by Kacey Ezell
Firnt flicked his ears to Blade in return, amused by the small show of deference and perhaps by the interplay between Ichys and Blade.
“Uchir, who has hunted for Whispering Fear since our dama was a kit just leaving the den,” Ichys said, Blade’s tail still grasped in her hand. She paused long enough for each male she introduced to exchange the traditional greeting with Blade, and continued, “Girrip, more often off-world than home in the den. Jres, who also grew up in the deepest of the southern jungles, and still finds our city ways baffling. Echrys, who leaves us tomorrow for a contract, and sleeps more than he wakes when he is at home.”
The affection and warmth in the room was real. Chirruch sank into it with a wistful sort of envy, which only made Blade’s resentment grow. He missed his clan. He missed Susa, always bringing snacks. Reow, pushing them and loving them, her expectations and approval all in a mix. He missed his littermates, the unguarded joy they indulged in the safety of the den. He missed home, and there was a not insignificant chance some or all of these Hunters had played a part in taking that from him.
Blade watched with Chirruch’s yearning to be a part of a growing, successful clan, covering his own weighing of the interactions. Why this combination of Hunters, for this dinner, for Ichys to introduce him more informally to the clan? Were they the trusted council around the dama? Was this the group Dirrys had consulted, before choosing to burn his den to the ground? Watch. Find a way. His dama’s words echoed in his head.
He listened more than he spoke, telling only one story—a self-deprecating one, mostly true, of how he ended up stuck, hanging upside down in a Basreeni den, and all the hijinks that resulted in getting in, and out, of said situation.
The Hunters laughed, a little at him, a little with him, and Ichys beamed at him in approval. When she turned her head to speak with Uchir, Sivand slid from her seat and lounged over to Blade, shoving him over on the bench to sit next to him.
“She has decided to mate with you,” the younger female said, ears swiveled toward Ichys and eyes on Blade, a sparkle of trouble all throughout her posture. “Surely you know. This was your last test, with some of her favorite Hunters of the clan. I think they like you.”
“They?” Blade asked, his eyes wandering over to Ichys without his making a choice to look at her. He wondered if this meant Dirrys wasn’t coming, and there wasn’t a dinner at all. He wondered if this was a good idea. He wondered why he didn’t care whether or not it was.
“Oh, I think you’re fine. I’ll decide if I like you if Ichys decides she likes mating with you. If she’s happy, I’ll have no cause to take your tail for a trophy.” She flashed her claws, giving her light tease the very edge of a threat. Death would have approved.
“Am I here for the dama’s approval as well?” he asked, acknowledging her comment by dipping his head and not arguing it.
“Oh, no. Dama will wait until we are all assembled and restless to make her appearance with the food. It makes us appreciate her more.” Bitterness touched her tone, there and gone, glancing enough that he could have imagined it. “Ichys has learned how to take advantage of the pauses.” She shrugged expressively, and bounded away to tackle Echrys.
Blade filed the information for later reflection, pulled his thoughts away from the idea of mating with Ichys, and determined Firnt and Uchir were his targets for the evening. Before he could move, a scent distracted him.
All the Hunters lifted their noses slightly, smelling the meat coming their way. Underneath it, a sharper scent. Hunter. Female. One he recognized, faintly.
The dama had arrived.
Each Hunter pointed their face attentively toward the entrance, and Dirrys paused between hall and room, looking them over. A mechanized wagon behind her was loaded with food.
“Dama, we greet you,” Ichys said, inclining her head. A murmurer of the same words rose from each of the Hunters, and Dirrys blinked an acknowledgement, flicking her eyes over both her kitas, and then the other Hunters. Her ears pricked in interest, seeing Blade, but he kept his eyes low. Easier to hide his hate by pretending deference, easier to tamp his rage when he only saw her in the periphery of his vision.
“My kitas. My clan.” It was a version of completing the greeting, Blade supposed, though not a gracious one. Indicating all in the room belonged to her, which would roughen the fur of even the most loyal clan Hunter. “And a new arrival.”
“Dama,” Uchir spoke, as the eldest in the room, “Chirruch, of Deep Night.”
