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

by McIlwraith, Anna

  Emma bit her tongue — she definitely had not known that. Something to ask about, later.

  “He found something,” Nathifa continued. “But it turned out to be a dead end. Of course, now none of that matters; you’re here, real.” Nathifa’s tone was bitter. “Too late to save Raziya or her king.”

  Emma cocked her head at Nathifa. “Over a hundred years too late.” If Nathifa thought she was going to feel guilty for not being born over a century earlier, then the jackal woman had at least managed to do what no-one else had — find Emma’s guilt threshold.

  “I am sorry.” Nathifa ducked her head in a respectful gesture that was all warrior: no obeisance, even in the presence and at the mercy of the caller of the blood. How this woman had survived at Khai-Khaldun’s royal court, Emma had no idea — Khai didn’t seem the type to appreciate pride in his servants.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Emma sighed and put her face in her hands. “What does this have to do with the pledge?” She felt a small hand on her arm, and looked up — and then down — into Felani’s solemn face, but the maiden’s smoky eyes were fixed on Nathifa.

  “Our queen was not the only one of our race ever to develop the wasting illness.” Nathifa’s eyes slid to Felani, and they shared a haunted look. “It starts with the royals, the purest lines, the oldest — and once their strength is compromised, it weakens the rest of us. Only two have succumbed since the queen, but there will be more. The waste is slow but certain.” Nathifa’s voice hardened. “Nothing’s changed in the hundred years since she died — we still don’t know what causes it, and we’ve never found a cure. None of the races across the face of the earth has found a cure.” Nathifa turned back to Emma. “Our only hope is the prophecy — our life force linked and ultimately bound by one, a human woman, made for us but not of us. Fated to come when our races need her most.”

  Emma had heard those words before. She breathed past the panic; who would have thought that having the starring role in a world-wide prophecy about the fate of all the magical shapechanging races of earth could cause anxiety attacks?

  “My lady?” An unfamiliar maiden’s voice stirred her; she had not been about to faint. No way.

  Tarissa held her up with her deceptively strong grip — so, maybe she had been about to faint. It had been a long day — night — whatever.

  “So,” said Emma, pinching the bridge of her nose to stop her head from spinning, “Khai wants his jackals bound to me and the jaguars via the pledge, in order to save your people from this wasting illness, right?”

  Nathifa laughed, a dry, cruel sound. “Khai doesn’t care about the wasting illness — he only cares about himself. Minkah left behind all the knowledge he had compiled on the prophecy and on the caller of the blood. Khai merely took advantage of work that had been done for him. Saving the blood of our people is a convenient excuse for making a bid for power; it prevents his opponents from moving against him.”

  Fern spoke up. “Why doesn’t he offer the pledge himself?”

  Emma inwardly winced. Now there’s a frightening thought.

  Fern glanced at her, apologizing with his eyes.

  “He would never risk sacrificing anything himself, not when he can control Kahotep.” Pain flashed briefly in Nathifa’s eyes like emerald flame. “Besides, Khai’s maternal bloodline is separate to Kahotep’s, and it is Kahotep — through his mother — who carries the royal line. Minkah’s findings suggested that in order to heal the rift in the magic that makes us what we are, to heal the wasting illness, the link to the caller of the blood must be forged through the most ancient blood of our race. For Khai to pledge to you, Emma, would achieve nothing.”

  Alexi grunted as though surprised and disgusted all at once. “The caller of the blood is power. It may serve Khai’s current purpose for Kahotep to make the pledge, but there is no guarantee his purpose will not change. He is unpredictable, and if what I gathered last night is any indication, he takes reckless chances. Gambles. He is unstable.”

  Horne looked at Alexi. “What are you talking about?”

  “While you were being drugged,” he said with an arched brow at Nathifa, who returned his stare, “I was eavesdropping on the party-goers.” He looked at Horne. “This festival,” he waved a hand in the air to indicate the tent and presumably the whole village of revelers beyond its walls. “Khai held it because word of Emma’s imminent arrival got out, and the people were angry. Races from all over Africa threatened to wage war against the jackals, so Khai pretended that he had planned a grand celebration all along, an opportunity for any race who wished it to have an audience with the caller of the blood. He did it to control them — to pacify them, and separate the rulers of neighboring kingdoms from their military forces — those that have them, anyway.”

