The Hunt

by Chloe Neill

  We passed a store on stilts, a bait shop with “fresh” painted in rough black letters along one exterior wall. The windows were boarded up, and a rusting car sat on blocks in front. Once again, my mind tripped back to my store, to the Quarter.

  I pulled out my water bottle, took a drink, trying to focus on something else.

  “Tadji’s handling Royal Mercantile,” Gavin said.

  I guess his mind had taken the same turn.

  “Yeah,” I said, screwing the lid back on the bottle.

  “Have you talked to her?”

  I shook my head. “I check in on the store every once in a while. But I don’t want to put her in danger. The less she knows about me, the better.” As far as I was concerned, plausible deniability was my friend’s best option. “Have you talked to her?”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t been around.” The vehicle shuddered, and he slammed a hand on the dashboard, which seemed to settle the issue. “I left after the battle.”

  My eyebrows lifted. Yesterday, he said he’d just gotten back into town, but I didn’t know he’d been gone the entire time. I’d assumed he’d been here but was doing his own thing—or he’d been avoiding me. That he’d been out of town made me feel a little better, and more curious.

  “Where were you?”

  “Reconnaissance contract,” Gavin said.

  “For Containment?”

  “For Containment. They were surprised by Reveillon. They don’t want to be surprised again.”

  “Do they think there are more Reveillon members out there?”

  Gavin made a sarcastic sound. “Nobody doubts there are more Reveillon members out there. Or at least sympathizers. Plenty of people hate magic, blame magic for what the Zone’s become. Containment’s looking for organizing, collective action. Any sign that people are clustering again, planning violence, posing a threat.”

  “Find anything?”

  “Lot of talk, no action to speak of.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Did you think I was in New Orleans and just avoiding you?”

  He’d nailed it, which made my cheeks burn. “Kind of, yeah.”

  He shook his head, looked back at the road. “We’re family, Claire. Granted, kind of a weird, dysfunctional family, but family all the same.”

  “Yay,” I said, and spun an imaginary noisemaker. But family was family. And it wasn’t so bad to have this one.

  • • •

  Before we hit Houma, the rain started up, the kind of heavy and steady downpour that set in for the day.

  Twenty minutes later, Gavin pulled the car off the highway and onto a long gravel drive.

  At the end of it, stately as a queen, sat a plantation house. White, with two stories, both lined with porches, fluted columns, and floor-to-ceiling windows. The front yard featured a boxwood hedge in a pretty pattern, and the drive was marked by enormous oak trees whose branches bent in graceful arcs toward the ground, with Spanish moss draped like scarves across the boughs.

  There weren’t many plantation houses left in Louisiana. There’d once been dozens along the Mississippi River outside New Orleans. The Civil War had knocked down some of them. Time and history had knocked down others. The war with Paras had done a number on the rest, especially after Paras targeted the petroleum facilities that shared the prime real estate along the river.

  This house had survived, and it looked like it had been well cared for. It wasn’t the only thing that had gotten attention. Row after row of skinny green stalks filled the fields around the structure. It was sugarcane, acres and acres of it stretching across the delta to the horizon. A dozen Paras—or so I guessed, given the rainbow hues of their skin tones—were pulling weeds among the stalks.

  Gavin moved slowly down the drive and came to a stop in the shade of an oak tree. A wooden sign swinging in the rain read VACHERIE PLANTATION.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked, after we’d climbed out of the car.

  “One, leaving the car, so grab your pack.”

  I did as he suggested, shouldering it on. “And two?”

  He met my gaze over the hood of the car. “Malachi’s friends work here. The Paranormals with passes.”

  “Correct,” Malachi said.

  This time I’d caught the soft flutter of wings.

  “Back up,” I said. “Paranormals who have passes out of Devil’s Isle are working in sugarcane fields?”

  Malachi looked at me, his golden eyes keen. “What did you think they’d be doing outside Devil’s Isle?”

  “I’d assumed they were out there”—I made a vague gesture—“enjoying freedom.” Not pulling weeds at a plantation house.

  “They are entitled to employment,” Malachi said. “And feeding the Zone is a big industry.”

  “I’m not arguing they don’t have the right to work. But, I mean—working in sugarcane fields? Does that make anyone else uncomfortable?”

  “You mean the overtones of indentured servitude?” Gavin asked.

  “Yeah, let’s start there.” And jump right into slavery. “How is this freedom?”

  “Because they’re paid,” Malachi said, and there was tension in his voice now. “Because they can be productive after seven years of feeling like victims. Because they can sleep outside Devil’s Isle for the first time in years. And because it was the only option given.”

  So passes weren’t really the magnanimous gesture that Containment made them out to be.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That’s pretty conniving on Containment’s part. And it’s not really comfortable, given, well, U.S. history.”

  Malachi nodded. “Paras have their own history and uncomfortable parallels. The landowners are allies, and the Paras want their wages and their freedom. They know this is their best route to that—at least for now.”

  At least, he meant, until Containment proved it wasn’t willing to go further. Containment had acted in good faith by giving the passes, so the Paras would act in good faith, too. For now.

