The Jackal Prince (Caller of the Blood - Book 2)

by McIlwraith, Anna

  “She is the only one who is not afraid,” Sadiki said bluntly. “It is in the way she holds her body. At least that is one less thing to worry about. Aye!” He yelled for one of the human men and shuffled away.

  “We are not afraid,” said Guillermo. Emma arched an eyebrow at him. “Merely concerned that the horses won’t accept us, that’s all.”

  Emma suppressed a smile and turned away from the guard. Probably not the best idea to provoke him, not if he was feeling nervous about riding.

  Sadiki returned, leading a statuesque sorrel mare by the reins. The horse’s mane gleamed copper in the late evening sun. It blinked huge brown eyes at Emma, and Emma held out a hand for the mare to nose.

  “Shani is your mount.” Sadiki held out the reins to Emma, gesturing for her to climb into the saddle.

  Emma went to take the reins when a shrill equine scream rang out. The mare started, swinging away from Emma; Emma looked up to find a tall gray horse bearing down on her, prancing and throwing his head, teeth bared, hooves kicking up dust and flying at the other beasts. Every horse scattered, neighing protest.

  Emma’s mouth went dry and for a second she was frozen, but then she skipped backwards as fast as Fern could drag her. She heard the maidens shouting for her. The big gray cut past her, driving the sorrel mare away, wheeling on the spot and pawing at the ground, air huffing out of wide, round nostrils. The horse regarded Emma with black eyes, whites showing. It turned on the spot, throwing its head, dark mane whipping into the air.

  Two of the horsemen approached, hands out at their sides, steps confident. Sadiki looked angry. He barked something in Egyptian; the two men shrugged, murmuring to each other.

  The gray danced as the men came closer, letting out that shrill scream again, neck arching.

  What were you saying about the horses being perfectly safe? Fern’s mental voice was shaky; he obviously didn’t appreciate Emma almost being trampled to death.

  He’s a stallion. Maybe he didn’t like the idea of me riding his mare. Emma licked her lips. The stallion watched her, intensity in the deep black gaze, muscles twitching beneath the beautiful dappled hide. He grunted at the men who hovered near him, sidling toward Emma, head held high.

  One of the men said something to Sadiki. Sadiki frowned, replied. The man repeated himself, and Sadiki looked unhappy.

  Sadiki turned to Emma. “Approach him,” he said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Approach. Slowly. Hands out. Allow him to get your scent.”

  “No way.” This from Horne. Emma caught a glimpse of Telly behind him, Red Sun at his side. Great, the little show had attracted everybody. Turning red, Emma stepped forward.

  “It’s fine Horne,” she said softly, eyes on the gray. “He just wants to know who I am. Then I can ride his mare.” The stallion was unlikely to kill her. Unless she tried to ride him.

  Now there was one hilarious thought — riding a full-blooded Arabian stallion through the Egyptian desert at night. Sounded like something out of a fairytale, but the reality was way too dangerous for someone like her, even if she did have a modest gift for soothing animals, even if she did know how to ride.

  The gray tossed his head again as she drew near. She took deep breaths, not wanting to startle him with the scent of her nervousness. He pranced on the spot; Emma heard one of the horsemen say something, sounding uncertain. Hell of a time to be wrong.

  Emma, jeez, you’re killing me.

  It’s all right, Fern. It’s okay, he just wants to -

  The stallion burst into motion, rearing and snaking around Emma in a tight circle. Shouts erupted from the guards, Sadiki yelling at them to stay back. For a moment Emma was surrounded by the tall gray, his thickly muscled flesh like a moving wall as he jostled her, and then he was between her and the rest of the group. The gray screamed at the men, one front hoof cutting at the sand, and then he bent his graceful neck to Emma, regarding her with one huge eye. He whickered to her, a soft sound, reverberating through the massive chest.

  She put her hand out. The stallion dropped his nose into her palm, hot breath against her fingers. “Guys,” she called softly, “I think it’s okay. I think so.” She damn well hoped so. She ran a hand up the neck, hide like velvet, hot. The stallion rubbed against her, huge cheek sliding over the top of her head. Emma had to brace herself against it.

  One of the human horsemen walked slowly over to her. The stallion made a sound low in his throat and shifted, but was calm. The man said something directly to Emma, but she couldn’t understand.