  Nathifa nodded. “Alexi is right.” She swallowed, throat working visibly, hands clenching in the fabric of the linen sheet. She turned haunted eyes on Emma, and when she spoke, she sounded broken. “If I were you, I would pray that Khai does not change his mind about the pledge.”

  Emma gritted her teeth; if Khai didn’t change his mind, she was still left with Kahotep. Fern pushed waves of comfort and protective confidence at her, trying to buffer against her fear, and it almost worked.

  “What will you pray for, Nathifa?” she asked quietly.

  Nathifa hung her head. “When Khai murdered the queen and her priestesses, the gods fled with them. We are damned. I pray to my mistress, the goddess Nephthys, but not because I think she can hear me.” She looked up at Emma. “Prayers are for the living, for the gods are dead.”

  Suddenly Emma understood. “You’re not a believer.” How else could Nathifa grieve so for her queen, yet be willing to take Emma’s life?

  Nathifa tensed. “I believe in the prophecy. You are here, living proof of it. But I do not believe that you can heal us, heal our very blood and the magic that runs through it.” Her eyes were hard and sad. “It is a nursery story that our races have told themselves for centuries, that something is going to come along and make everything better, a fantasy when the reality is that life is long and hard and full of suffering. It will always be so. To hope for a miracle is futile. King Minkah searched for that miracle in vain, when he could have been by his queen’s side. He searched for a miracle and doomed us all.”

  A thick, oppressive silence fell. Emma glanced around. On every face but one, she saw an echo of Nathifa’s tired despair, and it made her want to scream. Only Telly looked back with a small, twisting smile and a harsh glint in his eye, but he was silent.

  Emma looked away from him before she started thinking about the fact that he was naked.

  “Kahotep hopes for a miracle,” she said to Nathifa.

  Nathifa looked up, defensive anger creeping into her eyes. “I know,” she bit out. Those two words alone told Emma volumes.

  “Does he know you came here tonight?”

  Nathifa paled, jaw going rigid. “Will you tell him?”

  Emma didn’t know what to say. Nathifa took a step toward her. “Don’t tell him. I — promise me you won’t.”

  “I won’t make a promise I don’t know I can keep, Nathifa. I’m sorry.”

  “Damn you.”

  “Hey.” Red Sun cocked his big head in a way that made Nathifa look like she was being considered as an appetizer for a grizzly bear. Nathifa eyed him with a stubborn tilt to her chin.

  She lifted those green eyes to Emma. “I’m sorry I tried to kill you. I cannot in good conscience try to do so again, having spoken with you, and I cannot beg you not to — to —” Her eyes filled, and her face went sharp and stony. “So I will leave, if you will let me. Dawn comes, and if Khai knows about Kahotep and I, as you say he does, then I must be far from here when the sun rises. Khai would use me against Kahotep if he could.” She fixed her eyes on the ground, back stiff, knuckles white.

  Emma moved slowly over to her and stood as close as a warning look from Telly would let her get.

  “I don’t wa
nt Kahotep for myself,” she said quietly. “I can promise you that.”

  Nathifa lifted her lashes and met Emma’s eyes. The force of all that sparkling emerald told Emma that the jackal knew what had not been said: that Emma couldn’t promise not to accept the pledge.

  “I’ll fight it, Nathifa. I’ll do whatever I can.”

  Nathifa nodded, and was silent a long time.

  “Kahotep…you don’t understand him, you can’t. He has lived almost his whole life beneath Khai’s rule. He is complicated, made of rock, and full of pain. His loyalty is not to his king, but to his people, and that is worse. Loyalty to a ruler can be swayed. The other kind is not so fickle.”

  And by the look in her eyes it was why she loved him.

  Emma let her go, and nobody argued.

