Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  If anything happened to her, it would devastate me.

  Like I have every day since we left Enat’s home, I scan the forest for a sign of another, though I’m certain Captain Omar would’ve surely struck by now if he was pursuing us. Nothing stands out in the light drizzle.

  Before we head back to camp, a noise over the usual gurgle of a stream sounds somewhere up ahead. It’s Cohen—​my gut tells me so. The anticipation of being alone with him turns my skin into a net of butterflies. We’ve had little time with each other when Enat isn’t around. Before we reach Malam, I want a moment between us to clear the frustration.

  Though I’m the Channeler, it feels as though he holds his own power, the draw of him leading me upstream, where the water curves around a jut of land. It is as though he has an invisible rope tied to my heart. I find him, on the river’s edge, wearing only his trousers as he makes a stack of small stones.

  Drops of water linger on the powerful planes of his back, while a few trail the indent of his spine. My mouth turns bone-dry. There’s so much smooth skin, I almost don’t notice the faint scars, shiny slashes starting at his shoulder and disappearing beneath his arm. He turns, and I’m caught in the spell of silvery marks that crisscross over his torso and shoulders and abdomen. His body is scarred, but it is also perfection.

  Seeds and stars, it should be illegal for him to go shirtless.

  Cohen’s cleared throat shakes me from my gawking daze. “Good morning, Dove.”

  I duck my head. “Morning, Cohen.”

  “Did you need something?”

  I press a rock deeper into the damp soil with the toe of my boot. “Will you always hate my gift?”

  His lips part as though his answer is ready to be spoken, and then he closes his mouth and frowns. After a beat he says, “That’s not how I feel. I’m in awe and grateful for your gift daily.” He closes the space between us and lifts my chin. “These scars are a gift. I’m grateful for them as much as I am for your Spiriter ability. But I’ll never be fine with you putting yourself in danger. You’re taking a huge risk. If anyone finds out—”

  I press my hand over his mouth.

  His lips press against my palm in a gentle kiss, and though we’ve not reached any sort of understanding, it’s suddenly impossible to think with him so close. And shirtless. And dripping. Cohen tugs me against his smooth, hot, perfect skin and folds his arms around me. I wind my hands around his back, feeling the damp uneven ridges of flesh and wanting him even more.

  The sky growls, warning of the storm coming our way.

  Cohen’s expression clears and he abruptly steps away. “You should get back to camp.”

  I leave, feeling as frustrated and unresolved as when I approached.

  The horses work furiously to outrun the storm at our heels. The wind sweeps through the narrow canyon, pushing tree limbs to and fro, and howling through the landscape like a legion of specters as rain pours in solid sheets. We cannot stop and look for shelter because of the threat of flash floods. We’re forced to climb out along the path that hugs the rocky wall.

  I keep my chin down, urging Aspen onward in Siron’s wake.

  “We’re almost there,” Cohen yells, his words barely audible over the buckets of rain cascading off the rocky cliff beside us.

  A bright light slashes the sky, illuminating the fissure of land leached of color. Three heartbeats later, thunder booms.

  Aspen startles. She rears up, pawing the air in her nervousness, and then crashes down, darting forward dangerously close to the drop-off. I fight the reins, tugging and urging her to safety before another break of thunder scares her.

  Thankfully—​oh mercy, thankfully—​she obeys.

  Once we’re tucked in safe beside the rocky wall, I rest my hand on her mane and take steadying breaths for the both of us. I’m getting better at sensing energy, and Aspen’s zips fiercely beneath her skin as rain pelts my hair and face, drowning the calming words on my lips.

  I wipe my eyes and search for the others.

  Cohen halts a dozen paces ahead. I twist in the saddle—​

  A blast of light crashes into a dead tree directly beside where Enat is sitting on Willow. And then everything happens alarmingly fast and, at the same time, unnaturally slow—​the tree bursts into flames as Willow rears back, throwing Enat to the ground; she lands with a thud and doesn’t move; the horse charges forward, skimming the edge of the ravine and tumbling off; then a crack sounds in the eerie stillness, and the torched tree starts to fall.