  “Sadiki?” Emma peered around the stallion’s dark head.

  Sadiki put his fists on his hips, looking sick and tired of the hold-up. “The Bedouin says you must ride.” He jerked his chin at the gray. “Him. No other. He has chosen.” Sadiki shook his head, ignoring the incredulous looks on the guard’s faces. “Bloody horses,” he muttered, and walked away to fetch the rest of the saddled horses that had scattered.

  The horseman nearest Emma handed her an armful of woven, tasseled fabric, gesturing for her to string it around the gray’s neck. With great apprehension, she did so. The stallion’s skin twitched, and he watched her with one ear back, but he stayed calm.

  She smoothed a hand down the massive neck, tentative at first, then harder, scratching the sensitive spot at his shoulder, laughing as his head dropped and he groaned, a long, equine sound of contentment. Emma shook her head; moments ago, she’d thought he would trample her into the hot Egyptian sand. She glanced up at the horseman, who watched her.

  “What is his name?” She motioned at the magnificent gray stallion, hoping the Egyptian man understood.

  “Sefu,” he said. “It means ‘sword.’”

  Emma looked up at the stallion, whose mottled gray coat, silvery at sides and underbelly, darker steel at legs and rump and head, indeed reminded Emma of metal. “Sefu.” One ear twitched in her direction.

  “Emma?” She started at the sound of Telly’s voice. He walked his own horse up, but stopped a yard away. “You okay with this?” He was looking at her with an expression on his face that she hadn’t seen often; uncertainty, in the gray of his eyes, in the downward tilt of his mouth. Telly always seemed so sure of her — or he had, until she’d decided to come to Egypt.

  It was like he was only just realizing he didn’t know her. Might not be able to predict her.

  She stroked the stallion’s silky muzzle, marveling at the velvet of his nose. “I’m not that fragile, Telly. I can handle it.” Or she hoped she could, because they didn’t have much choice. The evening was wearing on. They had at least three more hours of riding ahead of them, maybe more, and the desert could get cold at night.

  Telly just blinked at her. Emma knew she should have thought it arrogant of him to think she couldn’t surprise him, but on the other hand, if she could surprise a walking god, what did that make her?

  Made her more than she wanted to be.

  Telly finally nodded and swung himself into the saddle without using the stirrup, looking comfortable to be on the back of a horse. Emma almost expected the bay mare to balk, but she didn’t.

  None of the horses did, until Alexi tried to mount his. Then the white mare reared, eyes rolling.

  “Kala!” Sadiki hissed at the mare, but his hands on her were gentle. He murmured soothing nonsense to her as she tossed her head, making irritated sounds.

  Tarik chose that moment to ride up on his own horse, back straight, lip curled. He cast a distinctly dirty look down at Alexi. “The horses, they detest snakes.”

  Alexi’s nostrils flared as he clenched his jaw tight. It was the second time that day that he’d managed discretion for the sake of politics; Emma was impressed. Or worried. She couldn’t decide. The serpent priest rolled his shoulders, smoothing out the bunching muscles even as his hands flexed into fists. He said nothing.

  Sadiki’s hand came to rest on the mare’s forehead. He bowed his head to Tarik and then eyed Alexi. “She will be calm now. Mount gently, an
d do not touch the reins. She will follow the herd, but if she feels your touch on the reins, you’ll find yourself on the ground. Go on,” he added, tone impatient. “Mount. Everybody else is ready to go.”

  Alexi let out a long breath, jaw working, looking like he wanted nothing more than to lock his hands around Sadiki’s neck and squeeze until the weathered old jackal turned an unflattering shade of blue. Emma, watching, realized that although Alexi was evidently furious, she could detect not one whiff of his power, not one cold tendril of magic seeping off of him, and hadn’t all day.

  He was playing nice. It should have been comforting, but she had the feeling that with someone like Alexi, the longer he was nice, the worse he would be when he stopped playing.

  Alexi gripped the pommel of the saddle and vaulted into it, settling himself with a grace which didn’t mesh with his human form. No human could do that. The mare never stirred, even when Sadiki took his hand away from her and headed over to his own horse.

