Wolf's-own: Koan

by Carole Cummings

  "I have to go,” Jacin breathed. He tried to wrench himself from the hands holding onto him, and only succeeded in shoving off Joori's. Naro-yi wasn't letting go.

  "Fen,” Imara said, her tone too calm, too blatantly friendly, like Jacin was some rabid dog she was trying to coax out of its safe den so she could cut it down. “Perhaps we can—"

  "I have to go!” Jacin yanked again on his arm, and again, Naro-yi merely held on.

  You have to get away, Jacin-rei. They all know, they all want the power of the Incendiary for themselves. They will use your brothers against you, unless you leave them behind. For their own good, Jacin-rei. If you would protect them, you must leave them.

  "And we will, Fen,” Imara soothed. She reached out, hand stopping to hover just over the hilt of the knife jutting from its sheath on Jacin's left thigh. “Just let us—"

  "No!” Jacin backed up as far as he could, shoulder blades pressing into the wall, heart racing. Bodies were all around him, blocking off air, blocking off light, blocking off a way out.

  "Jacin, please, just calm down.” Joori's voice was taking on notes of entreaty and fear. “Damn it, will you just back off and let me talk to him?"

  "Here, you've got him cornered, for the love of the gods, you think that's going to calm him down?” Samin's voice was like a firm handhold on the side of a faltering cliff. “Let Joori through."

  It was like magic. One second there were blockades and obstructions pressing Jacin into the wall, and the next, it all eased back a pace. Joori stepped through the barrier, and as he shoved his way around Imara, he knocked sideways into Naro-yi.

  Now, Jacin-rei.

  It was enough. Naro-yi's grip slipped just a little, and Jacin shoved to the side until it fell away completely. His arm came up, forearm coming out straight to level a solid blow to... someone. He couldn't tell. Could barely see. That light from the door was like a beacon, blinding him.

  Yes, Jacin-rei, get away, now, before they slap the irons on your wrists and all is lost.

  Irons. Bars. Cells. All alone and unable to run from the voices.

  An uppercut to someone's chin as all the hands reached for him, but Jacin was fast when he wanted to be. He spun, slammed into a solid wall of muscle and spun again.

  Instinctively, his hands reached for his knives, even as he was plowing through anything that got between him and the door, hardly hearing Joori's voice back there, calling him, and Samin's voice, grinding out curses. Jacin didn't draw a weapon. He didn't dare. Just met the next obstacle with a driving run, leading with his shoulder, and rammed it with all his weight. Something broke, a shattering noise, and cool air hit his face, flooded his lungs. Shards of glass rained down on his head, sharp pain drilling into his palm. It cleared his mind enough that he realized he'd reached the door, so he wrenched it open and hurled himself through it.

  He ran.

  Spikes shot up the muscles of his calf, even the parts of the muscles that weren't there anymore. It hurt, but it was good, a good pain, a welcome pain. It drowned out all the other pain—the anger, the fear, the grief, the hopelessness. They'd been with him for so long, he'd been afraid of what might happen if he didn't have them anymore.

  Now he knew. Jagged splines of physicality that countermanded all the emotion he didn't know how to decode. And it felt really fucking good.

  Footsteps pounded behind him, and voices rose into shouts then several sharp whistles.

  Run, little Ghost, Asai told him, and he did. Poured on speed and slithered between passersby, shoving aside the ones he couldn't get through, lashing out at the ones that wouldn't move, until he reached the street.

  "Jacin, please!” Joori's voice, distant, almost hysterical.

  It almost slowed Jacin down, but the sound of running feet behind him was louder, so he kept going. Ran into one man then another; the second tried to grab him, so Jacin leveled him with a left hook, shaking his hand out a little as he regained equilibrium and took off again, more shouts rising behind him, closing in.

  He ran faster.

  Leapt two-wheeled carts dragged by weary-looking hackmen, their passengers gasping out in surprise as the Ghost hurdled the flimsy-framed canopies over their heads. Ducked into alleys and blew past the linens hung out on lines between buildings, the children who played Stones and Hop-through on the cobbles, then the thugs and thieves who played more dangerous games. He raced past them all, come and gone so quick he might as well have been the Ghost he'd thought he wasn't anymore but that forever snapped at his heels.

