Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  “No,” I tell him. “She wasn’t in the room. Though she couldn’t have been far. For her bind to work, she would’ve had to be close. I could sense her somewhere in the castle. I would’ve searched for her if I could have pinpointed her location.”

  He strokes his beard. “Interesting.”

  “If that’s all, Captain Omar and Leif, the girl needs her rest.” Gillian takes my cup.

  The door creaks open, and Cohen appears in the doorway with Siron’s shadowy form behind him. His sudden appearance is such a pleasant surprise, it takes me a moment to realize I didn’t feel his approach. The horse lets out a saluting snort, which makes me smile. The sight of Cohen, healthy and strong, fills my heart with such peace and happiness.

  Captain Omar stands. “I was just leaving,” he tells Gillian, and then faces me. He clears his throat. “I wanted to say thank you.”

  My lips part in surprise. “You—​you’re welcome.”

  Before the captain leaves, Leif moves to my side. “I’m glad you’re all right,” he says with a bashful smile. “I just came to tell you that anytime you need me, I’ll be here for you.”

  “I couldn’t have done it without your help,” I tell him. “I’ll always consider you a friend.”

  He blushes. “You deserved that and more.”

  When Leif leaves the cottage with the captain, Cohen steps forward, and two things I hadn’t noticed a few minutes before steal my thoughts—​his disheveled hair and haunted eyes.

  “Britta.” He says my name almost reverently as his eyes sweep over my face.

  “I thought you went to the castle to sleep.”

  A half smile plays on his mouth. “I did take a small nap, but I’m restless without you near. And even more restless when I see Leif at your side.” He frowns and I laugh. “I’d rather be here and exhausted than anywhere else.”

  His words put a lump in my throat. “I didn’t know you were welcome to sleep at the castle.”

  “That changes after you help save the king’s life.”

  Is that so? I wonder. I glance around my cottage and hope that my life is done changing. I’m happy right here.

  I shift to the side of the bed. “There’s room for two. Perhaps then we can both get some rest.”

  He drops down beside me, maneuvering his arm beneath my head so I’m curled into his body.

  “Tell me what happened after we split up in the woods,” he says.

  I explain about the captain’s attack and Enat’s death. When tears trail down my cheeks, he kisses them away and then smiles so sweetly at me, I temporarily forget my heartache.

  “Bernard and I made it nearly to Finn’s camp when we were overcome by a group of guards,” Cohen says. He goes on to tell how the captain set up the entire trap. Finn may be in the king’s army, but he was never in danger of being moved to the frontline. The captain, who hoped to flush Cohen out of hiding and anyone willing to help him, spread those rumors.

  I’m tempted to spend time thinking of all the ways we could’ve done things differently. How we might’ve spared Enat’s life. But one thing Enat taught me is to stop living in the past and look toward the future.

  Gillian crosses the room to the fireplace and adds a log to the fire before excusing herself and leaving Cohen and me alone in the cottage.

  “All that matters is you’re here with me,” I tell him.

  Cohen presses his hand to his chest. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard such sweet words out of your smart mouth.”

  “I promise not to make a habit out of it.” My smile mirrors his.

  He takes my hand and adds pressure. “I should be thanking you. You saved my life.”

  “We did it together.”

  “Together,” he murmurs into my hair. “I like that.”

  I do too. I look into the crawling flames. The wood crackles and pops as the fire licks its edges, until it’s consuming the log. We’re bathed in glorious heat.

  Gillian returns a short while later and drops into my father’s chair. She pulls out her knitting. I curl up against Cohen’s sturdy frame, intoxicated by the feeling of peace in my home.

  “How long do you think she’ll stay?” Cohen whispers mischievously to me.

  “It could be days or weeks. I don’t know. She seems tenacious.”

  “Then she better get used to me kissing you and taking advantage of your immobile state.”

  My eyes widen at the warmth in his warning while he grins down at me.

  “I almost lost you.” He draws a strand of hair away from my cheek and leaves his fingers resting against my skin. “After the guards caught me and brought me in, I was certain Omar would have my head before I ever saw your face again.” His playful smile fades as his eyes lower to my hands in my lap. “I never want to lose you.”

  “Lose me?”

