Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  She touches the rope protectively. “It’s a private well. I’ve no water to share.”

  My gaze flicks to where Cohen waits behind a tree. “Please. My friend and his horse haven’t had much to drink in days.”

  The dog lets out a whining whimper, and the woman’s face crumples as the animal struggles through labored pants.

  “Shh, shh,” the woman coos as she gently strokes his head and neck.

  My sympathy goes out to her and her dog. There’s nothing to be done for him but wait for death. I imagine little more than a trace remains in the animal’s life. If anything, he needs to be put out of his misery. Perhaps I can do this service for the woman.

  “Would you like—” I stop when the woman glances at my bow and presses her hand to her mouth to muffle a sob. Her anguish somehow marks me, slicing me to the core with surprising compassion.

  “He was bitten by a snake and there’s venom in his body. He’s suffering, but I cannot end him. Not yet.” She sniffs.

  A venom-crazed dog attack would be bad. I should insist on putting him down. Only my brain’s message doesn’t reach my feet, and now I’m kneeling beside the dog, wishing to help.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, for lack of anything more, confused by my own reaction. In either her sadness or shock, she has allowed me to be near her animal.

  A tear runs a straight path down the woman’s face. “My husband died a year ago, my eldest boy six months later.” Her hand lingers, making slow strokes from the dog’s head to back. “He’s watched over my family, kept us safe. He tends the herd and the chicken coop.” She wipes her eyes. “He’s just a dog. But to us, he’s family.”

  I let my hands take the place of hers on the dog’s head. If the animal’s fear and pain were visible, I’m certain it would look like steam wafting off a boiling kettle.

  “Even Beannach water didn’t help,” she says in a choked voice.

  “Beannach water?”

  “Blessed water.”

  Must be another Shaerdan custom. For snake venom, an antidote would’ve been a better choice. I don’t tell her this, though.

  Usually when an animal is on the edge of death, it’s because I brought it to that point, and so my blessing is one of peace and thanks. A strong, compelling urge to help the dog drives me to act, but I don’t know what to do other than offer a similar blessing.

  Moving from throat to trunk, my hands sweep in a soothing stroke. Beneath my palms, I sense the strangest bit of darkness, the snake’s venom, slithering through the animal’s veins. This is insane. And yet I know it’s true. I know it’ll soon spread through his vitals, a shadow stealing the last bits of light. With every second that passes, alarm rushes through me as he falls further victim to the poison.

  My prayer starts like all the others I’ve muttered over the years, soothing, calming words, but I cannot bring myself to finish the same. The woman’s sniffles escalate into full-blown wails. Her misery draws something different from me. They make me want to somehow fight against the venom. My shapeless words turn to a silent plea, asking the weakened life to remain. To be strong. To fight the toxin.

  My palms make upward strokes from the dog’s torso to his mouth.

  Be strong.

  The dog quakes and the darkness in his veins moves, leaving me amazed and frightened and baffled. I could be mad. Delusional. But the motion of my hands seems to be drawing the sickness up and out of his body. Numbness spreads from my trembling fingers to my elbows. Little beads of sweat break out across my brow. The well and the woman and the woods whirl around me. I tilt my head side to side to clear the echo in my ears and stop my vision from dimming when all I really want to do is lie down and sleep.

  The injured dog is suddenly on his feet, shaking me off. He makes it half a dozen paces before his body racks itself, ribs pushing in and out as he vomits.

  The foul stench snaps me out of the head fog. Staggering to my feet, I gag and then dry heave.

  The woman appears at my side, sobbing and saying something that makes no sense because the fog returns. She is endless tears over a stream of unintelligible mumbling, and I’m terrified that I’ve killed her dog.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I repeat as I stumble away, toes tripping over tree roots. Cohen’s deep tenor echoes nearby, but it’s overshadowed by the woman’s chatter. Her words mesh together. I stumble forward. Blink against the splotches overtaking my vision. I am an hourglass, my energy seeping out fast, fast, faster.

  I walk into a wall.

  “Britta, stop!” The wall is Cohen.

  I’m in his arms. Mine flop by my side while Cohen is speaking; only his words slip away before I can catch them.

