Master and Apprentice

by Bateman, Sonya

  Speaking of Ian, where the hell was he? I glanced around, saw nothing in the light, then a flickering glow from a corner caught my attention. It came from Ian, who was executing a strange little dance while he smacked at the flames spreading across his torso.

  Shit. I’d never seen one of them actually set someone on fire before. This was bad.

  I heaved myself up from the floor just as the Morai got himself under control and stopped leaking soul gunk. He glared at Ian, pointed up, and snapped, “Yiiksar-en.” An alarming crack echoed through the cave.

  Ian threw a hand out and shouted something. The Morai went rigid and immobile. Ian must’ve locked him down to keep him from casting more spells. I knew how that one worked—temporary whole-body paralysis. He’d done it on me before. But only to shut my big mouth long enough to prevent us both from getting killed.

  More cracks sounded, and a grinding groan announced hunks of rock breaking away from the edges of the roof vent. They fell straight for Ian.

  A soccer-ball-size chunk struck his back and knocked him flat. Another big piece landed on his arm, and I heard a bone snap. Smaller stones pelted his legs. Jagged shards rained on his head and sliced his face. He groaned, tried to drag himself away from the rubble.

  “Jesus Christ!” I stumbled toward him with no idea what I intended to do. Before I reached him, he glanced up at me and shook his head.

  “Get the tether,” he said through his teeth.

  Crud. I really didn’t want to do that.

  I shifted direction and lurched toward the stiff, furious figure. So much for him not doing anything. I guess Ian was right about them all being evil.

  I grabbed for his wrist. The Morai blinked. A hiss rose from his throat, like air escaping from a punctured tire. Hoping there were no spell incantations that went “ssssss,” I wrapped a hand around the bracelet and pulled.

  It didn’t budge.

  Ian coughed. It was a wet, ominous sound. “Quickly, thief.”

  “What do you want me to do, cut his hand off ? It’s stuck.”

  “Whatever it takes.”

  My gut clenched and rolled. I didn’t think I could bring myself to hack somebody up like that—even if it was an evil djinn. I yanked on the bracelet again. It moved down about a quarter inch and stuck at the base of his thumb.

  The Morai’s hissing grew louder. This time, I heard a few vowels in there.

  “Blast you, Donatti, kill him!”

  Ian had pulled himself up on one knee. The broken arm dangled limp and twisted at his side. Sweat drenched his ashen face and mingled with blood from a deep gash on his forehead. If he wasn’t out of magic before, he had to be now, and there was no way I could fight this guy on my own.

  I grabbed for my switchblade, flicked it open … and realized that even if I could pony up the guts to lop his hand off, it’d take too long to saw through with a lousy three-inch blade. Time to improvise.

  A hasty mental inventory revealed I’d brought nothing useful. Cell phone, flashlight, a bag of trail mix. That’d help. I could temporarily blind him, force-feed him, and hope he had a peanut allergy.

  With my limited magic options, that pretty much left tether destruction—if I could get the damned thing away from him. I might’ve been able to destroy it while it was still on him, but djinn tended to explode when their tethers went, and if I didn’t move quickly enough I’d finish myself along with him.

  There had to be another way. I scanned the cave floor, and my gaze lit on a crumbled spray of loose rock. Perfect. I dropped the Morai’s wrist, grabbed a fist-size stone from the pile, and smashed it against his temple. He shuddered and collapsed.

  Magic didn’t solve everything.

  A sharp gasp from Ian drew my attention. I dropped the rock beside the unconscious Morai and rushed over to him. He’d staggered back against the wall, collapsed, and slumped forward, barely conscious. Bright blood dripped from his mouth.

  “Ian.” I shook his shoulder. He stirred, groaned. “C’mon, man. You in there?”

  He raised his head and looked at me with piercing eyes. “Idiot. Destroy him.”

  “He’s out of it—”

  “Now.”

  “Fine.” I turned, palmed my blade, and crossed over to the Morai. His closed eyelids twitched in erratic rhythm, and his open mouth had frozen in a sneer around his ruined fangs. The Morai could look more human if they wanted to—Ian didn’t resemble a wolf much, except for his eyes. Their appearance was a testament to their hatred. If they were smart, they could make it a lot harder for us to recognize them.