  Malick's ring had jammed into his knuckle with that last punch, which was good, because it reminded him that he had it. Reminded him he knew how to use it, at least for this.

  No, little Ghost, you mustn't—

  Jacin ignored it. Not even slowing down to drag in more breath, he whispered the spell that brought the shadows and kept running. Malick's duster fluttered out behind him, its weight on his shoulders weirdly soothing; Jacin ducked his head and sucked air, Malick's scent sliding all around him, blocking out the city smells, and he breathed it in.

  So much easier this way. Shadows in the gray light of an overcast day, but all he had to do was keep to the alleys and not run into anyone, and everything else just... went away. Just the rhythm of his body as he pushed it to keep going, the soft thud of his boots hitting the ground—one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four—the raspy in-and-out of his breath, the muted jingle of a few of the throwing knives that had come loose in the sheaths strapped to his arms. The hot throb in the palm of his hand, the feel of tacky blood sticking to his fingers, and the barbs of agony traveling his leg and jolting up through his spine. Sweet and sharp, all of it, like a balm to a fevered mind.

  Focus

  Control.

  The shouts had gone away, the sound of pursuit had gone away, the fear and rage and betrayal that had sent him half-mad had gone away.

  Asai's voice had gone away, too, and Jacin didn't want it to come back, so he ran faster. Farther and farther away, weaving through food stalls and fruit vendors, ignoring the confused shouts in his wake when a shadow cut a corner too close and clipped someone before flitting away again.

  Breath pushing from his lungs, blood pumping with a furious thud-thud-thud in his head, whiting out everything but the next ten steps ahead of him. No Beishin, no Joori or Morin or Samin or Shig.

  White noise. No thought at all but Away.

  Was he flying?

  Quiet, so he kept going until he couldn't go anymore. Until his lungs started to seize and his body started to shake. Until his leg finally gave out and almost dumped him facedown on the ground.

  He found himself deep in the bowels of the city, in a narrow dead end between two tall brick buildings, backed by one that was sided in silver-worn, rotted wood. There was a knife in his hand, blade not quite dripping, but bloody enough. And he had no idea how it had gotten so.

  Did it matter? He didn't think it did; not now, anyway. Nothing mattered but that there was no Asai whispering to him, no Imara chasing him down, no....

  He listened.

  Nothing alarming, no sound of pursuit, only his own gasping breaths. He wasn't taking any chances, though. Peering at the buildings, Jacin sought chinks in the brickwork, found enough suitable for handholds and started climbing. He took off the shadows when he reached the top and collapsed on the roof. And then he passed out.

  * * * *

  "Well, what did you think was going to happen?” Samin snapped, livid, as he helped Joori to his feet and made him tilt his head back to slow the flow of blood dripping from his nose. Samin spared a death glare for Imara before turning to watch the top of Fen's head disappear into the confusion and chaos of the lane that led from the piers to the street. Three of the Patrol were in heavy pursuit, but Samin knew without even having to watch that they'd never catch Fen, gimpy leg or no. “You corner someone,” Samin growled at Imara, “especially someone like Fen, and try to disarm him when he's surrounded by a bunch of strangers coming a
t him from all angles, you kinda have to expect that he's not going to cooperate."

  "Samin,” Joori said, frantic, as he jammed the cuff of his sleeve beneath his nose, “we have to find him, we can't just—"

  "I know, Joori,” Samin tried to soothe, and he agreed—bloody hell, did he agree—but saying it was one thing, and actually doing it was going to be quite another. Samin didn't know the city that well, he hadn't the first idea where to start looking, and it wasn't going to help that Fen didn't know it, either.

  "Where would he go?” Imara asked, her striking face pulled into lines of anxiety and frustration.

  Good. At least Samin wasn't the only one who could see the unpleasant possibilities. “Good bloody question,” he muttered. “Fen doesn't know the city. Unless he comes back on his own, finding him isn't going to be easy."