“Yes, Ichys’s guest. I suppose you must be quite…impressive, Hunter.”
“Dama,” Blade murmured, keeping his eyes low.
“You all have waited most patiently for me while I completed my business, very well, very well. Let us eat.” She stepped into the room, tail and head high, confident in her ownership of all within. The wagon apparatus rolled in behind her, and Sivand moved to meet it. Though her ears flicked in barely muted resentment, she unloaded the food to the table while Dirrys made herself comfortable.
Conversation resumed, and Blade noticed how much less warmth there was. A measure of ease still, as none seemed frightened of their dama. Conversation centered about contracts, and a new trade agreement, nothing scandalous or interesting or fraught with danger. But the companionship that had made him long for home had ebbed, and for the first time Blade considered that he may not have to kill everyone in the room.
The relief should have worried him.
* * *
Nights turned into ninenights. He interacted little with the dama, but cultivated the relationships he’d begun all around her.
With Firnt, he wandered merchant stalls, asking questions about off-world contracts with all the hidden eagerness of one who had not yet taken one—and learning more about the state of the clan’s off-world income. Who took the most contracts, who was in disgrace with the dama, whose jobs took so long it seemed they were avoiding the den.
With merchants, he learned more about the finances—by being a charming, slightly naive customer, he learned which of Whispering Fear’s Hunters owed money, or overpaid.
With Uchir, he drank Cooz and laughed at the older Hunter’s sharp observations, learning about clan dynamics, and where alliances had solidified or might have more room to push.
With Ichys, he sometimes forgot his aim. They talked about everything, hunted with savage joy, and after several days of late meals, acknowledged they had been courting without purpose, and made it quite spectacularly purposeful.
The closest he got to losing everything was late one evening, walking with Ichys after a midday meal, when he saw Mhrand, casual and leaning.
Anger rippled through him at the sight of the aerial Hunter. Last Blade had seen him, Mhrand had been following Death as she fought to help him escape the explosions in their den. The fact that he was here, now, meant that he must have killed or abandoned Death and his own growing kits in the midst of that overpowering attack. Had Death survived? Had she died when Mhrand abandoned her? Had he run when staying would have meant everything?
“Hackles down, little male,” Ichys purred in his ear. “I’m only taking one wandering Hunter back to my den these nights.”
Blade smoothed his fur with effort, forcing his muscles to ease, and turned his face away from Mhrand’s idle conversation with Firnt over Cooz. A newly arrived younger male could be excused from tensing at the sight of a similarly sized and aged rival appearing without warning in territory not yet claimed, but Chirruch had no reason to know Mhrand enough to challenge him, nor any standing to do so. Whispering Fear had not reached its age by encouraging internal rivalries, and Chirruch would prove nothing but his own weakness by being threatened by someone as newly arrived as he. He could be forgiven this one slip, given how recently and casually he’d been taken to mate by Ichys, but Blade had to ignore the pulsing need to rip Mhrand’s eyes from his skull and braid his tail into his spilled intestines.
“His fur is patchy and dry,” Blade sniffed dismissively, rewarded b
y her low laugh. “Is it only nights, or…?”
Laughing again, she turned them away and back to her den before Mhrand even looked their way.
* * *
“He mated with a damita from Night Wind,” Firnt explained, matching his pace to Blade’s as they circled the market, considering what they wanted to eat. “Realized the clan was rotten and left, heard a few days later how deep the rot had gone. Spent some time in the jungle getting his balance back, figuring out how to choose a clan so as not to make the same mistakes. Nasty business.”
“If they were that rotted, more likely they kicked him out—why risk letting him stay, if he’s so honorable,” Blade offered, apparently distracted, putting more effort into scenting for the best midday meal option than paying attention to his fellow Hunter’s take on the newest arrival to Whispering Fear’s outskirts.
“That’s a point. Always more than someone says about what they’ve been up to, eh?”
“When it comes to you off-world Hunters,” Blade added, making sure to keep himself out of that category, even in only Firnt’s head, and pulled his lips back in mock scorn. “Always so sneaky and playing five games at once. Give me a plain old jungle hunt, just stalk and harry, no plan needed.”