  Warm water trickles over my lips. Down my chin.

  Cohen’s face hides behind the splotches in my sight.

  His grip bites into my arms. It jars me awake. “What’s happened? You were at the well. I stepped back so the woman wouldn’t see me. Then you’re crashing through the trees.” He sounds afraid, though Cohen is never afraid. “Where are you hurt?”

  Hands start moving, touching.

  “Dog . . . needed help,” I force out.

  This time when the blackness slips in, Cohen cannot keep me from it.

  Chapter

  15

  “WAKE UP, DOVE.” WARMTH BRUSHES MY EAR. The rough curls of a beard graze my forehead before lips press against my temple. Ah, that’s nice.

  Though I wouldn’t mind staying in the dark warmth a moment more, I open my eyes. Cohen is holding me, his face a sliver from mine. I’m limp, boneless. Beyond the haziness, a low animal whine sounds again and again. Disoriented, I slowly take in more of the scene—​Cohen sitting on a rock, supporting me with one arm under my back and another under my knees; a whitish golden dog beside us, nudging my leg with his snout; a dark-haired woman a few paces off, waiting with a careful expression.

  She’s the woman from the well. And her dog. Tail-wagging, tongue-lolling, happy dog.

  “You left so quickly.” The woman shuffles closer, bucket in hand. “Forgive me for not giving you water when you asked before.”

  “She needs more than water. She needs rest.” Cohen sounds different, strained and angry. I wish I could curl into him more, but my noodle body doesn’t respond how I want.

  “Aye. My home is close.” She points beyond me. “But the Beannach water will strengthen her the most. It’s the best way I can help. It will help make her whole again.”

  I can feel Cohen’s reservation in his clenching grip. He must trust her to some extent because he takes the water from her, sniffs it, and then tastes some. After deciding it’s good, he cups a handful for me.

  Scoop after scoop, he encourages me to drink till my belly is full. My tongue tingles from the Beannach water. Better than what we’ve drunk out of the streams, each mouthful tastes like drops of honey have been added. The sweetness spreads through my heavy limbs, infusing them with lightness and strength at the same time.

  I glance at the eager blue eyes of the woman, brimming with concern. It makes sense that she’s a Channeler. She provides a bucket of her blessed water for Cohen before leaving and returning with two buckets for Siron, which she refills as soon as he empties them.

  “The well is sacred to my family.” Reverence touches her comment as she gathers the empty wooden buckets by their braided rope handles. “Whenever you’re passing through, please drink from it.”

  Her head dips, thick black hair falling forward as she places a bronze-toned hand to her violet dress just over her heart. “My offer of gratitude. Go well with the spirit.”

  What do I say to that? I blink at her, mind wading through exhaustion to come up with a response. Cohen scuffs his foot against the ground. I turn my chin to find him staring at me with a strange, almost alarmed expression in his eyes.

  “Er, you too.” I attempt a small wave that ends up looking like a hand stutter.

  Cohen’s attention catapults to the woman as she walks away, confusion and
curiosity betraying his usual gambler’s face. If he’s trying to figure out what transpired between the woman, the dog, and me, well, his guess is as good as mine.

  A quiet, subdued Cohen saddles up behind me and encases my frame in his arms before clicking his tongue twice against his teeth—​a command for Siron to leave. The water has renewed Siron, giving him vigor to run fast, taking us far from the town and the woman’s well. We’ve traveled over a league when I realize the significance in the woman’s comment. “She needs more . . .”

  I twist in the seat to look at Cohen, wide-eyed. “The woman knows I’m a girl. She—​what if she talks about us?”

  His hands shift to rest loosely on my hips. “We’ll be fine, Britt.” I expect worry, but his voice is cavalier and his expression unreadable. It’s a reckless move to continue on a westward path. He must know that.

  “We don’t know her. We should change course.” Siron’s hoofs clip against the rock lining of a dried-up creek taking us west to Celize, where the land is greener. Over my shoulder, Cohen’s face shows no hint of apprehension.