  If anything, it was going to make tracking him down even more dependent on random chance than it would have been in Ada. At least there, Samin had contacts and knew Fen well enough that he would have had a few places to start. Here, who the hell knew where Fen could get off to, or—more worrying—what he could get up to. And Fen was armed, which was good, in a way—it meant he wasn't going to be vulnerable to any of the riffraff he might run into. Except it also meant that it might come down to following a trail of bodies to find him, because Fen hadn't exactly been in his right mind when he'd taken off, and he'd apparently sliced one patrolman pretty good while he'd been doing it. Not to mention the patrolwoman and the innocent bystander he'd decked. Plus Joori, Samin thought with a growl for Imara, and all Temshiel and maijin while he was at it.

  "And he can't be found with magic. Right.” Imara pinched at the bridge of her nose. “Perhaps the Patrol—"

  "The Patrol aren't going to find a damned thing,” Joori snapped, a bit muffled through his sleeve, the attempt at scathing accusation he was directing at Imara rather losing its effect through the blood and his rapidly swelling nose. “Don't you people think? You saw him last night, for pity's sake, you couldn't figure out that threatening to lock him up maybe wasn't the best way to—"

  "I was not the one who—” Imara stopped abruptly, gaze gone distant, head titled to the side as though listening. She sniffed the air. With a relieved little “Ah!” she spun around, searching the crowd that still gawked toward the street or milled around aimlessly, then she turned once again toward Samin and Joori. She directed her gaze just over Joori's right shoulder, then gestured to a man with white-shot dark hair and kind blue eyes. “This is Naro-yi of Owl,” Imara said as the man stepped in. “Naro-yi, I must—"

  "What the hell happened now?” Morin asked, jogging out through the inn's battered door and directly over to Joori, confusion and budding anger furrowing his brow. Shig came a little more slowly behind him, taking everything in with a lift of her eyebrow but no other expression to give away what she might be thinking. “Who clocked you?” Morin asked Joori.

  "It was an accident,” Joori barked, a little more viciously than the question had merited, but Samin understood it. Samin didn't believe for a second that Fen knew what he was doing when he'd leveled Joori, and Joori wasn't about to let himself believe it. “The Patrol was trying to arrest Jacin, and Jacin—"

  "They were not trying to arrest him,” Imara cut in, impatient.

  "And what would you call it?” Samin argued, unconsciously gripping Joori's shoulder and coming to stand behind him and Morin. “Disarming him and dragging him to ‘meet’ a counselor to the Patrol sounds an awful lot like ‘arrest’ to me. And considering that the lad grew up in a prison camp, I can't imagine why he'd think the same."

  Samin usually didn't pull off sarcasm very well, but judging by the look on Imara's face, he thought maybe he'd hit it that time.

  "Huh,” Shig put in with a dubious look at Imara. “How old are you again?"

  Imara's pretty face tightened. She turned to Naro-yi. “He is bleeding. I can track him that way, but I have to find him before—” Imara cut herself off, but not quickly enough.

  "What?” Joori tried to jerk away from Samin, but Samin held him still. “What d'you mean he's bleeding, what happened?” Joori angled a desperate glance up at Samin. “What does that mean, she can track him that way? Can they smell it?” His eyes filled. “What the hell are these people doing to him?"

  Samin didn't have an answer. But he was bloody well going to get one. And more than likely not from Imara. She seemed an all right sort, but she also seemed like she thought herself some sort of parent figure, set to humoring a bunch of recalcitrant children who didn't know any better. Because Samin had no doubt what Imara had been about to say: I have to find him before anyone else can sniff him out. Except she'd stopped herself, like she didn't want those who most needed to know to twig—like they had no right. And if all of these people could find Fen by following a trail of blood like stalking hounds....

  "I have to find him before there is any more trouble,” Imara went on.

  Naro-yi seemed to find this amusing, for some reason. “Shall I contact Dakimo for you?” he asked mildly.

  Imara clenched her teeth. “I would prefer you left that to me."

  "I imagine you would.” Naro-yi turned. “You are Kel Saminil, I presume?” When Samin only frowned and nodded, Naro-yi sketched a shallow bow. “I am Naro-yi of Owl. I have served as Kamen's solicitor here in Mitsu for many years. As instructed only days ago, in the event of Kamen's... absence, all decisions concerning his mortal assets and responsibilities"—a slight flick of his glance to Morin, Joori and Shig—"fall to you."

