Ever the Hunted

by Erin Summerill

  When Enat takes the basket into the cottage, I start toward Cohen to tell him everything I just learned. He’ll be pleased to hear Enat’s willing to go with us—​something I’m overjoyed about now that I know who she is and that we will have over a week of travel time to spend together. I wonder what Cohen will think when he finds out she is my grandmother.

  “It took three hours?” Cohen drops the ax.

  His detached, cold manner stops me midstep. “Appears so. Everything all right with you?”

  “It’s been a long day and”—​he rubs his shoulder and up his neck, so it’s obvious something’s gotten under his skin—​“I’ve been thinking. We need to discuss our return.”

  “All right,” I say quietly, swallowing my confession of how the last few hours rearranged everything about myself and my life. Turning away, I move toward the house when Cohen’s hand, callused and warm, wraps around my wrist.

  “Wait. Don’t go in yet. Tell me about your talk with Enat. You seem . . . different.”

  I am different. Knowing there’s someone who understands me and is just like me, even related to me, changes everything. It upends my world and, at the same time, grounds me. It mixes me up with so many differing emotions, I can hardly see straight. Still, “Enat can break the bind” is all I say.

  “Really? She’s willing to come with us?”

  “Yes.”

  Cohen follows me into the cottage. “Good. Now we just have to talk with the Archtraitor and then we can leave.”

  “Hopefully.” I shrug as I slip through the door.

  Enat sits at the table, busily sorting berries, leaves, and mushrooms into separate piles. Her warm gaze finds me and she smiles, a look that’s contagious.

  “Britta?” Cohen fixes on my silly grin.

  Avoiding his curious gaze, I force myself to act natural. “Need a hand, Enat?”

  “I could use some water.” She juts her chin toward the bucket by the door. “Fetch a pail from the well out back, will ya?”

  The trip to the well and back is quick. Enat and Cohen are talking when I return; the deep notes of their voices echo through the door. I’m about to go inside when Cohen says something too clear to miss: “You told her. You should’ve let her go without knowing.”

  “I had every right. I did what I thought was best.”

  There’s a loud thump. Startled, my hold on the bucket loosens and water sloshes down my legs. Cursing, I smack the water droplets away before entering Enat’s home to find Cohen rigid as a board with fists at his sides and Enat standing beside the table, her eyes are slits directed at my travel partner. Then the scene breaks, and both of them resume talking as though things weren’t tense a moment earlier. As if they could hide the argument from me.

  “What were you talking about?” I set the pail on the table. “Cohen?”

  He shifts his weight. Straightens his tunic. Looks at the ground. A seed of unease lodges between my shoulder blades as I recall the words he spoke.

  “What did you mean when you said, ‘You told her’?”

  “Britt.” He gives a small, pleading shake of his head.

  The emotions he usually excels at taming run with abandon across his features. Apprehension. Remorse. Guilt.

  “I didn’t—” he starts. Stops and narrows his eyes on Enat, before shaking his head and looking up to the ceiling.

  I’m confused. My scrutiny jumps from him to her. Then—​in the space between two heartbeats—​everything clears.

  “You knew?” My voice a squeak.

  “Britt, listen, I can explain.” Each word from his mouth could be a boulder for how it flattens me. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.” His tone is soft and gentle and pleading like I’m some damn horse to be tamed. He reaches for me. I rear back.

  “The girl had a right to know,” Enat says.

  He ignores her, peering at me. “Britt.”

  I pull my lips between my teeth and blink until my eyes stop stinging and his towering height is in sharp focus. I won’t lose it in front of him. “How could you keep this from me?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. I promised your . . .” He doesn’t have to complete the sentence for the pieces of this puzzle to fall into a complete and devastating picture. After all, I already suspected Papa knew. Just couldn’t bring myself to believe it till now.

  “You promised my father,” I finish for him. It doesn’t need to be a question, for his speechlessness answers loud and clear. Fingers digging into the hard planks of wood, I steel myself against the edge of Enat’s table. “How long have you known?”

