Some herbologists specialize in masking odors. Our clan used a salve when going on missions to prevent clans with keen senses of smell from detecting us before…” He grimaced. “I mean only that it’s possible.”

  “Were you an assassin?” Her fingers drummed against his shoulder.

  “Yes.” He was not ashamed of how he had earned a living and provided for his clan.

  “The Mimetidae are renowned for their skill with swords.” She sounded thoughtful. “Why is an assassin living among canis? Why don’t you carry your sword? You have no protection here.”

  “You have a lot of questions.” An endless supply of them it seemed.

  “You interest me,” she said simply. “I’ve never spent time with a male not from the docks.”

  With a sigh, he corrected her. “I have more protection than I’ll ever need among the pack.”

  “I suppose.” She grasped his ear and tugged the lobe. “Tell me why you chose this life.”

  He could hardly tell her the truth. “Is that what I am to you? A story waiting to be told?”

  “Who doesn’t love a good story?” She began to hum. “It’s where all the songs originated. It takes a good tale to earn a tune, and melodies last forever, passed down through the generations.”

  “Have I earned a song?” For some reason, the idea of being her muse appealed to him.

  “Not yet.” She snorted. “Only the bravest and wisest are worth remembering.”

  If not for her tone, his pride might have stung. “Then what will you give me in return?”

  “An ear, that’s what.” Her back straightened. “Has it not occurred to you that you confide in me so readily because you’ve been starved for companionship? I’m sure Errol is fine company if you prefer one-sided conversations, but I don’t think you do. I think you like talking to me. So if I like to listen, then what’s the harm?” Her fingers brushed his nape, and he shivered. “You and I can be friends. You can talk and entertain me with stories of your life, and I’ll consider writing a song for you—one day—if you commit a worthy act before you die. How does that strike you?”

  It occurred to him then he would never qualify by her terms, no matter how worthy his acts, but Daraja had made her point. Until now, Brynmor had been content with his canis companions.

  Daraja had ruined his blissful solitude. She made him crave more, crave her.

  He began to wonder if the gods hadn’t given him a second chance to make right what he had done wrong in his previous life. Perhaps they let him remain here knowing Daraja would one day find him, salvage him and restore his faith. The simple life she spoke of, with a home, a family, a place within the community, appealed to him. He had loved his people, he loved them still, but it did him no good to preside over Cathis from the forest where he was unable to effect change.

  Perhaps there was something to the Deinopidae philosophy of following the river.

  After all, look what it had brought to him.

  I sensed him being persuaded by my argument, and I ruffled his hair. Thick and black, it slid through my fingers like the finest silk. Certain he wouldn’t know, I lifted the strands to my nose.

  Brynmor smelled of the creatures he lived with and the ground where they slept.

  I decided it suited him. Dark, earthy and wild were all words that described him well.

  “I’ll tell you my story,” he said, seeming to hesitate, “but not until we reach the den.”

  “You’re worried about the canis.” After what happened last night, I couldn’t blame him.

  “No.” His admission surprised me. “I’m more concerned about us at the moment.”

  “What does it matter if we’re in the open?”

  “If these are the same hunters, they might have realized leaving the remains of a canis at the first camp they came to was unwise. A quick search of your things would have told them you were a hunter as well—and an easy scapegoat if they needed one.” His pace quickened until my teeth rattled. “After disposing of the second body and returning home with no one the wiser, they may have grown bolder. Or they might have become afraid of who you
are and what you know.”

  A shudder worked through me. “You’re saying we may be targets now.”

  “If they’re killing canis, they’re dead and they know it. Who are we to them? What else can be done to them? Nothing is more final than death.” He scoffed. “We must remain vigilant.”

  I nodded along with his assessment. “Wait—if you can scent the herbs they’re using…”

  “Then they must have used up their higher quality herbs covering their tracks last night.” He appeared heartened by the realization. “The stink of burnt grass is easy enough for me to trace.”

  “Which means you can find them, observe them and determine if these are the hunters from last night using different herbs,” I said. “Or, as you said, he could be another hunter altogether.”

  “Why did you say he?” Brynmor turned his head, and I admired the hard line of his jaw.