  Emma looked around; everyone else was ready to go, except her. They had mounted up while the men showed her how to put the harness on the gray stallion — no bridle or reins, just a woven ornamental rope that looped around his neck, down between his front legs, and up again behind his powerful shoulders so that it couldn’t slip over his head. It was more of an anchor for Emma than anything else. No illusion of control — you didn’t control a creature like Sefu, not if you were Emma. A comforting thought.

  And you didn’t get a saddle, either. One of the men gave her a leg up, and she settled herself carefully on the stallion’s warm back.

  He took a few steps to the side, arching his neck, ears flicking to and fro. Emma’s heart leapt; the stallion was like coiled, spring-loaded heat beneath her, his movement buoyant and effortless. If he chose to take off across the open desert, she’d have to bail, because there was no way of stopping such a creature on her own. She murmured his name, refusing to panic.

  I’d follow you, track you down, Fern sent. Emma looked up to find him a few yards from her, seated astride a brown horse so dark it was almost black, like black with brown highlights. He flashed her a nervous grin. I’m serious. I could get good at this horse-riding thing. He tentatively nudged his horse in her direction. The black flicked his ears back and started off at a slow walk in the direction of the rest of the herd, ignoring Fern’s urgings. Fern looked dismayed and anxious.

  Looks like I’m going to be the one tracking you down, Emma sent as she gave Sefu a gentle, feather-light squeeze with her legs, leaning her body in the direction Fern’s horse was lazily walking. Much to her relief, the stallion understood the command, and followed — or maybe he was heading that way anyway. His walk was fast, the rhythm of his body beneath her like a rocking horse. They caught up to Fern’s ride, Emma’s stallion jostling the smaller black-brown horse before settling and falling into step beside it.

  Fern turned to look at her, wobbling a little in his seat. “I hope we don’t have to go any faster than this.”

  Emma scanned ahead, surveying the party of riders. The jaguar guards on their sturdier mounts fell into formation around them; the maidens took point, fanned out at the front of the party, Alexi’s mare trailing behind them. Telly and Red Sun — both looking like they were born to ride — flanked the guards to the outside left, and Sadiki on his own black mount wheeled impatiently, weaving in and out of the riders, checking horses with an irritated, determined look on his face. Tarik had already urged his horse far ahead of the group.

  Emma turned to Fern. “I’m afraid you’re definitely going to have to go faster than this. Sadiki looks like he wants us there in a hurry. As in yesterday.” And she couldn’t blame him. The sun was on a downward slide, sunset not far off.

  Fear tickled Emma’s insides — not her own fear, Fern’s. His face was brave, but the false courage was wasted when she could read the surface of his mind like disturbed ripples in a pool.

  She frowned, thinking.

  Lift it from my mind, she finally sent. I can ride, just merge with me and take the knowledge. I know you can do it.

  Fern’s fear turned to curiosity, tinged with relief, but apprehension followed close behind. You don’t have to do this. I know you don’t like it, and it’s perfectly natural not to.

  Emma gave him a get-real look. Don’t be polite Fern — I’m a big sissy and I hate the mind-probe thing, so you don’t have to dress it up. But you’d do the same for me.

  He’d done more — he’d risked his life for her before, and would readily do so again. He tried and tried to give her the privacy and time she needed to accept things whilst freely offering his own mind for her to share and read at will. Emma didn’t kid herself that she owed him anything — he had bound them, against her will, and she would never, ever blame herself for that — but if they were going to live with it, become friends, make the most of one bad, desperate decision on Fern’s part, then there had to be give and take.

  We’re going to need to ride fast, she sent firmly, fast and hard. Everybody else is looking out for me; let me look out for you. It’s not such a big deal.

  He stared at her, hard, like he couldn’t quite believe her even though he could read that it was the truth. Tell me you won’t regret this, Emma.

  She punched him in the arm. “Ouch!” He glared at her, no doubt mortified that she’d hit him while he was indulging in a deep moment of moody vulnerability.

  “Just do it, Fern,” she hissed at him impatiently. “I can’t lie to you. You can’t make me promise not to regret something before I get a chance to regret it, that’s not how it works.” Just probe my mind already. She flashed him an evil smile and gave Sefu a squeeze with her knees, urging him into a lazy trot. Fern’s horse followed suit, and he turned wide, alarmed eyes on her.