  “I won’t lose you. You’re mine, and I’m yours. And if I have to take on the world to make it so, I’ll do it.”

  His truth burns hot inside my chest, taking my breath away.

  He inclines his head, his lips a whisper away from mine. “I love you.” The vibration of his words sends shivers to my toes. There’s no one else who has this sort of hold on me. Which makes me feel like everything in my world is finally right.

  Before sunset, Cohen leaves to meet with Captain Omar to make a strategy to hunt down the mysterious Spiriter who was controlling King Aodren.

  He isn’t gone long, though. No more than an hour has passed when I feel the tiny pull inside. The tingling awareness that Cohen is nearby. It’s odd how much stronger the sensation is, compared to the last few weeks, which makes me wonder if there’s something more to my hypersensitivity to Cohen than just the anticipation of seeing him.

  I breathe out a sigh of relief knowing he’s returned, only to be surprised when he knocks at the door. Strange. Papa’s cottage has always been his second home, and Cohen always felt comfortable entering at will.

  Gillian leaves my side to answer the door. When she pulls it open, I look up with a wide smile painted across my face.

  Only, a crown set on rich golden hair seizes my attention. My expression vanishes. “King Aodren?”

  “I heard you woke, and I couldn’t wait any longer to see you.” He ducks into the room, suddenly making my cottage feel small and filthy in comparison to his bold maroon cloak and polished boots. His face looks healthier and fuller than when last I saw him.

  “I wanted to come sooner, but I knew you needed time to recover,” he says. “I had to meet the girl who risked her life for me.”

  Every word he speaks makes perfect sense, and yet I cannot wipe away the puzzled expression on my face. His presence has me so arrested, I don’t notice Cohen enter until he’s taken a knee before the king. Which is also when I realize I didn’t sense Cohen’s return at all.

  My wide-eyed stare catches King Aodren’s gaze. “Please accept my humble gratitude,” he says. “I want you to know that you are welcome at the castle whenever you’re feeling up to moving. I would enjoy sharing tea with you and talking.” He tips his chin in a regal nod and then leaves. I stare at the door, surprised that I can sense him move farther away. And baffled by my body’s reaction: Why do I want to follow?

  “Britta?” Cohen says. “Are you all right?”

  I snap out of my daze and take in Cohen. Why don’t I feel a pull to him anymore? The man I love is no longer the one I’m connected to. Though he’s here with me now, I cannot help but feel panicked.

  “Dove?”

  “Yes, I’m, uh, fine,” I say, fighting back my shock.

  I suppose now I’m the one with the secrets.

  TO BE CONTINUED

  Acknowledgments

  Writing a novel is a trek. Over craggy mountains. During a blizzard. In slippers and sweats. I would’ve never made it without the following people:

  My gratitude to my mom, who told me I could be anything in life and, like Saul, taught me to press on; and to my dad, whose wanderlust inspired me to dream
of other worlds.

  Mark, my greatest champion and the most patient man I know, thank you for pushing me up the hill. To my children—​cyclones of laughter, curiosity, tears, joy—​may you know your potential is out of this world. To my siblings, who have put up with my wild notions and still claimed me as family.

  Sarah Landis—​editing wizard and literary therapist—​my deepest gratitude goes to you and the team at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt for giving me a publishing home. Thank you for your buoying praise and your skillful eye.

  Josh Adams—​agent extraordinaire and slayer of skepticism—​your guidance and unshakable faith have made all the difference. Kathryn Purdie, thank you for guiding me toward the agenting light, sitting on my couch, and cleaning my book mess. Elana Johnson, I’m honored to have you as my friend. This book wouldn’t be here without you. You gave me direction on my raw ideas and, when the time came, wrote my query.

  Jessie Humphries, one of my best friends, thank you for reminding me to have positive thoughts, for cutting up magazines and handing me glue to make a vision board, and for endless laughs.

  My heartfelt thanks to Peggy Eddleman, my writing ally, whose compassion and kindness are boundless; to Rob Code, amazing critique partner and idea bouncer; and to Jason Manwaring, Jaime Kirby, and Julieanne Donaldson for years of support. To Cecilia Carter, who read aloud to me and helped me through the tough scenes. To Marta Tyler for her romance prowess that breathed life into Britta and Cohen. To Leslie Pugh, who cared for me while I was in recovery and believed in this book. To Danny Wilcox for his master strategy. To Finn Bjarnson for his generous nature and inspiring music.