“Who needs a plan when hunting with Ichys goes so well,” Firnt replied, teasing in turn, dropping his jaw in a grin when Blade chuffed in acknowledgement of the hit. “It is a point Mhrand didn’t go back to his own clan after all that, now that you mention it.”
“His own clan doesn’t have such fine females, I wager.” Blade gestured at a food cart up ahead, not wanting to seed his dislike of Mhrand too obviously. Let the points itch at Firnt until the blunt male wondered aloud to Mhrand. Firnt would be likely to mention he’d been talking with Blade, and if Blade knew Mhrand, that gray male would charge right up to a newly arrived jungle Hunter with few allies. Mhrand had no subtlety, and Blade had never been so happy for that truth.
* * *
“How many clans should a Hunter consider, before the Hunter becomes the problem?” Blade asked lightly, throwing down the dice as Uchir drank.
“Bored of Whispering Fear already?” Uchir asked, spitting in disgust at the roll and throwing down a chit. “Or is it Ichys hinting you should move along? I thought you’d last longer.”
“Hilarious.” He rolled again, then made a noise of disgust annoyance and refilled both their mugs. “All right, sure, say it’s me,” his tone made it obvious it wasn’t, as did the heated glance he unthinkingly sent Ichys’s way. “I came in from Deep Night, poked around Whispering Fear, got some interest from a female, then leave with my tail low when she shoos me off. Can I go to Split Trunk, or will they wonder about me? In the jungles we like decisiveness, but maybe in the city you get more options.”
Unfortunate, that the sound ebbed and his words landed clearly enough that Mhrand heard, across the room where he sat discussing contracts with two other Whispering Fear Hunters. Uchir’s rasping laugh landed in that semi-silence, and the other male scooped up the dice in turn.
“Ichys looks ready to eat you fresh from the hunt, kit, so I don’t think you have to worry about being shooed off just yet. Let’s finish our round before she pounces.”
* * *
Even Blade could have planned it only slightly better, when Mhrand finally came for him. Tender tree-grugs had recently finished their breeding season, leaving the new batch of wrigglers unattended by their erstwhile brooders, and Blade made it a point to brag about his plan to fetch a newly fledged morsel to present to Ichys, as though not knowing how trite such a move was in city circles. He headed for the upper canopies, and left just enough of a trail to prove he had nothing to hide.
He’d caught and bagged two grugs, and draped himself over a thick collection of tangled branches to consider if he wanted a third. There was a fine line to showing off, and he didn’t want to stay out so long it seemed that he was avoiding anything.
The mass of branches and vines vibrated slightly beneath him, and for a second he let himself be surprised that he hadn’t sensed anyone following him sooner. But then, no matter how unworthy Mhrand had ultimately proven himself to be, Death would never have selected him if he’d been completely useless from the beginning.
“I don’t think Ichys likes grugs enough for us to both bring her some,” Blade called into the jungle, as though he didn’t know exactly which direction Mhrand was stalking him from.
The vibrations faded, then resumed slightly fainter than before. Blade’s pulse picked up in excitement, and he rolled onto his side, visibly uncaring. It gave him the leverage to push off at an unexpected angle, when Mhrand launched himself from the layer of vines above, bursting from the tightly wrapped collection of leaves to strike the empty patch Blade had left behind.
Blade nearly laughed at how simple it was—not for the first time, he considered how lucky he had been to have so many surviving littermates. The training they’d given each other from their earliest days continued to benefit him—after a lifetime of trying to dodge the aptly named Death From Above, Blade would never fall victim to a barely-skilled lunge like Mhrand’s.
He doubled back with breathless ease while Mhrand was still realizing his attack had missed, and Blade swiped a handful of claws down Mhrand’s side with utter satisfaction.
“Oh!” he declared, eyes wide and pupils huge, “Mhrand! I thought you were a slipskin, trying to make lunch of me. No one answered,” he leapt over Mhrand as the other male turned lightning quick to answer the attack, and left matching stripes of blood down Mhrand’s other side, “so I assumed I was wrong. Thought maybe I was smelling a bilge-pest.” It was a childish insult, given the rage seeing this traitor provoked in him, but even now, Blade could not be Blade. Chirruch had no reason to hate Mhrand, but every reason to antagonize a rival Hunter who had attacked him first.