  Wait, what?

  Samin blinked. What the shit was this, now? How did Samin, of all people, end up “alpha” to this little pack of misfit wolves? He hadn't gotten a vote.

  Damn you, Mal.

  "Excellent.” Imara clapped her hands together in front of her breastbone and bowed to Naro-yi. “It would be best to get them away. Take them to the house Kamen has purchased, and I shall find—"

  "I'm not leaving,” Joori snapped. “What if Jacin comes back and we're not here? How's he supposed to find us?"

  Naro-yi raised an eyebrow and tilted his head toward the door of the inn and the man looking it over with a thunderous scowl on his face. “I'm not quite certain you're going to have a choice."

  "He won't come back.” Samin gave Joori's shoulder a squeeze when it seemed he might turn his understandable wrath on Samin. “He's smart, your brother. He'll know they'll be watching.” It sounded just as steady as Samin had meant it to—even if he had no idea whatsoever if he was even close to the truth. Who could tell with Fen, after all? He'd been obsessed with his family's safety since before Samin had known him, and losing Caidi and his mother had only sunk the obsession into something even less healthy. Fen might very well barrel right back here, not even thinking about any consequences. “And if they hadn't meant to arrest him before, they'll surely want to now,” Samin finished reluctantly.

  Shit. They might even station one or two of the Patrol here, just in case. And by the way Imara appeared to be trying very hard not to show whatever she was thinking on her face, Samin had to assume it was fairly accurate.

  Shig's whole body wracked in a very visible shudder. “He won't last long in a cell."

  Samin had to agree. Then again, he wasn't terribly optimistic that Fen would last long outside of one, either.

  "Damn,” Imara muttered, that faraway look on her face again, and even though the way she sniffed at the air was almost delicate, it still made Samin think of a baying hound. “I've lost him.” She turned to Naro-yi with a scowl of frustration. “He has Kamen's ring."

  As if that explained it all, and maybe it did, but it didn't seem as though Imara had any intention of telling Samin why. Though the nod with which Naro-yi answered seemed directed more at Samin and Joori than Imara. Samin had no idea what to think about that, either, but he suspected that if he was going to get any answers, they weren't going to come from Imara. Samin nodded back at Naro-yi.

  Because th
is had flown out of control far too quickly. And as far as Samin was concerned, Malick had just put him in charge. Not the calculating, manipulative sort, Samin, but he'd watched a master at it for years.

  Don't let him poison himself.

  Literal or metaphorical, Samin had no idea, but either way, a charge from Malick to Samin, and with Malick's last mortal breath. And Samin disliked failure just as much as Fen did.

  "Then what?” Joori asked, pleading. He turned to look directly at Samin. “What are we supposed to do?"

  Samin sighed. With a long look at first Joori then Morin then Shig, he set his jaw and turned to Naro-yi. “Take us to Kamen's house.” He squeezed Joori's shoulder again and looked directly into his eyes so there was no mistaking the meaning. “I'll take care of my own."

  Because Samin had no intention of leaving any of this to these immortals who seemed to care more about whatever Fen was to them than Fen himself. And he had no doubt whatsoever that Fen was something to them—Samin was just going to have to find out what. And why renegade banpair and the gods’ minions all seemed to want to get their hands on him.

  "We'll take care of our own, Joori,” he said quietly. Samin just hoped he could figure out how.

  Joori's eyes misted a little, but he didn't do anything but nod.

  "Excellent,” Imara said again, and she didn't wait for more discussion or arguments—she went to shadow and was gone.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Six

  "Really? No playmates? Ever?"

  Jacin shrugged, only lightly so as not to dislodge Malick's hand from where it slid up and down Jacin's arm with a warm, rough caress. It was cold in here, cherry blossom petals too cool against his bare skin, so he pushed back a little more on the tiny little bed until his shoulder blades nearly dug into Malick's chest. His leg bleated steady agony at him every time he moved it, so he set his focus on the dip and sway of the boat on the waves, let Malick's touch sink into his bones and soothe him. The scent of sex still hung in the air of the close little cabin, bleeding into the haze of sage and pine, and Jacin's body still tingled pleasantly, so he kept his concentration on the more agreeable aches.