  I considered that first impression. “Assumption, I suppose. A feeling I have, really.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you.” He didn’t comment further, so the matter dropped.

  “Brynmor…”

  He froze and pointed ahead where light danced in a waving arc.

  Realization came too late. “They found the den.”

  “No.” His voice turned frigid. “They already knew where it was.”

  He rolled his shoulders, but I was ahead of him. I slid down his back and dropped my feet to the ground. The boots, I discarded. I had no time to lace them. Rocks had toughened the soles of my feet during the years I’d spent wading in rivers, and pine straw would hurt less than my boots would have. I was spinning a slow circle, searching for a weapon, when a sudden burst of clarity made me groan. I had propped both my spears against the gnarled tree’s trunk for safe keeping.

  They wouldn’t be keeping anyone safe now.

  The knife I had kept at my hip since meeting Brynmor made a poor substitute. I would have to get close to do damage with the short blade since I was not as tall or as strong as I expected the hunters were. For good measure, I tapped the spinnerets in my fingers and spun enough silk for a lariat. I tied the final loop knot as I ran. “We ought to circle around and come up behind them.”

  I glanced up when he didn’t answer, but I was alone. The knife in my hand felt heavier, or it might have been guilt piling on my conscience. This was Brynmor’s fight. If he was evading the hunters, should I do the same? Had something changed he didn’t see fit to tell me? Did he expect me to defend the pack alone? “Gods above, the male could have warned me before he vanished.”

  Assassin indeed. He must have been a fine one. I examined the ground. No prints. No clues. He had left me alone, again. This time lives were at stake, his and mine, as well as the pack’s.

  I hefted my knife and exhaled when moonlight glinted off the blade.

  While my mind whirred with indecision, I missed the first reedy yips of a pup defending her home. Jana. Her soulful eyes filled my memory. Thoughts of how her round belly felt, taut with her mother’s milk—a mother that had been taken from her—shed my doubts, and I advanced alone.

  The light ahead extinguished before I reached the trees nearest the den. Crouching low, I hid long enough to determine Brynmor was nowhere to be seen. What was he up to? I wish I knew.

  Jana’s barks turned as vicious as any pup I had ever heard. Her steady snarls prompted me to creep closer to the den’s entrance, which I couldn’t see from this vantage point, and when I hit a patch of sparse foliage, I saw what had her riled. One male stood before her, another behind her. The one at her back carried a hefty sack with ugly stains the color of dried blood on the bottom.

  They meant to capture her, and that I would not allow.

  Before I cleared my hiding spot, Jana yelped in surprise. I was too late.

  The second male hefted the wriggling sack, twisting the bag while trailing his finger around its rim, spinning a silk thread to cinch it closed and keep his quarry from escaping.

  I leapt into the fray as a black canis barreled from the forest and launched through the air. Its huge paws hit the back of the hunter clutching the bag, and he toppled over, landing on his side with a keening cry that was too animalistic to be his. Jana’s pained whining incensed the canis. Errol’s jaws gaped before he snapped them closed around the back of the hunter’s neck.

  Snarls masked the rending of flesh and the frantic cries of the hunter as Errol savaged him.

  “Gwallter,” the first hunter cried. He drew a sword I hadn’t noticed and lunged at the canis.

  If his aim had been truer, the beast’s heart would have been punctured. As it was, Errol dove to one side, and the blade sank into the right of his chest. The vicious sound in his throat gurgled. The hunter wrenched his blade free and advanced on Errol when the canis collapsed with a whimper.

  When Errol focused on me, my heart lurched. No animal should hold that depth of sorrow in its eyes. It was too much. I couldn’t wait for Brynmor. I had to act. I had to save him.

  A scream welled in my throat, and the first hunter whirled around, sword raised. He scowled at me, confused. He glanced between his fallen comrade, the wounded canis and me. He seemed to decide Errol couldn’t harm the male he’d called Gwallter more than he had already, so he faced me with a cautious air that said my gender didn’t undermine the danger I represented in his mind.

  He braced his legs apart and said, “Stop. There’s no need for bloodshed.”