  A panicked cry echoes around us before I realize it’s coming from me. I leap from Aspen and I’m racing down the path toward Enat, arms and legs pumping to propel me forward. The tree hangs over her prone form, spitting embers as its dried limbs are consumed in hungry flames. The rain is no match for the inferno.

  I see the flash of gold and white right before heat skims my face, but I don’t let myself give it another thought as I throw myself onto Enat, wrap my arms around her, and tug so we both start rolling down the path. One, two, three times, I yank her beneath me and over me, moving us as far from fiery death as possible.

  When the edge of heat wanes, I stop and lie panting beside Enat.

  She groans.

  I reach around the back of her head, in search of injury, and find sticky wetness matting her hair. I press to stop the bleeding.

  The familiar buzzing sensation hums beneath my palm. I concentrate on the vibration to find where she’s weak. I can feel the lack of energy near her head wound.

  She does not so much as move as I bleed my spirit into hers, the motion natural now, filling her need and healing her wound.

  When I wake I’m alone, in a cave, kept warm by a small fire set in a ring of river stones.

  I cast a sluggish glance around and groan when my aching neck and back protest the movement. I roll myself to sitting right as Cohen steps from the shadows and drops down beside me.

  Without warning, his arms are around me, clutching me to him as his face falls to my neck. Nose pressed to the hollow beneath my ear, Cohen drags in a deep shuddery breath.

  “Cohen?” A croak. My throat grates like I’ve eaten hay.

  He pulls back, his hair a mess. Shadows linger on his face, bruising the skin under his eyes, despite the light of the fire.

  “We found a cave,” he says. His gaze drifts to the craggy curve of the walls, the packed-dirt ground, the far reaches of the cave where blackness resists the firelight, before returning to me. The last time we were in a cave together, only one of us was able to walk out. Morosely, I wonder if he’s thinking about that now.

  I swallow, trying to pull saliva over my throat. “Has the storm let up?”

  “Hours ago.”

  I wince. He doesn’t have to say more. We’re here, wasting critical time, because of me. Because my ailments are holding him back from helping Finn.

  “Is Enat all right?” I ask.

  “She’s doing well, considering.”

  “The tree was falling . . . and she was unconscious. I had to help her. I didn’t think it would take so much out of me, I just needed her to be safe.” The cracked words tumble out. I don’t realize how much his approval matters to me until he remains silent.

  “Cohen? Say something.”

  His arm crushes my shoulders against him. “I want to yell at you not to do something like that again because I’m afraid I’ll lose you. But then, at the same time, I’m proud of you.”

  My lashes flutter closed. His praise, something I’ve rarely heard before, is a balm.

  “Every time you put yourself in danger, I feel like I’m suffocating. I cannot stand to see you harmed.” He stares down at me, his gaze intense. “You misunderstood me when I said I shouldn’t have kissed you. I thought I pushed you too far, too fast. So I let you go. I didn’t think you were ready for us. Whereas I knew one kiss wasn’t enough.”

  I want him to clarify the meaning behind his words, but in the next moment Cohen leans in, and I cannot move or b
link or breathe. He wets his lips and then lowers his face closer, closer to mine.

  “Every time I kiss you,” he says, his breath tickling my mouth, “I want you to know that this is what I want. Make no mistake, Britt, you are all I think about. You have been since the day we first met, since we first started training together, since I saw you stand strong in the face of so much opposition around you. You are all I need. You are all I will ever want.”

  I gasp, and his mouth steals the sound as his lips cover mine.

  Enat opens the pouch of herbs and seeds that dangles from her belt and puts a pinch into a cup of stream water. “It’s not Beannach water, but this chiandra tea will help you regain your strength.”

  “Thank you.” My gaze roves over her, scrutinizing her movement as she hands me the drink for signs of weakness or pain.