  “Sunrise is just over an hour away,” said Telly when Nathifa had changed, slipped from the tent, and disappeared into the blue-tinted darkness. He wrapped himself in the sheet she had discarded, turning to Emma. “You should get some sleep while you can. If you can.” He shot a meaningful look around the tent, eying everyone. “The rest of us will go outside and rustle up some food, talk tactics.” He flashed her a brief smile, all white teeth and hard blue eyes, and left.

  The guards followed. Red Sun paused to give Emma a long, searching look. She had no idea if he found what he was looking for, but he went with the others. The maidens went too, with a nod from Emma.

  Alexi remained. His creamy yellow gaze flicked to her when the last of the maidens slipped from the tent. Fern tensed beside her, his mind a warm, buzzing presence wrapped around hers.

  “What is it, Alexi?” She was so tired she wanted to fall over. He looked as cold and fresh and beautiful as ever.

  His eyes narrowed. He cocked his head, sending a sheet of hair sliding over his shoulder to fall down his bare white chest — a chest that glittered with tiny, iridescent scales. His voice, when it came, was soft and cool as mist.

  “Do you dream often?”

  Emma stared at him for a moment with flat, tired eyes — and then she gently pushed Fern’s mind away from hers and let herself remember all the dreams, every single last one, let the memories fill her eyes — every time she woke up sweating and sobbing in the dark with the feel of Alexi’s blood on her hands — his mouth on hers — his beast wrapping its impossible, invisible body around hers and squeezing until her lungs gave out and her last breath was him: rain, ozone, salty earth and the metallic taste of his sadness like blood on her tongue.

  The echo of that taste filled the room, riding the cold blast of Alexi’s power. His face darkened, skin mottling, olive green shadows spreading across his jaw — the bridge of his nose — down his collar bone and up his forearms.

  “You asked,” said Emma.

  “I did,” said Alexi, voice gone deep and sibilant like the rustling movement of something colossal sliding through wet grass. And then he left before the hum of his power summoned the others back.

  Emma curled up on her sleeping pallet, lifting her eyes to Fern. He stood where she’d left him, face and mind blank, patient, waiting. His black eyes watched her like she might break.

  Lie down with me.

  His face never changed; his mind sang with surprise, but he obeyed. Even if he had wanted to resist, he couldn’t have — Emma had the power to command him with mere words — but there was no resistance in him. He stretched out on his back beside her, careful not to touch her.

  His whole body flinched when she tucked herself beneath his armpit and flung an arm across his chest.

  I’m sick of dreaming, Fern. She closed her eyes and settled her head on his bony shoulder, strands of his spiky black hair tickling her forehead. Slap me if you catch me dreaming again. She inhaled his warm scent, clean, like freshly laundered sheets, the salt of body heat, and something darker, richer, which reminded her of sleep. He smelled like home.

  He laughed softly and wrapped his arm around her, throwing a blanket over them both. I’ll do my best.

  25

  Emma woke up hot and clammy with her sweatpants twisted uncomfortably on her hips and her mouth feeling as though somebody had filled it with sand.

  She pried her eyes open and warm, bright light assaulted her, but it was Fern’s bare chest that occupied most of her field of vision.

  It’s almost midday, Fern said in her mind as his breathing changed. Emma froze. And no, he added, I don’t think you want to get into my pants just because we slept the night together. Or the morning. Whatever. He rolled away from her, yawning.

  Very funny. She shoved him and sat up. She could hear voices outside — the far-away murmur of crowds, and closer sounds that she recognized; Red Sun’s booming drawl, Horne’s rich accent, the contralto of the maidens.

  They’ve been fending off the king’s men all morning. Or the prince’s. I’m not sure.

  Emma untangled herself from the covers and stumbled a few steps before her sweatpants settled into their rightful place. She could feel Fern trying not to laugh at her and resisted the urge to shoot him a dirty look — with bed-hair and puffy eyes, it just wouldn’t be as intimidating. She disappeared into the bathing chamber before he lost control and got himself into trouble.