  For their encouragement and amazingness, sincere thanks to Ally Condie, Sara Larson, Stacey Ratliff, Caitlyn McFarland, Nichole Giles, Emily King, Katie King, Taffy Lovell, Tammy Merryweather, Erik Bayles, Alecia Bales, Rahul Kanakia, and Emily Hammerstad.

  Chapter

  1

  Cohen

  A MINUTE SPENT IN A SHAERDANIAN TAVERN is a minute too long. I motion for Finn to fall behind as the creaky door slams closed, leaving us in the loud, crowded, lantern-lit room. We garner a few glances, but most turn back to their cups. Only a one-eyed cat perched atop an ale barrel keeps my younger brother and me in its sights. I don’t mind the surly types who hang around these places, the wenches with their skirts tied up and colorful shifts showing, and the bawdy songman accompanied by a guitar-plucking fellow. All are rightly pissed—​eyes blurry, smiles toothy, and voices gratingly bright. It’s the smell that gets me every time. The rain in Shaerdan makes scents stronger. Makes taverns a pungent mix of moldy floor planks, vinegar, and fermented despair.

  I hold my breath and slide a folded piece of parchment into the pocket on my belt. Finn watches me. He’s seen me pull it out more than a few times in the last month. Probably noticed the action has increased the farther we’ve traveled from Malam.

  He knows not to mention it.

  Finn and I walk through the tavern and sit at the bar. After the long night and half day of riding, it’s good to rest. If I dropped my forehead into my hands, I’d be asleep in a blink. Tempting if we weren’t so close to the end of the hunt. And if we weren’t still on Shaerdan soil, where being identified as a Malamian will get you gutted. A vision of a pale blond, freckled girl with a smile that has to be earned spurs me on, pierces me with longing.

  A card game plays out on the nearest table, Shaerdanian silvers piled high enough to entice hungry onlookers. Pushing away the fatigue, I sit taller. Force my hands to relax, one resting over my left trouser pocket full of coins. My other hand is splayed on the bar. I fight to look the part in this tavern. Mistakes cannot happen today, not when we’re so close to finding Lord Jamis’s mistress.

  The barkeep is a big man, no taller than me, but thicker through the gut like he’s packing a barrel of ale. Busy talking to patrons, he gives no heed to Finn or me. Typical tavern kinsmen. They love their gossip as much as a Malamian market-goer.

  I scowl in the man’s direction and rap my knuckles on the tacky surface of the bar.

  “Coming, coming,” the barkeep grumbles. He moves in front of me, arms resting on the bar between us. His eyes, yellowed whites surrounding black irises, take in my little brother and me. “What’ll ya have?”

  This town, Rasimere Crossing, in the remote southern plains of Shaerdan, isn’t one I’ve been to before. Since both countries backed down from the war, tension is mountain high. Harder to navigate too. Hardly a contact in Shaerdan will speak to me without drawing a sword. Yesterday, a barkeep up north confirmed that Lord Jamis’s mistress, Phelia, was only a half day ahead of us and headed here. Within days after Jamis’s arrest, the high lord had squawked about the Spiriter’s identity. Course, it took a bit of Omar’s torture to get it out of him.

  It’s not uncommon for noblemen at court to have mistresses. The women keep to themselves. For this reason, I doubt anyone would’ve thought her a threat. Especially since association with a high nobleman comes with some protection. Still, it’s not a mistake that I, or the few men who know the harm the Spiriter inflicted, will make again.

  As soon as she was identified, King Aodren sent me after her. I’ve followed Phelia’s trail across Malam and into the dangers of Shaerdan. And now, finally, Siron’s speed has bought us enough time to cross paths.

  The bloody hunt’s had me noosed for a month. That’s a month longer than I’ve wanted to be gone from Brentyn and Britta. And damn if I haven’t felt off the entire time we’ve been apart. Like distance has set me adrift.

  Today the hunt ends.

