The Hunt

by Frost Kay

  Pyre rose to his feet and eyed her back. He whistled. “That wasn’t caused by the pit. What sort of company do you keep, luv?”

  Tempest peered over her shoulder at the two shapeshifters. “Life is not always easy. It’s dangerous.”

  “Oh, now you’ve piqued my curiosity, city girl. How did someone so fair acquire such scars?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.”

  “I think you got that wrong. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

  “Let’s agree to disagree.”

  “So diplomatic.” The kitsune tsked. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “And I’m still your captive. Seems pretty fair to me.”

  Calloused fingers lifted a piece of her dyed hair and she fought not to back away. The dye was the only thing keeping her safe. If they figured out she was a Hound, it would all be over for her.

  “I have a feeling you’re going to make my life interesting,” Pyre murmured.

  “Do you have any more wounds I should know about?” Briggs asked wryly.

  “No, I think the rest are internal,” Tempest replied, shaking her head as she did so, casually dislodging her greasy hair from the kitsune’s grasp. “The wounds were sealed with Mimkia.”

  “Well, whoever healed you did a remarkable job.”

  “My uncle has had to patch me up many times. I was a hellion as a child.”

  “By the looks of it, you still are,” the healer rumbled.

  Tempest laughed softly, despite herself. “I’m not good with words. I tend to be blunt, and it gets me into trouble.”

  Pyre moved to the ladder and scampered up into the loft without another word. A series of thumps and rumbles sounded above Tempest’s head.

  “Is he always like this?”

  “He doesn’t hold still for long,” Briggs muttered and pulled down her ruined shirt.

  The kitsune swung down from the loft, landed on nimble feet, and threw a tunic at her. She caught the fabric on reflex and glanced from the man to the garment.

  “Your own clothes are ruined,” he said in explanation. “Put this on.”

  “I have spare clothing in my bag,” she replied. “If you’ll return my things, I’ll not impose on your hospitality anymore.” Hospitality was too generous a word, but it didn’t hurt to play to his arrogance.

  Pyre wagged a finger. “What a silver tongue you have, luv. I almost believed you that time. Do you like rabbit meat?” he asked, changing the subject.

  “Rabbit? Why—”

  “You haven’t eaten in hours. You’ll need to eat, if you’re going to get your strength back.”

  Tempest frowned in suspicion. “Why should I trust any food you give me?”

  “Are you serious right now?” he replied, rolling his eyes. “I spend all that time saving you—cleaning up your wounds and using my dwindling Mimkia supply to heal you—and now you think I’m going to poison you?”

  Tempest shrugged her good shoulder. “It was a question that needed to be asked. A girl doesn’t survive the city without being careful.”

  Pyre sighed heavily, though he was smiling. “True.”

  He whistled tunefully as he got to work in the small kitchen, peeling potatoes and chopping carrots and setting water over a fire to boil as Briggs cleaned up the mess they’d made and helped the kitsune cook. It was all very domestic, and it threw her off balance. Regardless, forty minutes later Tempest’s stomach began growling insistently at the smell of the stew they were making, despite her misgivings about the food.

  But when Pyre handed her a bowl of steaming stew, she passed it right back to him. “You first,” she demanded.

  “I made enough for all of us, you know. I have my own bowl.”

  “I don’t care. Eat some of this one please.”

  Pyre’s eyes glinted in the light from the cooking fire. For a moment Tempest thought he would refuse her request. “If I planned to poison you, this would be a poor job.”

  She didn’t budge. “Death isn’t the only thing a woman fears.”

  Dark understanding slithered through his eyes. Without argument, he lifted the bowl to his lips and took a long sip of the stew, his gaze never breaking away from Tempest’s.

  “Satisfied?” he asked her when he handed the bowl back.

  Tempest dipped her chin in thanks. “Appreciated.”

  Pyre moved back to his own bowl and joined Briggs in devouring the stew. In a matter of minutes, both men groaned in satisfaction. The kitsune stood and winked at her as he sauntered to the door.