  “Come on,” Malachi said.

  Gavin and I followed him toward the house, then around it to several barns and outbuildings. The grass was short, the areas between buildings dotted with enormous copper kettles probably used for preparing cane syrup.

  “They sleep in the main house,” Malachi said. “While they’re getting ready for the harvest, they’ll repair the barn and the house, work on the subsidiary crops. When the cane’s ready, they’ll trim it, cut it, process it.”

  The detail made me smile. “You a farmer now?”

  He looked down at me, a curl falling over one eye. “I take an interest in my friends’ interests.”

  “Does that mean we’re friends?”

  “Close enough.”

  “Is it safe for you to be here?” I asked him.

  “The humans here know me as a friend of the Paras.” He smiled a little. “They believe I’m connected with a charitable organization, and I haven’t bothered to correct them.”

  “Is it safe for Claire to be here?” Gavin lifted his gaze to the magic monitors that dotted the grounds.

  “The monitors are inoperable,” Malachi said. “Although Containment isn’t aware of it.”

  A whistle split the air, high-pitched enough to break all wineglasses in a five-mile radius. I put my hands over my ears a little too late.

  “Damn,” Gavin said, wincing. “Please destroy that whistle immediately.”

  “Not a whistle,” Malachi said. “A skill.”

  A man emerged from behind one of the outbuildings, his skin pale, his hair long and white and straight. He was on the short side, his body lean and compact beneath bright orange scrubs. The color, I guessed, was for visibility, should he or any of the other Paras attempt to escape.

  “And the line between freedom and imprisonment gets thinner still,” I murmured.

&nb
sp; “Uncomfortable,” Gavin quietly agreed.

  “Djosa,” Malachi said. “This is Gavin and Claire, human and Sensitive.”

  We nodded to one another.

  “What brings you here, General?” Djosa asked, his voice deep, his diction precise.

  Malachi had been a general in the Consularis military.

  “We’re looking for Erida and two travelers with her,” he said. “Neither of them Sensitives. Both changed by power from others. One without sight. One with golden eyes.”

  His brows lifted. “You don’t know where your subordinate is hiding?”

  “We know where she was. We do not know where she is.”

  Djosa gave us a suspicious look. “I imagine that’s for her security and yours.”

  “It is,” Malachi agreed. “But circumstances require that we find her.”

  “Because?”

  “Because the humans are being hunted,” Malachi replied. “And we bring a warning.”

  “Or you lead soldiers right to them.”

  “We’re being careful,” Malachi said, impatience growing in his voice. “We acknowledge the risk, but there’s no helping it. They must be told.”

  “We don’t know anything about where they are or might be.” He looked back at the fields. “And we need to get back to work.”

  “Do you like the work?” I asked him.

  “Would you?”

  “Probably not,” I admitted.

  He seemed to appreciate the honest answer. “This isn’t forever,” he said determinedly. “It’s for now, and it’s freedom. Maybe not the freedom we want forever, but the freedom we can get now.”

  He held up his hands, his skin marbled with dirt and stained green from weeds. “Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had earth beneath my fingers? Since I’ve felt her heart beating? Felt her stirring beneath me?”

  Given the lust in his voice, he might as well have been talking about a woman. That created some uncomfortable mental imagery.

  “Too long,” Djosa answered, saving me from filling the silence. “This is a chance for us. It may not be the best chance, but it’s the one we’ve been given. And when you’ve been in our skin for seven years, you take freedom as it comes.”

  Good enough for me. It was his life, not mine, and we all had to find our path.

  Screaming pulled our attention away from Djosa. A woman who looked to be human—slender, with tan skin, straight dark hair, and dark eyes full of concern—ran out of the barn.

  “Djosa!” she screamed, waving him toward her. “Help!”

  Djosa didn’t waste any time, but took off at a sprint toward her. We let Malachi take the lead, then followed him.

  The barn was enormous, a tall wooden rectangle with a sharply pitched tin roof. The double doors stood open. We were about to follow Djosa inside when three men emerged from the door and jumped into our path.

  They had tan skin, hooded eyes, hair dark as ravens, and a cascade of dark feathers that appeared to run from the crest of their heads to the bottom of their feet. “Appeared to,” because they were wearing the same bright orange scrubs as Djosa.

  The trio split apart and moved around us, the shifting light illuminating purple and black tones in their gleaming feathers.

  The feathers along their spines lifted like the hackles of an angry dog, and the men made low, snipping noises as they circled, raising hands that revealed gleaming talons nestled among finer feathers.

  They prepared for attack, so I did, too. I reached out a hand, felt for the magic in the air, just in case I needed it.

  “These are the Tengu,” Malachi said, spreading his hands out as if to shield me and Gavin from an attack—or to keep us from drawing first. “They don’t know us. Give them a moment to settle.”

  They didn’t seem interested in settling. Ominous magic colored the air, staining it black. I could feel the magic circling around us now, spinning like a hurricane and bending the cane around us, as we stood in the eye of the storm. The Tengu screamed, the sound sharp as fingernails on a blackboard.