  His hand strays to the scar, tracing it like always, only this time there’s a noticeable shake of nerves in the movement of his fingers. “Since before I left.”

  My snap of a gasp echoes in the otherwise silent room as his confession strikes truer than a blade to my heart. Cohen knew who I was—​what I was—​and left me alone in Brentyn. His words eviscerate me.

  Unable to stand in the cottage and face him, knowing how he’s held secrets about me, truths about me that I should’ve known first, I charge out of Enat’s home, tumultuous emotions seizing control of me like I’ve never known. I’m a blizzard, a thunderstorm.

  Enat’s bow is laid up against the side of her home. It occurs to me how similar we are, though the moment is too bittersweet and tainted to appreciate it. I grab the weapon with its full quiver and charge out of the treehouse.

  Before I can reach the edge of the trees, a door slams behind me and even before he speaks, I know it’s him.

  “Britt, please.” He sounds small and lost. Though I’ve never heard Cohen like this before, I cannot yield to him because my heart is bleeding pain throughout my entire body. My lungs cannot draw air. My throat aches from dryness. Pressure builds behind my eyes. I blink rapidly to keep my face dry, knowing that if he moves any closer, he’ll see the wake of his destruction. What I need most is to just get away.

  I hold up my hand. “Don’t—​please don’t come closer.”

  “Talk to me, then.”

  “No. Let me go,” I say so quietly, it’s a wonder he can hear me at all. He must, however, because he doesn’t follow as I swing the bow over my shoulder and dart into the lush, thick forest.

  Chapter

  29

  I STRING ARROW AFTER ARROW, LETTING THEM fly into the trees in this remote corner of the forest. Aim and shoot. Again and again. Twang and thunk until the quiver is empty, and then, after gathering what’s reachable, I start again.

  Know how to protect yourself, Papa said. You have to be strong. Strong as the trees.

  I shoot, shoot, shoot, arrows landing into the knot of a tree, the rough curve of bark, a leaf as it floats toward the forest floor. Birds squawk and flap out of the treetops.

  Strong for what? Papa taught me to track, hunt, fight, survive; never once did he prepare me for his lies. His betrayal weakens me more than any foe. And yet, even though my anger at Cohen and Papa eats at me, I feel as though I should just forgive Papa because he’s gone. Except then I remember that he kept Enat from me. This wonderful, somewhat mad, quirky woman who is my flesh and blood was held out of my life. And for what? So I could be alone? So I could be mocked?

  Papa’s actions make no sense. I want to hit something, hurt something, and at the same time I want to lie down, curl up, and cry.

  A branch snaps behind me. I spin around, surprised to find Siron of all intruders, and lower my bow.

  “What do you want?”

  His ears perk to my savage and rough voice. Once he crosses the clearing, his nose drops to my hand, nudging with gentle pressure.

  “So now you’re my friend?”

  The felt of his lips tickles, softening the tight ball of despair inside me. I’m so chock-full of wild emotion—​I could be the beast and he the animal tamer.

  “Why’d he do it, boy?”

  Hot breath puffs from Siron’s nostrils as he moves around me, chewing at ferns. He remains close as I return t
o shooting, gathering arrows, and shooting some more. The shadows multiply, daylight pushing into dusk as the forest quickens with the chattering of squirrels and, eventually, the need to fill the trees full of arrows fades.

  When I’m done, Cohen’s loyal horse is still here. Not sure why he stayed, I move to his side and run my hands over his muscular flanks and through his coarse raven mane.

  “He hurt me,” I say to Siron, my forehead dropped against his sturdy shoulder. “And I don’t know how to forgive him.”

  “Please say that isn’t true.”

  Spine snapping straight, I back away from his horse as I lift the bow, taking aim. “You shouldn’t be here, Cohen.”

  With his body leaning against a tree and arms crossed, his notice flicks to the point of my arrow and back to my face. “You going to shoot me?”

  “I’m considering it.”

  He sighs through his nose. “Guess I deserve that.”

  I lower the bow. “Explain yourself, Cohen. Make sense of this.”