  “Don’t thank me, girl.” Enat sits back and frowns. “I should scold you for wasting your energy on me. You could’ve hurt yourself. Or worse, you could’ve given too much of your energy away.” I start to argue, but she silences me with her upheld hand. “Don’t waste yourself on an argument. You’ve been sleeping for nearly two days and could probably use more.”

  “I barely feel tired.” Time is not a resource we can spare. “I’m fine,” I insist, stretching out my legs and sitting taller.

  She eyes my movement and shakes her head. “You’re determined is what you are. You’re lucky, girl, that we heal quicker than others.” Enat notices my head cocked to the side and explains, “I know you’ve much to learn, and yet I keep forgetting how much. We weaken and age like everyone else, but our gift helps us naturally absorb energy that helps restore us to a healthier state.”

  “I thought taking another’s energy is wrong or, at the very least, dangerous. Like black magic.”

  “Aye. It’s both when a Spiriter forcefully takes energy”—​Enat’s fingers curl into her hand—“or controls it, like in the case of your king. But there’s energy all around us that is, in a sense, given to you. It’s in sunshine and wind and water and the food we consume.”

  I reach out and squeeze her fist. “Well, then, you shouldn’t worry. I spend enough time in the woods to reenergize myself daily. Did I heal you enough that you can break the curse?”

  She twists and stretches her back. “Perhaps better than I was before,” she says with a wink. “Don’t do it again, though. Spiriters do not heal each other. Healing those who do not have our gift will make you physically weak. But when healing another Spiriter, there’s the chance you could lose your power.”

  I tuck my chin, taking stock of my energy level. “Have I lost some of my ability?”

  She waves a dismissing hand. “No. My ailments weren’t the type to siphon any power from you. You’ll be exactly as you were once you get a little more rest.”

  “There’s no more time to rest,” I say. “Now that I’ve slowed us down, we’ll have less time to find the Spiriter.”

  Enat exchanges a look with Cohen, who is cooking quail on the fire, a silent agreement. “You’ll at least eat first,” she says. “Besides, we won’t have to search too hard to find the Spiriter. It’s likely she’ll be close because that is a requirement for maintaining the bind. If we need to subdue her, I brought the chiandra tea mix. After she drinks it, her heart will slow and put her into a sleep that lasts a couple hours. Then all I’ll have to do is sense the two energies and work at unwinding them.”

  I think about what she’s proposing and what she’s just warned me of. Siphoning power. “Is there a possibility she could take your gift?”

  “No. You cannot take someone’s gift.”

  Even so, there are too many ways in which this mission could go wrong. “What if we cannot get her to drink the tea? Or, worse, what if we cannot find the Spiriter? Is there another way to break the bind?”

  Her gaze follows Cohen as he steps outside the cave. She knots her hands, similarly to how I wring mine when I’m uncomfortable. “A bind will break if one of the energies is too weak to hold,” she says. “That’s the only other way.”

  The only time I’ve felt weak energy is when something is dying. My chin makes a sharp jerk up. “You mean, if one of them is dying? Are you saying you could break the bind if you hurt the king or the Channeler? Bring one of them close to death?”

  Her gaze drifts to the side. She unfolds her hands to press them flat against her legs, pressing until the blood leaches from her skin. “Near death is not my preferred way to break the curse, as there are too many risks. But, yes, it is a way to break the bind.”

  I scrunch my face up. “I thought . . . that is, you said we don’t heal other Spiriters. So you would kill her?”

  “It would have to be the king.”

  Panic burns the rest of my thoughts to ashes, leaving only fear for Enat. If she was to wound the king and then heal him, she would surely get caught and charged as a Channeler. Even though her actions would be helping the kingdom, there’s no doubt in my mind that the Purge Proclamation would prevail and she would be killed.

  “No. It’s too dangerous,” I say.