  The arm bearing the bracelet lay flung out from his side. I crouched as far away from him as I could and still be within reach of the tether, sucked in a breath, and sliced my finger open. Blood was an unfortunate necessity for most of the few spells I knew. At least this one didn’t require drawing a symbol, like the mirror bridge. My hands shook enough to ensure a lack of precision.

  I smeared a thick band of blood on gleaming gold and tried to concentrate. There were words I had to speak. I always had trouble with those.

  Before I could spit out the incantation, the Morai’s eyes fluttered open and found me. A cold smile wrenched his lips. He struggled to breathe and spoke in a guttural whisper. “Riisal’a gekki. Ken’an ni shea-wa. Fik lo jyhaad insinia de sechet.”

  A translation ripped through my head, and dull weight settled in my gut—then fingers seized my wrist. The Morai’s lips attempted to form words. More weird warnings … or a spell?

  “Ana lo ’ahmar nar, fik lo imshi, aakhir kalaam.”

  My relief that the words had come from me didn’t last long. The tether glowed white-hot, and the Morai erupted in flame. I wrenched my hand free, but not before the fire singed my flesh. Real burns this time, turning my skin a ghastly, blistered white. I scrambled toward Ian, half blind, the Morai’s dying scream chasing me like a wounded banshee.

  His explosive end shook the world and knocked me prone on the cave floor at Ian’s feet. I curled around my throbbing hand and waited for things to settle down. No need to witness the Morai’s destruction. I’d already seen plenty of them die.

  A gray haze settled over me, and I drifted on the edge of senselessness. Eventually Ian nudged me and said something. It took a minute for his words to impress on my brain.

  “Donatti. Your hand.”

  I tried to move. Pain sliced a ribbon up my arm. “Still there,” I gasped. “How ’bout a nap? Wake me up next week.”

  “We must get out of this place.”

  “Why? It’s a nice cave. We should camp here.” Though I intended sarcasm, I came across like a doomed Boy Scout in a horror movie. Using major magic always took a toll, and exhaustion weighed me down to the point of idiocy. I barely made sense to myself.

  I clenched my jaw and maneuvered onto my back for a look at the injury. It was a lot worse now. My hand formed a frozen claw, the flesh a deep and angry red where it wasn’t sickly white and threatening to burst. The sight of it threw my gut into full boil. I swallowed bile and turned away fast, before I could heave all over myself.

  “Close your eyes, thief,” Ian said gently. “I will attempt to heal you.”

  “Ex … forget it.” I took his suggestion. “What about you? You’re a wreck.”

  “That will have to wait. I do not have enough power left to transform.”

  “Oh. Right.” Djinn could only heal themselves in our realm by taking their animal forms. Ian happened to be an oversize wolf, when he wasn’t an angry, vicious, almost-seven-foot-tall human-looking bastard. This little bonus excluded me, since I wasn’t exactly a djinn.

  I sensed him move, knew he held a palm just above my throat like he always did when he healed me. The searing pain in my hand diminished to a deep, slow throb. Ian hissed through his teeth. “Not enough,” he whispered. “I am too drained.”

  I risked a glance and gave my fingers a tentative wiggle. They moved, so at least my hand wasn’t mummified anymore, but the skin remained red a
nd blistered and streaked with white blotches. The missing top third of my index finger wasn’t a result of the fire, though. I’d lost that a year ago against Lenka—and djinn magic didn’t cover regeneration, so I’d never get it back.

  “It’s fine.” I eased into a seated position, exhaled slowly. “I guess this is our cue to walk,” I said. “Want a hand up?”

  Ian nodded reluctantly. I knew he hated asking for help, no matter how much he needed it. He was a warrior, or at least he had been four hundred years ago, before he got banished to the human realm. And no self-respecting warrior would let a little thing like crippling injury stand in his way.