  “I was only doing what Saul asked. I—”

  “Stop. Please stop.” I don’t want to hear that Papa knew I had other family. Or that he shared such secrets with my best friend. I’ve been battling those emotions since I wandered into this area of the forest, and hearing them from his tongue only scrubs salt into the wound. “Don’t speak of Papa. Right now I need to know why you didn’t tell me when we arrived in Celize.”

  “I swear I didn’t know who Enat was at first. I had an idea, but Saul never told me her name, only that she was still alive. And he said she was a Spiriter. After we arrived, I confirmed my suspicions. I would’ve told you, but your father—”

  “My father is dead!”

  Cohen’s jaw tightens against his placid expression.

  “You couldn’t have told me when Papa died? I was alone. I had no one. Nowhere to go. What did you think I’d do when the guards came for my home?”

  He has the decency to look wounded, shoulders curling forward around his frame. “I thought you might trade for lodging. I—​I never wanted you to suffer. I gave Saul my word.” His eyes plead with me as he says this, though I’m not sure what he wants from me. His hands have a slight shake as he pulls them together. “We were protecting you.”

  “Protecting me? Did you even wonder what I would do during mourning? Who would bring me food? Cohen, I nearly starved. The hunger got so bad, I could count most of my ribs. How could I have traded for lodging if I’d died?”

  The realization settles in and puts a haunted look in his gaze.

  “I ran out of food and couldn’t make it out of the mountains, so I was forced to poach. Captain Omar caught me and that is why I had to make this deal or hang from the noose.” All my frustration and anger forge the iron in my voice into a blade. I want my words to cut and hurt him as he’s done to me. “Is that what you and my father wanted?”

  “Oh gods, Britt. I didn’t . . . I didn’t think. It seems so obvious now, but I swear, it never entered my mind. During those months, I was too focused on finding who killed your father. I didn’t sleep. Barely ate, for that matter. I know it’s not a good excuse, but it’s the truth. I . . . I’m sorry.”

  I turn away, torn between yelling at him and calling him a fool.

  “Please, believe me.” His voice catches. “If I’d remembered, I would’ve come. It was a stupid, terrible mistake, and I will forever be sorry.”

  Even if he’s apologetic for leaving me alone in a time of mourning, it doesn’t take away from the plain truth that he has kept my heritage a secret from me.

  I wave off his apology.

  “Did you not trust me to keep my own secrets? You should’ve told me what I was capable of. Enat is strong and capable, and she has this ability that I know seeds about. And I—​I know nothing about myself.”

  He gives me a pleading look. “You’re strong and capable as well. Hell, you’re more capable than anyone I’ve ever met.” His earnestness works like a balm, soothing my anger. Cohen crosses the space between us—​and bloody curse me to the devil if I don’t want him to come even closer. My pulse pounds and aches and bleeds hurt throughout my entire body.

  “This isn’t how I wanted you to find out,” he whispers. It’s a choppy sound, broken with sentiment I don’t understand. What’s he holding back? Are there more secrets?

  “How you wanted me to find out?” I repeat, anger remembered. “You could’ve told me anytime and you didn’t. You . . . I—​I trusted you.” The strain in my voice gives away my heartache. “You’re my only friend.”

  His head drops, so I’m forced to stare at his unruly mess of roasted-chestnut brown hair.

  “For everything, I’m sorry.” His words are gravelly and rough. “I swear by the gods I didn’t want to leave you last year. Every day has been agony for me. Saul asked me to go. No, he begged me, saying it’d be safer for you.”

  I shake my head, denying his accusation because I cannot take one more secret about Papa, even though heat is pooling in my gut. Horrid truthful heat. “You had just saved my life. Why would my father ask you to leave?”

  He lifts his head. The raw passion in his eyes and on his slackened mouth pierces me.

  “What do you remember of our last hunting trip together?” His voice dips into a rasp.