  “Get some sleep,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We’ll talk more in the morning when you feel better.”

  “Or you could just leave me alone.”

  He grinned. “And how on earth could you be useful if I did that?”

  For what felt like the hundredth time, Tempest held her tongue and said nothing in return. Silence would be her best friend and only ally in the days to come; she had to learn to keep quiet.

  Something told her Pyre would not make it easy for her to do such a thing.

  Tempest

  It took hours for Tempest to fall asleep after Pyre had left her alone, despite how exhausted she was. She’d hoped her sleep would be blessedly dark and empty. Restorative. Perfunctory. But, of course, as if on cue, Tempest dreamt of the day her mother died.

  Only this time, things were different.

  The dream started out the way it always did, with Tempest collecting herbs and flowers in the meadow near her home, shivering slightly from the unseasonably cold spring weather. She smelled smoke upon the air, then spied it, and ran back through the forest toward the sound of her mother screaming.

  That’s when the dream deviated from its original path. She waited in front of the burning cottage for the shifter to appear, as usual, but this time it was not the memory-blurred man that Tempest remembered.

  No, this time it was Pyre.

  Tempest stared at him with disbelief apparent on her face as Pyre stalked closer to her—closer than the original shifter ever had—with recognition in his golden eyes.

  He reached out and ran a clawed finger along her bottom lip. “Things are not what they seem,” he murmured, uncharacteristically serious. She gasped and slapped his hand away. Tempest frowned and held her hand up—her very bloody adult hand. That had never happened.

  Tremors rocked her body when she peered down as blood soaked through her ragged linen dress and dripped down her pale legs. “What’s happening to me?” she whispered. Her gaze darted to the kitsune, but, before Tempest had a chance to say anything to Pyre, his form wavered and he disappeared into the wind like a ghost.

  Heat from the fire flared and dried her eyes, but she couldn’t blink or tear her eyes from the spot he had stood in. What did he mean, things were not what they seemed? Was he speaking of her dream? A sixth sense urged her to search the area.

  She ran around to the back of the cottage, forcibly turning a deaf ear to the sounds of her mum’s agonized cries as the pull in her chest became stronger. The windows in the rear of the house exploded, and she threw up her arms to protect her face. Little shards of glass rained down on her, searing her exposed skin in their descent.

  Her stomach knotted with a sense of foreboding as she searched the area. What was she supposed to find? Her mother’s cries reached a crescendo, and Tempest’s chest cracked at the agonized sound. She choked back a sob and ran around the cottage as the flames crawled even higher into the sky.

  A wall of heat slammed into Tempest when she gave in and crashed through the front door to find her mum. Maybe she could save her mum this time. The soles of her bare feet burned, but she didn’t pay any attention to them as she ducked under the ceiling beam and sprinted to her mother’s room.

  “No!” she shouted when she saw the still form on the floor. Tempest fell to her knees as another beam crashed from the ceiling, the floor shaking from its weight. Her fingers blackened as she touched her mum’s pale
cheek. “Not again.”

  The foul odor of singed hair reached her nose, and heat scalded her back. From the corner of her eyes, she saw fire take shape and Pyre sauntered forward, his eyes an unholy red. He ran a fiery fingertip down her right arm and smiled, his face glowing and shifting within the flames. Pain seared her nerves, but she didn’t get up, didn’t fight it.

  If this was what her mother felt in the end, she wanted to feel it too. Perhaps it would melt some of her guilt away for failing to save her only kin.

  Pain crept up her legs, her back, then down her arm. Tears blurred her vision, and she pointed a finger toward the image of her mum. “Save her.”

  The kitsune cocked his head in question.

  “Save her!” she screamed. “Somebody save her! Please.” Tempest crawled to her mother and curled over her mum’s body to protect her. She glared at the vile being studying her with no reaction. “Save her!”

  “Juniper,” a deep voice crooned.

  “Not me! Save her. Save—”

  “Juniper, you must wake up!”

