Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  Chapter

  16

  “WORRIED?” HE READS ME SO WELL. “I’ll take the floor.”

  There’s no rug to cushion the dark tea-stained planked floor. It’s not an improvement over the forest’s packed dirt, which is the entire reason Cohen wanted to sleep here.

  “You wanted a bed; you have it,” I tell him.

  He folds his arms and stares at me, throwing down an unspoken challenge.

  I stare back. I once heard the phrase He who talks first loses. So when Cohen opens his mouth to speak, I throw a little victory celebration in my head until he says, “This isn’t up for discussion.”

  Mule.

  “Exactly,” I retort. “My choice is the floor.”

  A line furrows between his brows. He waves a hand at the bed. “It’s more comfortable.”

  “Which is why you should sleep there.”

  He grits his teeth. “You’re always so stubborn. So pigheaded.”

  “Pigheaded? Me?” I hit him with an incredulous stare. He has little room to be talking. After all, we’re at the inn despite my protests. His head jerks in a sharp nod, like adding kindling to a fire, and my temper flares.

  “Britt, you would fight me on a request even if I were taking my last begging breath.”

  Bloody bludger. I throw my pack on the bed and spin to face him, hands in fists. “You think I wouldn’t care that you were dying as long as I was getting my way?”

  The fire and frustration in his eyes flicker and dim to something softer. My challenge hangs between us. Cohen’s unfocused gaze carries over my head, and I wonder where his thoughts have taken him, though I don’t dare break the silence. He just stands there, a one-man island between the door and bed.

  “I shouldn’t have said that,” he says, subdued. “I’ve no doubt you’d care if I were dying.” He coughs the grating from his throat. “Forgive me, Dove. I’m sorry.”

  His apology doesn’t crack the wall I’ve erected between us; it obliterates it.

  Emboldened by his sweet resignation, I glance at the bed that is barely large enough for two people. “We can share. It’s only for a couple nights.”

  His eyes leap to mine.

  I feign nonchalance, though I’m thinking and rethinking and overthinking my offer. The area in the woods we shared was about the same size. It would be no different from sleeping outside, except for the roof above our heads and the soft mattress.

  He looks at the bed, then me. His gaze turns molten. “If you’re certain.”

  I look away. “If you make it an issue, then I’ll take back the offer. Or if you snore, I’ll push you onto the floor. There are enough bears in the woods—”

  “You don’t want another in your bed.” He finishes, matching the cheek in my answer. But his playfulness makes me dizzy.

  “Just don’t snore,” I say in a rasp. I turn away, hiding my face, and remove my weapons, placing them on the floor near the bed. Cohen does the same after he sharpens the blade of his sword and checks the arrows in his quiver. A bucket of warm water and a bar of soap later, I’ve washed myself clean while Cohen is gone from the room. When he returns, his skin is scrubbed free of dirt and his cheeks are tinged pink.

  The moment we both stand on either side of the bed, my nerves come alive again like lightning bugs. I look to Cohen, hoping he’ll make the first move. He doesn’t so much as blink. Ignoring the commotion buzzing beneath my skin, I climb onto the mattress.

  A second later, Cohen drops down beside me. His weight indents the mattress, causing me to roll against his body. His very warm body.

  Sucking in a sharp breath, I scramble to the edge of the bed and turn to look at the plaster above us.

  Cohen’s soft chuckle echoes in the darkness. “You’d think I actually was a bear for how skittish you are tonight.”

  “It’s your odor I was avoiding.”

  He turns his nose into himself and draws a deep breath. “I smell just right,” he says, sounding incensed.

  I can hardly stifle my laughter. I open my mouth to tease him more, but before another word is out, the brute covers me with his hulking form. “Admit I smell just fine, Britt.”

  “Get off me.”

  “Admit it, or you’ll be smelling me all over you the entire night.”

  Honestly, he smells wonderful. Like fresh mountain air and masculinity and . . . I squirm beneath him, hoping he won’t notice how flushed I’ve suddenly become.