  His banishment was another reason we hunted the Morai. He couldn’t return home until he’d killed every last one of their clan—Akila’s father, the head of the djinn Council, had seen to that. What a guy.

  I arranged Ian’s good arm around my shoulders and lifted. He came up slowly, gained his feet, and motioned me away with murmured thanks. After a beat, he said, “What did the Morai say to you?”

  “Um.” I hesitated. Wasn’t sure Ian should hear about it, especially the last part.

  “Did you not understand him?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “It may have been important.” Ian had that determined look in his eyes, the one that said he’d stop at nothing to destroy every last Morai in existence no matter what the cost—to himself, or anyone else. “Can you recall any of the words?”

  “Yeah.” I stared at the ground. “He said, ‘Foolish apprentice. He knows not what he sees. Die in service to your master’s madness.’”

  Ian recoiled like I’d gut-punched him. “You do not believe him … do you?”

  “No.” I sighed. “I think you’re right. We’d better get out of here.” The stench of burned flesh and spent blood hung in the dead air. If we stuck around much longer, I’d have to become a vegetarian, because the idea of cooked meat would stage a revolt in my stomach.

  Ian limped out the way we’d come in. I followed him, and tried to ignore the whisper that insisted the deceiver the Morai warned about could be anyone. Even Ian.

  Chapter 2

  After we’d put some distance between us and the cave, the terrain changed from mostly rock to mostly trees. Ian stayed ahead of me and trudged along at a steady pace, ignoring the arm dangling lifeless from its socket, the massive burn on his chest, and his likely broken ribs. Immortality and stubbornness weren’t the best combination.

  I jogged to catch up with him. “Don’t you think we should stop for a few minutes?”

  He ignored me.

  “Ian.” I grabbed his good arm. “Stop.”

  “It was not right.” He looked at me like he’d just realized I was still there. “He should not have been free of the tether. Akila’s vision has never been wrong before.”

  Ian’s wife was Bahari—the hawk clan—and had a knack for air magic, especially flying and illusions. She did the scrying beforehand and found tethers so we could go on our little killing sprees. “Uh, there’s a first time for everything?” I said.

  Ian shook his head. “There is something else here. Magical interference. This mountain is rife with it, and I do not like it. We must keep moving.”

  “Come on, Ian. We’ll never make it back to town walking. Especially not with you beat to hell.” Despite my protest, unease coiled in my gut. Anything that made Ian uncomfortable was bad news for me. Usually painful, bad news in the form of a vengeful Morai. But Ian could barely walk, much less cast any spells, and only time would restore his power. And mine. “Let’s just make a quick pit stop, all right? Give it an hour. You can rest, and I’ll stand watch.”

  He cast me a dubious look. And started walking again.

  “Damn it, stop being a jackass!”

  “I am fine.” He staggered a little, took two more steps, and collapsed.

  I cursed under my breath and went to him. “So we’re resting,” I said. “Right?”

  “Apparently,” he muttered into the ground.

  “Glad you see it my way.” I knelt beside him and tried to look through the trees. “I think there’s a decent clearing up ahead,” I said. “You gonna let me help you get there, or are you comfortable here?”

  He let out a long breath. “Very well.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Somehow I managed to get him up and leaning on me. My burned hand let out a few shouts of protest during the struggle, and settled back to a persistent ache as we pressed awkwardly forward. The clearing that looked no more than fifty feet away took five minutes to reach, and it wasn’t much of a clearing. Just a semicircular patch of ground covered in browning pine needles. At least there weren’t as many rocks here.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll let you down here, and—”

  “You all just keep movin’.”

  The voice, not clearly male or female, came from across the clearing. A shotgun protruded between two trees, with a figure in a wide-brimmed hat behind it.

  For a minute my brain went blank. Why the hell would anybody else be on this oversize pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere? The only quasicivilization, the little mountain town where we’d rented a room, was miles away. But the shotgun suggested hunter, so maybe whoever this was had been hunting something they shouldn’t have and didn’t want to be discovered.

  The sharp blast of the gun jolted me out of pondering. A cloud of dirt and pine needles burst from the ground near my feet. “Jesus Christ!” I yelled, dragging Ian back a few steps. “You can’t just shoot people.”