  Tempest jerked awake, her heart pounding in her chest. Her dream trickled away like ink upon a wet canvas as an unfamiliar face leaned over hers, silhouetted by a dying fire. She slammed her left fist into the giant, rolled from the bed, and sank into a crouch, her body screaming while she stared dazedly at the two males studying her with interest. Where the hell was she?

  The larger of the two rubbed his chin where she’d struck him and then held his hands up. “Juniper, you need to calm down. We’re not here to hurt you.”

  Her muscles trembled and awareness began to sink in. “Briggs,” she whispered as she studied the healer.

  He smiled. “That’s right. Come and get back in bed, lass. I’m sure you’ve hurt yourself all over again.”

  She turned her attention to Pyre who sat at the table, his elbows resting on the tabletop, one hand covering his mouth. Even though his expression was eerily blank, Tempest didn’t like the way he was looking at her. Like he’d just discovered something he didn’t want her to know.

  Tempest stood and wrapped the blanket around her shoulders like a cape and padded back to the bed, a weak smile on her face as she met Briggs’s sympathetic gaze.

  “Nightmares are a blight on all people, I suppose,” she said lightly and sat on the edge of the bed.

  Briggs inspected her arm, his beautiful onyx skin a stark contrast to her own. Her stomach lurched as she remembered her own blackened hand resting on her mum’s cheek.

  “I’m going to throw up,” she whispered and then promptly bent over and dry heaved.

  Briggs placed a bowl on the floor and pulled her hair back from her face as she continued to retch, snot and tears dripping down her face. Tempest continued to shake once she stopped heaving, and a masculine hand entered her vision, holding a rag.

  “Thanks,” she muttered, wiping her mouth and nose, before lifting her head.

  Pyre squatted next to the bed. “Are you quite done?”

  “I think so.”

  He stood and exited the cottage without another word. Tempest stared after him and shivered as she remembered his glowing eyes from the dream.

  “Time for bed, lass,” Briggs urged.

  She didn’t think she could go back to sleep but she followed the healer’s directions and curled into a ball, her gaze focusing on the moonlight streaming in from the windows as a thought more terrifying than her dream occurred to her. What had she revealed to the Talagans?

  “Was I…” She cleared her throat. “Was I talking in my sleep?”

  “You were screaming,” Briggs said softly.

  “Oh,” she murmured. “Are you sure I didn’t say something silly?”

  “No, lass.”

  She didn’t know if she believed him, but he didn’t have a reason to lie. Although too terrified to sleep, her body succumbed to the blessed slumber of unconsciousness.

  “Come now, it’s almost noon. You need to eat, and I have to change the bandages on your leg.”

  Tempest groaned.

  “I would groan too if I was in your condition. Looks like you could do with some Mimkia, too.” The voice was feminine and lovely to listen to, though her tone brooked absolutely no argument.

  Tempest opened her eyes and inspected the newcomer.

  By her bed, scrutinizing her leg, was a woman who looked to be perhaps ten years older than Tempest herself. She was beautiful in an earthly sort of way—dark brown, wavy hair, hazel eyes, and sun-tanned skin. She wore a plain white dress beneath a green apron on her curvy frame.

  Her attire screamed wholesome and nonthreatening. It made Tempest suspicious. Almost all the shifters of Pyre’s clan she’d come in contact with so far displayed their strength by partially shifting. And while the woman was clearly a shifter, she didn’t show a bit of her Talagan heritage. Was she merely meek, weak, or was it a choice to deceive Tempest? She had a feeling it was the latter because it was something she would do.

  At least she looked somewhat normal. It made it easier for Tempest to look at the woman without wanting to recoil from the touch of her hand on her leg.

  “Who’re you?” Tempest asked sluggishly. Her throat was parched, the words barely coherent.

  The woman smiled, picked up a wooden cup from the bedside table, and handed it to Tempest before speaking. “I’m Nyx,” she said. “It’s an honor to meet you. What is your name?”

  Tempest smiled and cocked her head. “Don’t you already know?”

  The woman returned the smile, her eyes twinkling in mirth. “I’m not one to always believe the gossips. I’d like to hear it from you myself.”