  Cohen stills. His eyes lose their teasing tilt, darkening till they’re brown as bark instead of hazel, as his attention follows an invisible path along the curves of my face until landing on my lips.

  His jaw ticks.

  “Night, Dove,” is all he says before he abruptly pushes off of me and moves away, hugging the far side of the bed.

  I lie there, breathless and confused. Was he about to kiss me? Impossible.

  I want to smack myself. It’s obvious he still sees me as nothing more than a friend or a sister, since he pulled away despite the eagerness painted all over me. I’m such a fool. A wanton, ridiculous fool.

  We stick beside the inn until nightfall and then make our way to the market square at the center of town, where the Merryluna Festival is alive with music and dancing under strings of hung lanterns. Laughter is shared and smiles tossed around as we weave through the edge of the packed, cheerful crowd. Ale flows from barrels set on tables beside sweet cakes and breads. The nutty aroma of the fresh loaves reminds me of the time Papa tasked Cohen with a week of kitchen work as punishment for not having prepared his arrows properly before a hunt. Cohen had the last laugh when he baked two loaves of the best bread I’ve ever had—​a skill forced on him by his mother. A smile runs free across my face. I turn to ask Cohen if he remembers, but in the crush, we’ve been separated.

  The top of his brown hair bobs several paces away. I move toward him as the fiddles adopt a brighter, jauntier tune. The onlookers whoop in recognition. Women in full skirts flock to the open area beside a circular water fountain, where they spin circles around men dressed in their finest tunics and coats. Stepping close, then moving away, their dance is a mesmerizing kaleidoscope of color.

  I never danced at Midsummer’s Tide or Winter Feast; the taunts from others were too much of a deterrent. The few times I went, I left before the fiddles and citterns and drums played in full swing. Now I look around at the awe and glee on so many faces. The desire to be more like these happy strangers beats through me in time to the locals’ dance steps.

  “Do you want to dance?” Cohen’s deep, clear voice catches me off-guard and I jump, giving him reason to release a full, throaty laugh. I turn away from the dancers, embarrassed by Cohen’s teasing and, in the same breath, angry with him for making me feel that way.

  There’s a break in the gathered group where I can escape and wait till we talk to Duff Baron. I weave away from Cohen and out of the festival crowd, passing jugglers and children playing stick games and arm-wrestling men.

  Once I’m beyond the throng of people, I stand in the shadows and watch the two women who have a bucket of fire displayed at their booth much like a keg of ale would sit on a tavern table. One woman is tall and lithe, the other short and button-nosed. Curiosity pulls me to step closer, but I remain hidden as a young girl sitting on the shoulders of her father approaches the booth.

  The scarecrow of a woman holds her hand over the bucket’s flame until a ball of fire leaps into her palm. It makes little movements of bobbing while the woman holds her arm still. Is the fire not burning her?

  How does she do that?

  I gasp. She’s a Channeler. For a moment my muscles bunch in anticipation of the townspeople turning ugly accusations on the woman or red coats swarming over. Instead, the little girl and her father clap and laugh and cry for more. I’ve forgotten we’re in Shaerdan—​this woman’s life isn’t at risk. The woman holding the flame flips her hand over a jar and drops the walnut-size fireball inside. The flickering orb bounces against the glass as t
he jar is passed to the young observer and her father.

  “Amazing,” I murmur.

  “Want one?”

  My attention snaps away from the women. The dark lane Cohen has found me in shadows most of him, so I cannot make out much of his face other than the genuine smile on his lips. For a moment, my mind goes blank.

  Then I remember his earlier question.

  “No, I don’t,” I say, even though a jar of Channeler fire sounds like the most intriguing thing in the world.

  “Why’d you leave? Weren’t you enjoying the music?”

  “I didn’t enjoy you teasing me.”

  “What? When?”

  My arms cross over my tunic. “When you asked me to dance.”

  A smile spreads cheek to cheek, his white teeth reflecting the festival lights. “You’re upset because you thought I wasn’t serious. What if I truly wanted to dance?”

  Why is he pushing this? My cheeks grow hot. “Regardless, I wouldn’t have danced with you because I’m dressed as a boy. And that surely would’ve drawn notice.”