  Brilliant. I sounded like a Sunday school teacher. That’d deter the nut with the gun.

  “I said move. Get on outta here.” The barrel came back up. “I won’t miss next time.”

  Ian breathed in shakily. “I can walk,” he whispered. “We will find another spot.”

  “Guess we don’t have a choice.”

  The gun bearer moved forward and stopped just outside the light in the clearing. “You hurt?” The tone was a few degrees gentler, but no more welcoming.

  “Yes. My friend’s arm is broken, and … stuff.” Rattling off a list of Ian’s injuries didn’t seem like it would help. I might have to offer an explanation, and I didn’t have a lie handy.

  “You ain’t from town, or that militia bunch?”

  Militia? “Uh … no.”

  “Saints and shitpokes. Dumb-ass tourists. You from up north too.” The voice edged into feminine territory as some of the coldness wore off. “Were you climbin’, or huntin’?”

  “Climbing.” I seized the innocuous excuse, hoping Ian had enough sense not to contradict me. “We were checking out the caves up there and lost our footing. He fell farther than me.”

  Ian stiffened, but he didn’t say anything.

  She—I was positive it was a woman now—sighed like I’d just confessed to not realizing the sky was blue. “S’pose you better come back to my place, then. It ain’t too far. Your … friend can ride Zephyr. You’ll have to walk.”

  I ignored the suggestive way she said friend. “What’s a Zephyr?”

  “My mule.” She turned and moved back into the trees.

  Ian shuddered and coughed. “A mule,” he murmured.

  “Sounds like fun.” I suppressed a grin.

  “Indeed.”

  “Come on.” I led him across the clearing after the mystery woman. She stood about ten trees in, fitting the shotgun into a holster mounted at the side of a rich brown, wiry-looking animal laden with stuffed saddlebags. The mule glanced up at us, blinked slowly, and went back to munching on a clump of green leafy-looking things.

  The woman kept her head bent enough not to show her face under the hat brim, and then she turned her back. She wore a thin black long-sleeved shirt, jeans faded to the color of mud, and men’s work boots. A sheaf of copper brown hair hung down her sturdy shoulders. “Mount up,” she said without facing us. “There’s stirrups and a saddle, so even green slicks like yourselves can figure it out. You ain’t got to guid
e him. He’ll follow me.”

  It took a few tries to get Ian up on the saddle. Zephyr snorted once, when Ian wobbled and grabbed handfuls of stiff black mane to keep from falling, but he didn’t buck or protest. I found the reins and wound them around Ian’s hand a few times. “Better hold on,” I said. “I don’t know if I can pick you up again.”

  Ian looked down at the mule and blanched. “Are you certain about this?”

  “Sure. It’ll be fine.”

  “Jus’ don’t put your fingers near his mouth. They look like carrots to him,” the woman said. “You set?”

  Ian groaned.

  “We’re good,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She made a sharp clucking sound and started walking. Zephyr swung from his feast and plodded along behind her with Ian swaying uneasily on his back.

  I stayed next to the mule. Whoever this woman was, she obviously didn’t want to get too friendly. I couldn’t blame her. Ian tended to make people uneasy, and I wasn’t much better.

  “Name’s Mercy,” she said eventually. “You?”

  “I’m Donatti. He’s Ian.”

  “All right.”

  She lapsed back into silence.

  At first glance, Mercy’s place looked like a few acres of trees had exploded and fallen back to the ground in random piles. An open-face shack with a log fence growing out of it apparently belonged to Zephyr. Just outside the far end of the fence stood something that looked like three doghouses stacked on top of each other. Two smaller buildings, each about the size of two toolsheds pushed together, flanked a small but thriving garden.

  The main house might have been a normal shape once, but irregular additions had been patched on until it resembled a deformed starfish. A wide, roofed porch ran the front length, where two screened windows flanked a rough plank door painted bright red. There was a small gray satellite dish on the roof. The huge, squat metal box on the right side of the house, with thick wires feeding in between logs, was probably a diesel generator.