  “I’m Juniper.”

  Nyx tsked. “That is your first lie, but it’s no matter what I call you as long as we understand each other. You don’t try to harm me or mine, and I’ll do the same.”

  Tempest took a long draught of water. “That seems like a reasonable request.”

  “Good.” The woman patted Tempest’s hand. “I’m happy to hear that. Many in the world harbor prejudice for Talagans; I know many who have lost their lives just for being born a shapeshifter.” Nyx frowned. “Even those who are sworn to protect the kingdom take part in the violence, the King’s Hounds among them.”

  A Hound would never kill without a cause. She’s lying. The ones who follow the laws of the Crown would never be in danger. If Nyx’s comment holds any truth, it’s because all the shifters around her are bad people.

  “I hope you’re hungry, Juniper,” Briggs called from the front door.

  Tempest perked up and turned her head to see Briggs carrying a heavy, steaming pot in both arms with a loaf of bread perched on top. He slammed the door shut with a foot, before lumbering over to the worn, wooden table situated by the kitchen area of the small cottage. He put down the pot with a thump, then regarded Tempest.

  “Did you get some rest?” he asked.

  “I did, thank you.”

  “She looks terrible, doesn’t she?” a familiar voice drawled from above.

  Tempest stilled and flicked her eyes to the loft just as Pyre swung down and landed without one sound. Bastard. She’d trained her whole life to gain skills that he had inherently.

  He grinned at her. “You really are a fright, if you don’t mind me saying. Didn’t you sleep at all?”

  She turned her gaze downward, not able to look at the kitsune without being reminded of her dream. “Not really,” she grumbled while fingering a lock of dyed, greasy black hair. “It was difficult to sleep, all things considered.”

  “Perhaps we should give you something so you can get some proper rest,” Nyx mused, holding onto Tempest’s leg tightly while she applied a small dose of Mimkia paste from which Tempest attempted to recoil. Nyx frowned at her. “You won’t get better if you don’t sleep.”

  “And eat,” Briggs added, pouring soup into a bowl and cutting a thick slice of bread. He jerked his chin at the kitsune and held the plated food out. “Feed the girl.”


  Pyre snatched the food from the healer and practically shoved a bowl of soup and a large slice of bread into Tempest’s hands. She didn’t look at him as he did so and sniffed the food for poisons. One could never be too careful.

  Pyre clucked his tongue. “So much for gratitude. I could have just let you die, you know—”

  “And I told you not to help me,” Tempest bit out, all her irritation from the previous night returning in one fell swoop. Slowly, she lifted her head and glared at Pyre, letting loose some of her rage she’d kept hidden since being chased into the woods. “I never asked for any of this.”

  “There are those pretty eyes,” he purred, his grin turning wolfish. “I hate when I’m ignored.”

  Tempest clenched her jaw and turned to gaze out the small window at the thick, green woods sheltering the cottage from the world. The kitsune had riled her just to get a reaction, and she’d fallen for his act.

  Idiot.

  “That’s the best thing about friendship,” he commented, dragging a wooden chair over from the table to Tempest’s bedside. “Friends help without an ulterior motive.”

  He straddled the chair, using the backrest as a ledge for his forearms to lean upon. Tempest forced herself to hold his gaze, if only to prove that she wasn’t afraid of a challenge. Pyre was no longer covered in dirt and blood. Instead, in a clean, white shirt, ebony leather breeches, and knee-high boots he looked every inch the gentlemanly scoundrel that he no doubt imagined he was.

  “True friendship, maybe. You and I aren’t friends. You kidnapped me.”

  “We can be friends,” he offered.

  She’d rather be friends with a lion than the tricky kitsune. He was dangerous. The real question was who was he really? What connections to the Jester did he have? Was he a drug runner? A thug? A weapons curator? Someone who marketed the Jester’s flesh goods? Who was this enigmatic shifter in relation to Heimserya’s greatest threat?

  Pyre laughed once more. “Just what are you looking at with so sullen an expression on your lovely face?”