  I slowed, more to assess the situation than to obey him. “And yet there has been already.”

  “Your scent is familiar.” He pointed the tip of his sword at me. “You’re the hunter.”

  My knife felt smaller and smaller all the time. “Am I?”

  “You set up a camp near here.” He paused. “I had wondered if you were out here, alone.”

  “Thank you for your concern.” I chose to ignore his implication. “It seems we’re both alone now.” I offered him a coy smile. “Tell me. Are you responsible for leaving the gift at my camp?”

  His grip on his sword tightened.

  I responded in kind, prepping my lariat. “You would risk your neck for a canis pelt?”

  His expression turned grim. “There is no law against hunting in these woods.”

  “Hunting, no,” I said, sneaking a glance at Errol. “But it’s my understanding hunting canis is forbidden.” I appraised him, would remember if we met again, but I knew he was Mimetidae by the black of his eyes and matching sash at his waist. His clan color was black, as mine was gray.

  “Gwallter spotted the pup.” His gaze followed mine and snagged on the thrashing bag restraining Jana. He wet his lips before addressing me. “We thought she’d been abandoned.”

  A jerk of my head indicated the fallen. “You can see that’s not the case.”

  “There is a good reason why they died out in this range. They roam these woods at the whim of our paladin.” He lowered his sword. “Let me finish this beast off so it doesn’t suffer. Then we can talk this through while I tend Gwallter.” He waited, tension hidden behind his smile. “Well?”

  His friend was dead. Tightness in his lips when he tried to smile said he knew it too.

  “No.” For Brynmor’s sake, I protected his companion. “You won’t end him or take the pup.”

  The hunter advanced, stopping when his sword’s point bit into the hollow of my throat.

  I angled my chin up, daring him to press his case.

  “It’s one pup.” The hunter tilted his head. “The dam can birth another.”

  “You killed her dam.” Pressure from the blade made my voice quaver. I refused to believe it was fear. “Don’t pretend ignorance. I was there, at the river, when you disposed of her remains.”

  “You were,” he said softly.

  Stiffening my spine, I met his gaze. “I was.”

  His shoulders tensed. “I wish you hadn’t said that.”

  I regretted the slip too, but anger had loosened my tongue.

  “Why do you
want her?” I asked to stall for time to think of a way out of this.

  “The charm trade is bustling.” The hunter stared at the pup. “Alive, she’s worth more gold to me than the other canis combined. Magic is most potent when the organs are fresh. The paws and teeth are used to ward against the plague. Clans are growing desperate for a cure as the yellow death blights the southlands. They will pay any price for hope. It is a precious commodity these days.”

  “How cruel you are to sell it.” When there were those who believed in their false magic.

  “How foolish they are to buy it,” he corrected me.

  “You know the paladin will have you hanged for killing the canis.” Brynmor had said so.

  The hunter bared his teeth. “I will not be hanged.”

  I kept my mouth shut, but he was mistaken if he thought he would walk away from this unscathed.

  “Your friend died for this scheme of yours,” I said. “Will you do the same?”

  “He knew the risks.” The hunter’s voice hardened. “As do I.”

  “Then you accept the consequences.”

  “Give me the pup,” he said at last. “Let me finish what he and I started. If you leave these woods and do not return, then I will not harm you. There would be no need. Let his death serve a purpose. I will bring his body before the paladin and tell him I caught Gwallter hunting the canis. I will admit I confronted him, that there was a struggle, and that I killed him.”

  “Playing the part of the hero.” I all but rolled my eyes. “How courteous of you.”

  Shame flickered across his face, or perhaps I imagined it.

  “You weren’t trapped inside the city walls when the plague ravaged Cathis. You did not hold your wife as she died while praying your daughter wasn’t next. You did not see males you’ve known the whole of your life vanish without a trace. I knew males who disappeared. They were not cowards and would not have left their families.” The hunter sneered. “You and your wide, innocent eyes have never beheld desperation, let alone experienced it. You have not eaten the flesh of your clansmen in the hopes you survive long enough for aid to arrive.” He laughed bitterly. “You have no right to judge me.”