  Most barkeeps won’t suffer a man who’ll fill a chair and not pay to fill a cup or four. Even so, I’ve no time for primer drinks. “We’re looking for our mother, who came south to find work.” In a Shaerdanian lilt, I go on with the fib, explaining that we’re soldiers returning from the war—​or almost war since it ended a little over a month ago, before it officially began. “Light brown hair, blue eyes, about this tall. Goes by the name Phelia.” I hold my hand up, providing the description that the castle attendants gave me. “Seen anyone like that?”

  The man pushes his tongue into the side of his cheek and then slides it over half-blackened teeth. “Aye. Perhaps.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Yeah. Might’ve seen someone matching that description earlier.”

  “How long ago?” Finn cuts in. I shoot him a look. His Shaerdanian accent wouldn’t fool a deaf goat. Told him as much in the last town.

  The barkeep doesn’t seem to notice. He plunks a couple mugs on the counter. “Before we get too chatty, let me get you fellas a drink.”

  It’s a fight to keep the easy smile on my face, knowing he likely holds information about Phelia. My hand shifts to my belt, to cover the parchment hidden in the leather. The motion usually centers me.

  “Or, if you’re aiming to take off sooner . . .” The man taps a glass on the counter. “You can pay for a drink and leave with some answers.”

  Right. Should’ve thrown money at him in the first place. I withdraw some coins, dropping them to plink on the wood. “Good enough?”

  “Cohen.” Finn’s sharp whisper snags my attention. He reaches for the coins.

  The man’s fist slams Finn’s hand flat against the bar.

  My brother yelps.

  Confused, I shove my chair back and lean into the barkeep’s face. “Get your hand off my brother.”

  The music stops. Every eye in the tavern cuts to us. A few men rise to their feet.

  “No Shaerdanian would pay with Malam coins,” the barkeep says.

  My jaw ticks, insides seizing like Siron’s kicked me in the gut.

  Bloody seeds.

  “You think I’m one of those scrants?” I spit, leaning heavily into a Shaerdanian accent that sounds loud but flat in the silent room.

  Finn’s eyes volley around the tavern and back to his trapped hand. The kid hides his panic as well as a tabby cat in a wolf den.

  “Your br
other looks like he’s about to toss his last meal. Doesn’t seem soldierly to me.” He grips Finn’s fingers, ripping away my brother’s hand to pick up the damning coins.

  Three prayers Finn doesn’t open his mouth.

  “Must’ve forgot those were in my pocket.” I lean back in my chair. Shrug. “Needed some Malamian silvers at the border. Nothing to spoil a man’s drink over.”

  Boots scratch the plank floor. Men step closer.

  The barkeep cocks his head. “A fortnight back, two teenage girls went missing. Upset a lot of kinsmen ’round here. A town over, a girl was taken just a week ago. Her pa saw the men who did it. Tried to fight them and lost his life. Poor man’s wife caught sight of the raiders as they were shoving her girl in a carriage. Heard ’em speak. Said they sounded Malamian. Now, why would a few ball-less scrants from Malam want our girls? Maybe they’re itching to rekindle the war they almost started. What do you know of that, traveler?”

  “No more than tavern hearsay.” During my travels I’ve caught a few stories similar to this man’s. Daughters taken at night. Some snatched during the day. No women, just girls. It’s enough to raise concerns, but that’s something to focus on after I’ve got Phelia manacled.

  “Now, I can see you’re a smart man,” I tell the barkeep. “You don’t really think my brother and me have something to do with that. Coins don’t mean anything. Collector’s items.”

  “Your brother’s awfully silent.”

  “He’s shy. You scare the piss out of him.”

  A shadow shifts over my left shoulder. A giant of a man glares down at us. “Yeah, speak, boy.”

  “Leave him out of this.” My unspoken warning is clear.

  Another person moves behind Finn, blocking the path to the door. “Maybe we’ve caught us two of their spies. Maybe we pry loose answers about where they been hiding our girls.” His bush of a beard barely moves when he talks, the comment sliding from the slits of his lips like snakes from under a briar. He must not really think we’re the kidnappers, or he’d have gutted us already. Still, I eye his hand as it moves to the dagger tucked into his belt. “Explain yourself, boy.”