  It’s always bothered me that I couldn’t remember all of it. When I don’t answer, he urges me to try. I wrinkle my brow as my focus shifts to the last time we hunted together. Nothing more than vague memories, random pieces like swatches of fabric that don’t fit together, comes at first. I remember a hole in the ground . . . Cohen falling . . . a mountain cat . . . and blood.

  Too much blood.

  I frown, no longer wanting to continue this conversation.

  “I shouldn’t have left the path,” he says. There’s an urgent cadence in the way he speaks. It sets me on edge. “I wanted to find a faster route, even though you told me not to go. The mountainside was dangerous after the spring landslide, but I didn’t listen, and I fell through a hole into a cave.” Images form in my memory gaps as he tells his story. “There was a vine I could’ve used to climb out, but I didn’t want to ask for help. Light was coming from the far end of the cave, so I told you I’d find my way out. You, of course, said I was absurd because you could see the vine too.”

  That’s right. I’d rolled my eyes at him. Called him a bludger.

  “When I’d fallen into the cave, I dropped my bow and couldn’t find it.” He waits, watching me and allowing time for my mind to catch up, and as it does, more unease creeps in. My breath turns shallow as he continues. “I wasn’t prepared for the mountain cat. I didn’t have a chance to block it before it attacked. I barely remember the struggle, mostly just the pain. Gods, it was terrible.”

  Forgotten cries echo in my head. The bow drops to my feet as I shove the heels of my hands into my eye sockets, pressing against the horror crawling out of the corners of my mind:

  Cohen lying in a pool of red, unconscious and barely breathing.

  Tattered skin.

  Exposed bones.

  His teeth gleaming through a gash in his cheek.

  Red, red, red everywhere.

  “I heard you cry out.” His voice vibrates through me—​he’s crossed the clearing and is pulling my hands from my face as he speaks. “I was struggling to breathe, and still I was worried for you. I thought you’d been attacked also. We were both going to die, and it was my fault.”

  My eyes won’t shut; they’re frozen against the avalanche of nightmarish memories. The scar on his face has been there this entire time and I never questioned it. Never put more thought into the sort of savage attack that would mar his skin. I thought it was the price he had paid to save my life.

  “I was searching for the cave opening when you screamed. I’d never heard you sound like that.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. “So—​so pained.” His fingers slide from my wrists to my hands, clutching them tightly. “I found my way in and saw you
r blood. You were still beneath the cat, that massive beast.” What’s left of the saliva in my mouth is dust. “I—​I remember now, taking it down. One arrow to the vitals, one to the neck.”

  A shudder racks my body as the overwhelming images, in perfect lucidity, play in my mind.

  “It was too late, though,” I recall softly. “Wasn’t it?”

  There’s carefulness in the way he nods.

  “You were bleeding.” Each word I utter is a thread stitching the story back together and simultaneously pulling me, unraveling me. “There was too much . . . and—​and I tried to help. I put my hands on you. Your heart beat once . . .”

  Everything turns to stone inside and plummets, the vivid and harrowing truth knocking me harder than a horse hoof to the chest. I can scarcely breathe.

  “I watched you die, Cohen.”

  Chapter

  30

  “DO YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT?” A touch of uncertainty lingers in his question, anguish in his watchful eyes.

  “I think I prayed for you,” I admit with a grimace, knowing how strange the confession sounds, especially from me, the last person who’d attend Sunday service or kneel at the stone of the royal church’s altar. And yet I remember that in his final moment, I would’ve paid any price to save him. Would’ve given my heart, my blood—​anything to let him live. “The next thing I remember is Papa leaning over my bed, lathering my neck with that nasty fever rash poultice. After that, nothing. It’s strange how I can recall the cloying scent of his poultice. And not much else,” I muse aloud.

  Cohen reaches for his neck. He catches me studying him and promptly drops his arm to his side. His expression may not give much away, but I can tell from his body language he knows more.

  “Tell me what happened next.”

  He shuffles back a few steps, his eyes drawn to the ground where his boots push through the creeping groundcover to the near-black dirt below. When his gaze lifts to meet mine, I can see the shift to acceptance, as well as pain. Whatever he’s about to tell me is a great burden on him.