To compound the insult, Blade channeled Del at his most infuriating. He lounged on his hind legs, lifting a front paw to groom himself as though Mhrand posed absolutely no threat whatsoever.
Mhrand spat on the ground between them, tail bristling, something like a yowl gurgling in his chest. Blade cocked his head curiously, pretending to try to understand words that weren’t being spoken.
“How silly of me. You don’t smell like a bilge-pest! I mean, of course you sound like a two-legged caseera looking for its other legs, but we’re both surprised, aren’t we? Did you want to try and catch a wriggler?”
Mhrand launched himself again, as of course he would, and Blade threw himself low, close to the bark of the tree, and twisted as he passed under Mhrand to add a third set of claw marks down the exposed belly. Fast, brutal, and disappointingly empty of the satisfying spill of intestines. He couldn’t kill Mhrand, as much as every bit of him yearned for it. He couldn’t whisper any intense warning, nor do anything that might show Chirruch as having depths the young jungle Hunter shouldn’t so much as know existed.
Dirrys was his true prey, and nothing else was worth shaking Chirruch’s path. Killing Mhrand would satisfy something in him, but would neither avenge nor clear Night Wind, and so he would resist the overpowering urge. Humiliation though, that would be well within a talented young Hunter’s claws.
“You’re bleeding like prey,” he observed, resuming the insultingly at-ease posture of a moment ago. “I don’t think you’ll be able to sneak up on a wriggler in that state, but if you want to play bait for a slipskin, I’m sure I can kill it before it eats you. I’m not nearly as tired from today as you look.”
Mhrand panted, pulling himself back up to his back feet with a growl. He met Blade’s eyes, his own slitted with pain and rage, and gathered himself to spring again.
“Really? I had no idea you city clan-hoppers were so stubborn. Maybe you could make it up in the deep jungle after all. I mean, not like this,” Blade gestured to the freely bleeding wounds streaking Mhrand’s gray fur, “but in general.” He was overdoing it on the insults, but he could see Mhrand wavering and was running out
of opportunities to siphon off the bloodlust.
The air pressure shifted, and a shadow dropped between them, resolving itself into Uchir. The older male had a mixture of amusement and boredom in his bearing, ears pricked forward in a neutral alertness.
“Enough of that then, younglings. Whispering Fear needs Hunters, not rutting animals. Get yourself cleaned up,” he added to Mhrand, who sagged at the sudden cutting of tension.
Inwardly, Blade fumed that Mhrand had been idiot enough to let someone follow him, but then supposed his own trail had been enough. He’d had to leave it for Mhrand, but of course any other clan member could have let curiosity take them this way as easily. Outwardly, he maintained the insultingly unconcerned lounge and groomed himself.
“Enough showing off, you,” Uchir added to Blade, but there was a rough fondness in his tone that meant Chirruch had passed a test. “We’re going to put all that energy of yours to work for the clan. I think Ichys might take you off world.”
Moving into their off-world contracts meant a significant step closer to the inner workings of Whispering Fear. In some way then, Blade owed a debt to Mhrand, for taking him forward. It was a debt Blade would only ever repay by drawing more blood, and perhaps an organ, but a debt all the same.
* * *
There were over a dozen Hunters in the room, gathered in a cavern that had been carved long ago to ensure nearly fifty Hunters could be in one place without crowding against each other. A sensible precaution—Hunters wouldn’t kill each other, but that had never meant they wouldn’t fight, and many Hunters were better off only occasionally seeing others of their kind. Putting too many prickly, highly-trained killers in a too-enclosed space was a fine way to court disaster, and whoever had built this audience chamber in the middle of Whispering Fear’s den had planned for it.
With a smaller group though, sound carried oddly, and the room seemed too big. There were no obvious perches or ledges for resting above the floor, though the walls seemed rough enough to allow for a determined climb if one wanted to go around their peers. An elevated section across the room from the entrance held a cushioned bench, clearly meant for the dama, as there were no other seats or places to rest.