  Cohen’s eyes narrow in thought, and then without warning, his hand snakes out and steals my cap so my braid tumbles down my back. “Now you don’t look like a boy. Will you dance with me now?”

  I make a move to take back the cap, but his arms are too quick. He holds it behind his back and lifts his brows in silent question. As if he honestly wants to dance here in the street.

  “You’re ridiculous,” I say, the no evident in my tone. He chuckles and steps closer until I’m completely swallowed by his shadow.

  “No one will see us here.” His arms spread invitingly.

  My entire body tingles with wanting to step forward and drop my hand in his. We should be keeping watch for Duff Baron, not dancing in a back alley. Although Kendrick, the innkeeper, said Duff Baron and his wife don’t come out until midnight.

  “One dance, Dove,” Cohen says. The cottony soft touch of his words bewitches me.

  I cannot say no to that. My chin dips in a reluctant nod, and suddenly the fingers of his hand are curling around my hip, and I’m twirling under his arm. He pulls me to his chest and rocks me to the side. Though I’ve never danced with a partner, Cohen guides me effortlessly around the lane. When the tune changes, we spin to the quick saw of the fiddle until I’m breathless and bursting with joy.

  When I peek up at him, Cohen is staring down at me. He pulls my hand into the crook of his elbow and walks to the side of the lane. “A man should always escort the lady back to her seat,” he says.

  A giggle nearly slips from my lips, which is so unlike me. “I didn’t realize you were such a gentleman.”

  He grins wolfishly. “I don’t have to be if that’s what you want.”

  I cannot even think of a response to Cohen’s teasing. But it does make me wonder how many other girls have fallen for his charms. Too many, I’m sure. For some reason, the thought is like a bucket of water on a flame.

  “Thank you for the dance.” My words lack warmth. I pull my cap from his pocket and put it on, shoving my hair underneath it. “Now that’s out of the way, we can remember why we’re here tonight.”

  Cohen’s smile drops. He doesn’t move for a moment as he looks at me, his expression morphing back into something callous and unreadable. Then he gives me a perfunctory nod and, without another word, walks to where the darkened lane meets the festival.

  I watch him go, squeals and laughter filling the silence between us, and wonder how I can feel so crestfallen when the choice to end the fun was mine.

  At midnight the music stops and the crowd’s raucous gaiety dims to excited whispers and anticipation held on bated breath. The gathered people part, allowing an older woman to approach the fountain. The woman’s salt-and-pepper hair is drawn into a neat bun. She pulls out a clutched fist of something from her pocket, and then soft oohs escape from the onlookers as she opens her fingers and flings a handful of seeds into the water.

  The woman shuts her eyes like she’s concentrating while faces around the fountain turn awestruck. But I cannot see what they’re looking at. I lean from the shadows, stretching onto tiptoes.

  Suddenly, emerald vines spring from the water, and twists of white spread into fully bloomed moonflowers. My mouth pops wide open. Another Channeler. The crowd erupts into applause.

  Of the little I know about Shaerdan’s magic, I remember hearing that Channelers influence elements of nature: flame, wind, water, and land. And, of course, spirit, which the clergyman mentioned. The two women handing out jars of light must be flame Channelers; the woman from the well could influence water. But this woman, I’m not quite sure. Is she also a water Channeler? Or land?

  “There he is.” Cohen points to a man who is probably ten years older than me, pulling my notice back to the reason we’re here. Duff Baron. He’s escorting the Channeler woman away from the fountain. There are too many people here. Any moment, Duff and his mother will be swallowed into the crush before we have a chance to talk to him. We cannot let that happen. Cohen agrees to cut through the throng of townspeople while I try circling the crowd.

  In the shuffle, I lose sight of Cohen and Duff Baron. Chin tucked, I stick to the edge of the square, where I’m nearly unnoticeable. When Cohen doesn’t return right away, I assume he reached the man, and I wait for him. By the time Cohen comes back, a chunk of festivalgoers have left for the evening, though quite a few remain, dancing and drinking the night away.