  Damn you, he sent, laughing as he bumped up and down in the saddle. Then his mind brushed hers, a light touch that grew firm and sure until he was sinking deft mental fingers into her mind with a graceful probe, the likes of which Emma had not yet mastered. His touch was cool and unobtrusive, carried with it the strange, familiar darkness of his beast, as though in everyday mental communication, he could hold it back from her, but not if he wanted to go deeper. Deeper, and the beast was inseparable, an inky shadow with too many limbs and an intellect comprised of pure, uncomplicated instinct. It slid, loping slowly, spidering along the edges of her consciousness like a half-remembered dream, an echo of sensation, an overlay that couldn’t be seen but was all around her.

  And then it was done. An involuntary shudder rolled down the length of her spine, seizing each muscle and leaving gooseflesh in its wake. Fern’s mind lingered in hers, but no longer searched for what it needed — not mere information, but sensory memory, the more complicated construction of conditioned reflexes and instinctive reactions that Emma had learned as she learned to ride from the age of four.

  Emma squashed the childhood memories, focused on Fern, flashing her eyes at him as he met her gaze and grinned. He relaxed into the saddle, hands calm at the horse’s neck, no longer tightly held out in front of him.

  “So,” she said. “Think you’re up for a gallop?”

  Fern’s black eyes flashed back at her, full of glittering challenge. “I sure hope you can ride as well as you think you can.” He took a deep breath. “Because that’s about as well as I can ride now, too.” Glancing around, Fern managed to catch Sadiki’s eye in an amused warning, before he urged his horse forward with a squeeze of his legs. The black-brown picked up the pace, and Emma’s stallion surged to match it.

  We’d better hope Sadiki can catch me if I can’t stop this handsome gentleman, Emma sent, heart catching in her throat and hands tangling in the stallion’s mane as Sefu began to stretch out, powering up for a gallop. Emma tucked her knees and gripped with her thighs, tilting forward into Sefu’s mane, and hoped to hell that Sefu had been named for his coloring and not because he was as deadly as the blade of his namesake.

  The guards were starting to call
out anxiously. She raced past them, Fern leaning over the neck of his own horse, exhilarated grin transforming his face. The maidens squealed as she and Fern thundered through them, kicking up dust in their wake. Emma blocked them out, took a deep breath, and gave herself up to the thrill of the ride.

  17

  It was past midnight by the time Tarik and Sadiki stopped them — at least that’s what time Sadiki said it was. Emma had lost all sense of time the moment she stepped off the plane in Luxor. She felt as though it should be time for breakfast, but she was falling asleep atop Sefu, who seemed to have a knack for stepping in just the right direction to stop her toppling off every time she dozed.

  The sky was a brilliant, unbroken canopy of stars, more stars than Emma had ever seen in her life, more than seemed to fit. A cold wind picked at the robes that Sadiki had produced for her when night fell and it became too cool for only jeans and a tank top. Fern was wearing them too, but the rest of their group seemed unaffected by the dropping temperature. It was not as cold as it could get — the night was still young.

  Sadiki stood next to his horse, way out in front, at the crest of a slope that dipped down and out into a wide, endless-looking basin — or at least that’s what Felani informed Emma it was. Emma couldn’t see that well or that far, and Fern could only do a little better. Aranan eyes were not as keen as most other shapechanger’s.

  “What’s he doing?” Emma’s voice was husky from dust and tiredness.

  Felani shrugged stiffly. Even she was not used to being in the saddle, and it was starting to show.

  “I do not know. Surely we must be close.” Felani’s accent thickened when she was irritable, so she sounded almost unintelligible to Emma. Sadiki seemed to be surveying something — the land, the sky, the wind, who knew. The shadowy figure next to him — Tarik — urged his horse forward and started away down the slope without a word, hoof beats muffled by the sand.

  He might be using magic. He’s not using the call. Fern’s mental voice was flat with exhaustion. He slumped in his saddle, looking haggard — the dry heat of the desert, he had told Emma far too late for her liking, didn’t agree with Aranan from wetter, more humid climates. Most Aranan were apparently hypersensitive to temperature extremes and moisture levels, similar to their smaller, non-magical arachnid cousins. Fern clutched a canteen of water; he had been drinking steadily for the last two hours and still looked like shit. He had assured her he couldn’t die from exposure — not in a week, with adequate water supply, anyhow.