  “She told me you helped with her dog.” The tone of his voice rises as if he’s asking a question. My head is too cloudy from the aftermath to figure out what happened. Perhaps Cohen is equally confused, which is why he’s not pressing me for answers. His eyes are indecipherable, telling me nothing of his thoughts. I don’t know how it was possible for me to draw poison out of the animal. Before I can explain to Cohen what happened, I need to be able to understand it myself.

  “She believes she owes you a debt. She won’t betray you to Shaerdan’s soldiers or Omar.” He breaks my concentration with his matter-of-fact tone, insisting worry about the woman is superfluous. I find myself relaxing. “Besides, Channelers don’t speak of their magic to outsiders.”

  Seeds, I hope that’s not the case with everyone. How will I figure out what happened?

  Never in my life have I possessed the power to heal anything. Truth and lies are discernible to me, and I have an uncanny knack of knowing when animals are close to death. But healing a dog? Normal girls simply don’t heal dogs. It’s a mystery. An alarming, confusing mystery.

  I wish I knew more about my mother. Papa rarely spoke of her. She grew up in Shaerdan. Was she also a Channeler? A healer? Could the same power run through my veins? And yet, if that were so, Papa would’ve told me. Wouldn’t he?

  Control yourself, thoughts and actions. Then you can combat the world. There’s no comfort in Papa’s words, not today when my mind is spinning and utterly out of control. The farther we travel, the more uncertainty plays tricks on my mind. And Cohen surely isn’t saying anything.

  The water helped restore some of my energy, but not enough to keep me awake against Siron’s drumming tempo. My lids droop, my joints ache, and my head pounds. More fatiguing is the allure calling to my entire body at Cohen’s nearness. My gritty eyes close and open, fighting to stay awake; it’s all I can do not to meld into him when his large hand strays from my waist to my head, holding me to his sturdy frame. His breath dances against my cheek.

  “Sleep, Britt. I’ve got you.”

  Distance, my head cries. But my body, a pushover to his warmth seeping into my back, battles me into silence. His spice and woodsy notes drift with me into the dark.

  The scene at the well slowed us down. To make up for it, we travel all night and through the next day. Honeysuckle-and-amethyst rain clouds hover over the lingering blaze of sunset from a storm that passed through earlier.

  Once the sun drops and the temperature dips, my flesh bumps up like a chicken’s. The tunic I’ve been wearing for days is too thin, and my weak muscles quiver against the chill in the air.

  Cohen mutters a curse under his breath and tugs the reins north. “Padrin’s not far off. It’s a small forest village, away from the main road. We’ll sleep there.”

  “Shouldn’t we stay in the woods?” My jaw jitters. Though the idea of sleeping somewhere warm appeals to me, it would be reckless. It’s easier to escape the guards if we steer clear of towns. I can tough it out. A little cold has never hurt me.

  “You need a decent night’s rest, maybe two.” His arm flexes around my midsection.

  When I object again, his chin dips closer to my ear, his voice insistent. “We’ve been in streams and backwoods for five days on a zigzag course to lose them. Padrin is so far from the main road, they’d never consider checking for us there.” His proximity muddles my thoughts. Makes me think a night indoors doesn’t sound half bad. “If anything, Britt, a day or two there will get them off our scent.”

  The planes of Cohen’s torso down to the muscled ridge of his abdomen tense behind me. I cannot stop another shiver from seizing me. He makes a small noise as if my shudder is due to the cold and I’ve proven his point. “We’re sleeping on a bed tonight.”

  If there weren’t a road leading into Padrin, a traveler might miss the forest-camouflaged town. The shops and homes, the color of mud, sit wedged between thick, gnarled trees. An earthy tang of new rain mixed with lumber and ripe manure masks the air around a pig farm on the far west reach of town.

  Bludger, it’s terrible. At least the odor works to mask Cohen’s inebriating scent. The man’s been traveling for days. Weeks. How can he smell so good?

  Cohen nudges Siron toward an inn that sits on the edge of the forest. “I know the owner—​he’s an informant of mine,” he explains as we ride along the back to the stable. “He’ll alert us to any trouble.”

  Cohen leaves to make arrangements for rooms while I wait in the stable with Siron, who, per usual, regards me with a casual glance and a snort, though he seems chipper to be out of the woods. Not much later, male voices echo from outside the stable just before Cohen enters with an older man who could be my father’s age.