  Her arms, shoulders to the tips of her fingers, visibly relax. “Aye, there are many risks involved when healing someone who is mortally wounded.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  She offers a wan smile. “Well, then we must find the Spiriter when we reach the castle. Once she’s in sight, I’ll break the bind before she realizes what’s happening. Only if she fights the unraveling of her magic will we need to subdue her with the tea.”

  Though I haven’t seen Enat use her gift, I’m certain she’s a force to be reckoned with.

  Once we’ve eaten the roasted quail, we travel all through the day and into the next night, bringing us to the Evers and hours from Malam’s border.

  Chapter

  36

  T HE SILENCE OF THE BIRDS WAKES ME.

  Someone is here.

  I slowly rise, hand on my dagger, and leave the warm blanket behind to step into the frigid morning. Enat and Cohen are sleeping as I quietly slip the dagger into my boot and grab my bow.

  I walk farther from camp, hoping the energy pulsing around me will give some clue.

  The light shifts ahead.

  I crouch, grasping for my bow and notching an arrow. The rough bark of a pine tree jabs into my back as I draw a slow inhale, hold it, and then let it out while I monitor the woods, waiting for my target to make his appearance.

  A dozen paces north, a man moves around a tree. His steps are marked with the sure carefulness of a trained hunter. Any question of who this man is dies the second I see the royal stag on his uniform. A watchman.

  The guard heads straight for our camp, drawing closer to Enat and Cohen than I am. Panic zips through me.

  I slide my right foot forward, adjusting my weight to my front leg to gain a better defensive position.

  The man stops. Looks around. Cocks his head in my direction.

  I cannot let him get any closer to Enat and Cohen, who are sleeping and unprepared for a fight. Shaking off the nervous tremors in my hands, I raise the bow. The tension releases with a twang. My pulse hurtles through my veins as I take in the scene: the arrow piercing the guard’s coat, pinning the material to the tree, and the surprise flooding his face. I pray I haven’t made a grave mistake in sparing this man’s life.

  His hands fly into the air as he searches the trees for his attacker. “I mean no harm to you.” His voice wobbles.

  Harmless isn’t an accurate descriptor for a border guard. My mother’s story is proof of that.

  “I’m looking for Cohen Mackay. Are you with him?” His words echo through the trees and warm me with their honesty. I am immensely more wary than seconds before. Of course he’s looking for Cohen. All the king’s guard are searching for the alleged murderer, but I’d serve myself up to another mountain cat before I’ll turn Cohen over.

  The guard must think I’ve left because he drops his hands and twists to snap the arrow. Before
he is completely free, I shoot another, catching the man unaware as the arrow slices through the material at his shoulder, possibly nicking skin. Instantly, the man freezes.

  “I—​I—​I got your message.” His face is gray as his wide eyes zip from limbs to the needled groundcover. “I meant what I said about meaning no harm. If you don’t wish to be known, leave now. I won’t follow. There aren’t many travelers through this pass, and . . . and yesterday I came across a sign from my friend. I thought you were him or with him. If I’ve made a mistake, let’s both walk away from this as strangers. Please. I’ve a family.”

  I bite my cheek, debating what to do next, but the verity of his words stops me from walking away without making myself known. “Who left you a sign?”

  He jerks toward the location of my voice. “Cohen Mackay. Is that—​are you Britta Flannery?”

  He knows me.

  “He’s my friend,” the guard says urgently. “He left signs so I’d know he was passing through. I’m here to give him news.”

  I cannot get over the stag and stripes on his coat. “You’re one of the king’s guards.”

  “I am,” he says. “Though I’m here now not as a guard, but as his friend.”

  Before I can answer him, my neck prickles, sensing Cohen’s nearness.

  “Britta?” Cohen whisper-yells. He cuts through the undergrowth, directly for me, his steps only slowing when he has me in sight. His shoulders relax. “What are you doing over here?” he asks, at the same time the guard says, “Cohen.”

  The tension snaps back into place over Cohen’s features; his body coils like he’s ready to pounce. His gaze darts to me, to my bow, and then around the woods in search of my target.