  There was a basinful of cold water, soap, and a washcloth — along with a collection of lotions and powders and make-up that no doubt belonged to Felani. Emma desperately needed to pee, but for that she’d need the maidens to escort her to the portables, and there was no way she was facing anyone until her reflection looked a lot better than it did. Aside from the bird’s nest her hair had turned into, there were dark circles under her eyes and her jaw was blue and pale green with bruises — though not black, as it should have been. Days worth of healing in mere hours — it sort of creeped her out.

  Her forearm was yellow where Nathifa had hit her in the fight, its healing even more advanced. Emma lifted the edge of her thermal — her ribs were mottled blue and purple, which said a lot for how bad the injuries must have been to begin with, given how well healed her jaw and arm were.

  Would she have died of internal bleeding if Olufemi hadn’t done what she had? It wouldn’t surprise her — she’d been beaten up by a shapechanger. It wasn’t something a normal person just walked away from.

  Too hot, she ditched the thermal and used the water to wash her face and neck. She still felt sweaty when she was done, but cooler. Feeling vain and guilty, she used some of Felani’s powder to take the shine off her face and lessen the look of the bruises, and then dabbed on some of Felani’s nearly-magical concealer and some mascara — because she wasn’t feeling very proud today. More like grumpy and under-slept. But she ran a brush through her hair and called it done — that was about as much primping as she could handle first thing in the morning. Afternoon. Whatever.

  Fern’s silhouette stopped outside the entrance flap to the bathing chamber. “I’ve got your pack, thought you might want to get changed.” The strap of her backpack poked through the gap and she took it.

  “So what’s on the agenda today? More fights and assassinations?” She shrugged into a plain black bra and started digging for a shirt.

  Fern laughed, but there was no humor in it. “From what I’ve heard, the prince is supposed to give you the grand tour of the oasis — which may or may not involve more fights and assassinations.”

  “I don’t know what to do, Fern.” Nathifa was so against Khai and the idea of the pledge, but Kahotep doesn’t share her view, she continued, mind-to-mind in case anyone was eavesdropping. When I spoke to him, he seemed so determined. Desperate. She pulled a gray scoop-neck t-shirt over her head. It had a nifty, stylized spider design on the front. She’d bought it online on a whim a couple of weeks ago and never showed it to Fern, because it seemed stupid after a while, but what the hell.

  If he’s been living with Khai-Khaldun for the past hundred years, I can understand desperate. Maybe he just needs to believe there’s another way.

  Emma sighed. And I have to make him
believe. She ditched her sweatpants, stepped into a fresh pair of underwear and, after a few seconds of mental debate, strapped the makeshift thigh-sheath tight around her right leg and donned a pair of khaki shorts loose enough that the line of the leg wasn’t too interrupted by the bulk of her tent-peg dagger. One strap threaded up her hip, and another encircled her waist, to stop the thigh-strap from slipping. Why did she seem to end up wearing something vaguely kinky when shapechangers were in charge of her stuff? At least the shorts were roomy enough that she could hitch up the cuff and get to the weapon. Not in time to defend herself in an emergency, but with a little warning, she’d have access to the weapon. It had to be good enough.

  She came out into the main room of the tent, pulling her hair into a plait.

  “Here,” Fern padded over to her, still in his pajamas. “Lemme do it for you.” Emma frowned at him but let him undo her plait. He ran his fingers through her hair, deft and quick and purposeful. If anyone can make him believe, Emma, it’s you.

  She snorted. “You would say that. What are you doing?”

  He tugged on a chunk of hair. “French braid. You’re going to be traipsing around for the rest of the day, you need something that’s not gonna come loose. Your braids are always coming loose.”

  “Thanks mom. I don’t think boys are supposed to know how to French braid.”

  He tugged her hair again. “I’m not a boy. I’m a hundred and four years old.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.” Gah. She so shouldn’t think about his age — or anyone else’s, for that matter. As far as she knew, the only normal-aged shapechangers she’d ever met were Ricky and Anton.

  Fern secured her hair and turned her around to face him.

  “You’re done?” Emma arched an eyebrow.

  “I’m fast. You look good. And I like your t-shirt.” His black eyes danced. He really did like the t-shirt.