  “I’m Kendrick.” The man extends his callused hand to me in a handshake and then claps me on the back. “Put some more meat on your bones, lad. You’re a mouse compared to Cohen.”

  I cough to cover my surprise and realize the cap still hides my hair. Even so, the word “lad” rankles. Outside the well, Cohen didn’t seem to care that the woman knew I was a girl. If it was safe there, why wouldn’t it be safe around his friend? Why didn’t Cohen introduce me to his friend? I’m probably being ridiculous, but it feels a lot like the stinging rejection of my youth. Cohen was never ashamed to introduce me as his friend when we were younger. In fact, he often stood up for me. So what’s changed?

  My thoughts are apparently loud enough to garner a questioning stare from Cohen.

  I push down my annoyance and give him a subtle headshake, letting him know it’s nothing. Since it should be nothing.

  “Have you any news?” Cohen asks.

  Kendrick’s eyes dart to me, and Cohen says something about me being trustworthy.

  The man’s questioning expression changes to acceptance. “The courier you asked about, Duff Baron, will be in town tomorrow’s eve for the Merryluna Festival.”

  “You’re certain?” Cohen’s eyes brighten.

  “Aye. His mother releases the moonflowers every year into the fountain at midnight. He always comes to watch.”

  “Looks like I’ll be needing to stay two nights instead.” The men chuckle while I piece together what’s going on. Seems as though this Duff Baron person may know something about my father’s murder and will be at the town’s celebration. I was going to insist we only stay one night, but if he can answer questions about Papa, it’ll be worth sticking around.

  The conversation shifts to Cohen’s brother, Finn. And a spark of pain shoots through Cohen’s eyes.

  “Finn’s been called to fight in the war. He’s stationed at Alyze, just north of Fennit.” Cohen’s answer comes as a complete shock, since he hasn’t mentioned Finn or his army assignment the entire time we’ve been together. It floods me with guilt. I’ve been so bent on finding out why Cohen left that I didn’t think to even ask about his family.

  “No matter what side he’s
on, the lad’s too young for the war front.” Sympathy pours from Kendrick.

  He leads us back to the inn, where a young boy and girl come bolting through the door. They’re a twisting windstorm of laughter and squeals.

  “Mattie. Meg!” Kendrick fixes them with a stern gaze.

  Both kids skid to a halt. The girl clamps a little dirt-stained hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter. The boy is less successful.

  “Have you gathered the eggs?”

  The boy’s laughter fades. “Not yet, Papa.”

  Both children’s faces turn repentant as Kendrick gives them a light scolding before sending them on their way.

  “Nine and ten years old . . . think they have the run of the inn.” Kendrick puffs out a breath of exasperation, but tenderness softens his expression. Reminded of the way Papa used to chastise me and Cohen, I feel a small lump catch in my throat as we follow him inside the inn.

  Kendrick gestures to a cozy, torch-lit hallway beyond the kitchen area. “Get some rest. The boy looks like he could use it.”

  I frown and pad along the plank flooring, following Cohen down the hall. His shoulders fill the entry as he turns the last door’s knob and gestures for me to pass.

  “Where are you staying?” I ask at the same time he says, “We’re in here.”

  “We’re?”

  Cohen nudges me forward and closes the solid wood door behind him, sliding the lock in place, before speaking in low tones. “It would’ve looked odd if the lad traveling with me needed a room to himself.”

  All right, that makes sense. And yet he could’ve just told Kendrick I’m a girl.

  I look pointedly at Cohen, who somehow seems three times larger in the weak light filtering between the linen curtains, before stepping around him to study the room.

  One bed. One chair.

  Thankfully Cohen remains behind me, so he cannot see how my eyes grow two sizes bigger. There’s no need to feel self-conscious. After all, we’ve been sleeping by each other for the last week. Even so, my insides could be a gaggle of geese for all the chaos beneath my skin. It takes a moment to shutter my reaction away, then I turn back to face him and—​boil the bludger—​Cohen doesn’t appear the least bit affected.