  “What did you find out?” I ask him while we walk back to the inn.

  Cohen glances down at me. “He told me Enat has been in contact with someone from Malam.”

  “Who?”

  “He didn’t know. He was given a secret place to drop her letters. Two weeks later, he’d check again and a letter would be there, addressed to her in Celize. He never found out who she was writing to. Almost three months ago, the letters stopped.”

  Papa died almost three months ago. Surely that cannot be a coincidence. Was Papa the person she was writing to? Who was she to him? It’s hard not to feel like a dog on an endless endeavor to catch his tail.

  When we return to the inn, my mind is consumed with too many questions, so that the residual tension between Cohen and me is nearly forgotten. He must be in the same frame of mind because as soon as he hops into bed, he mutters, “Night, Britt,” and is asleep in moments.

  I’m not disappointed. The last thing I want to discuss is our dance at the Merryluna Festival.

  But I also am unable to stop thinking of his flirtatious words and wondering what he would’ve done if I’d flirted back.

  Completely cocooned in warmth, I find it nearly impossible to crack my lids open. The bed is more comfortable than anything I’ve ever slept on. I yawn and rub my eyes, and—​

  One of my arms is resting on Cohen’s chest while our legs twine like vines. My face is smashed into his ribs. And when I lift my head, I find a coin-size spot of drool.

  Oh no.

  I hold my breath as I carefully untangle myself. Cohen wakes up regardless. He yawns and glances around until he finds me perched awkwardly on the side of the bed.

  “Morning.” He rubs his bleary eyes, which look darker than usual in the room’s pale gray light.

  “We should head out.” My dry throat makes my words crack.

  He stands on the opposite side of the bed and stretches his hands toward the ceiling. A peek of light golden skin shows between his top and his low-slung pants. By the gods, I have to stop staring. Stop staring.

  I look out the window at the trees beyond the town while Cohen shuffles through the room.

  After cleaning up and readying for the day’s travel, we gather our weapons and head to the stables. The hour is still early, so neither Kendrick nor his wife is awake. But now that we’ve heard that Enat is most definitely in Celize, it’s clear she’s the only person who has answers about Papa’s death. We need to find her as soon as we can.

  The shuffle of hooves and a snort of air are audib
le through the stable doors. Siron is pitching a fit about something.

  Cohen extends a hand to block my path. “Stay here,” he says, and then slips through the door.

  I listen for only a moment, and after hearing nothing more from Siron, I follow. Right as I walk in, my gaze lands on Tomas. The sight shocks me still. Until I notice Cohen, unconscious and head bloodied, slumped to the dirt in front of the bludger guard.

  “Cohen!” I start for my dagger. Hands seize me from behind. My bow digs between my shoulder blades and my quiver crashes to the ground, spilling arrows across the hay and dirt floor. Frantic, I slam my heel back, nailing my attacker in the shin. I jerk my arms free, but he’s quick to grasp them again, managing to seize my left wrist.

  With only my right arm free, I throw an elbow back, hitting hard.

  He groans. “Britta. Stop.”

  Leif.

  “Stop,” he says again, his cheek near mine.

  I listen because struggling would do nothing more than deplete me of energy, something I’ll need later to figure a way out of this.

  The stable door creaks and Captain Omar enters; his eyes immediately seek mine and narrow to slits. He is wearing a brown and gold uniform, which is definitely not one from Malam. “Ready to return to the dungeon?” My muscles contract under his gaze. The daggered look in his eyes is the same expression he wore the night he whipped me.

  We’re so close to Celize. It’s sickening knowing we’re going to be taken back. I open my mouth to plead my case, and the captain backhands me. I hear the smack of his hand against my jaw and feel the jolt from the sting, before bitter blood fills my mouth. I cough and shake my head.

  “I have enough cause to string you up.” Menacing threat darkens his low tone. “The only thing keeping you alive is that Lord Jamis hasn’t sent a death order. Give me a reason, and I’ll disregard his oversight.”

  Truth—​warmth and nausea mix in my gut. His silver eyes drill into mine, promising pain if provoked any further.