  “I don’t think they’re settling,” Gavin murmured, blading his body for a counterattack.

  “Kahsut.”

  The simple word, spoken by Malachi, apparently in a language from the Beyond, echoed around us. It was more than a word; it was a bone-deep order, full of power.

  I wasn’t sure if the Tengu recognized the word or understood the demand, but they stopped moving and lowered their arms. Then each of them knelt in front of Malachi and gave another whistling cry.

  “Are they your . . . subjects?” Gavin quietly asked, clearly groping for the right word.

  “Not precisely,” Malachi said, then repeated the word. The Tengu rose and shifted away from us, giving us room to walk.

  Subjects or not, he got results.

  The path now cleared, we walked into the barn. A dirt floor, with hay in piles and rusting implements leaning against the walls. A piece of bright green farm machinery was parked near the opposite end, streaked by shafts of sunlight.

  In the middle of the space, a woman lay on the floor, her skin and hair the same pale shades as Djosa’s, her legs folded like she’d simply fallen in place. Even from a dozen feet away, it was clear to see her skin was sallow, her body shaking with chills, or fever, or both. There were red dots on her arms, and her breath wheezed in and out.

  Djosa knelt at her left side and took her hand in his.

  “Anh,” Malachi said to the woman who’d yelled for us and who now stood behind Djosa, looking worriedly at the woman on the floor. “What’s happened?”

  “She was ill,” Anh said. I hadn’t realized how petite she was—barely over five feet, and delicately boned. “But she refused to stop working. She’d had chills, collapsed suddenly. Now she’s burning up, and her breathing is shallow. Her heart is beating so fast.”

  I could have imagined it was just a difference in biology, except for everyone’s obvious concern. “What’s her name?” I asked.

  “Cinda,” Djosa said, without looking up. “Her name is Cinda.”

  One of the Tengu moved closer, began chattering at Malachi in what I assumed was the same language Malachi had used to calm them.

  “They believe she was exposed to something out here,” Malachi translated, then paused while the Tengu spoke again. “Something she wasn’t exposed to in Devil’s Isle.”

  Another pause, and Malachi’s brows lifted as he listened. “Containment warned them this might happen, gave them immunity boosters before they left Devil’s Isle . . . to strengthen them against the enemies here.”

  “The enemies?” I asked as more people came into the barn, humans and Paras who smelled of earth and sweat, who’d probably left their work to investigate.

  “Wildlife,” Gavin said. “Animals and bugs, humans from outside Devil’s Isle. New vectors.”

  “Freedom made her ill,” I quietly said.

  “Yeah.” There was regret in Gavin’s voice.

  “We need to get her to a hospital,” Malachi said. “I assume the closest one’s in New Orleans?”

  Djosa shook his head. “They won’t treat her. They’ll send her back to Devil’s Isle. Our passes last one week,” he explained. “We sleep here, in the big house, because they don’t want to transport us back and forth every day. That’s too much trouble if the power goes out. And if Containment decides she’s hurt,” he continued, anger rising in his words, “they won’t let her out again.”

  Anger burned in my chest, but it was useless against the tide of Containment’s power.

  “We can’t just leave her like this,” Anh said. “That can’t be the only option.”

  “Are you sure she’d trade her freedom for her life?” Malachi asked Djosa, his voice calm and composed even in the midst of panic.

  “Yes,” Djosa said, his
gaze clear. “She would. But this is just an illness. She’ll get rest, and she’ll be fine. She’d want to take the chance.”

  “Then we treat her,” Malachi said, and looked at Anh. “Prepare a bed inside the house, away from the others. Only she will sleep there. You have ice?”

  Anh nodded.

  “Get ice, a fan if you have a generator. You need to get her temperature down. She’ll need liquids, salt. Go,” he said. Anh dashed off.

  I wished I’d brought the salt I’d found yesterday; it hadn’t even occurred to me that it might be useful.

  “I cannot heal her,” Malachi said, crouching beside Djosa. “But I can perhaps soothe her. That may help.”

  “Do it,” Djosa said, wiping his brow. The barn was in the shade, but there was no breeze in it, and the air was stifling.

  “Maybe we should move people back,” I said, since we had no other way to help. Gavin nodded, turned to the crowd.

  “All right, everyone,” he said, “let’s give them some room to help her.”

  The Paras and humans, united by hard work and concern for their colleague, shuffled around and backed up as Malachi pushed the damp hair from Cinda’s face. He closed his eyes, his lashes crescents against his golden skin, and placed his hands, palm down, above her heart.

  She whimpered, and he smiled down at her with warm and confident kindness. Exactly the kind of expression you’d expect to see on an angel. If you hadn’t seen them fight in the war.

  “There’s no need to be afraid,” Malachi said. “Consularis are strong. Djosa is strong, and you’ve inherited your strength from him.”

  So Djosa was Cinda’s father, I guessed.

  “Illness is part of life,” Malachi said, “just as pain is part of healing. It is a natural reaction. I cannot interrupt that process, but I can make you more comfortable while your body heals.”

  Malachi didn’t touch Cinda, but moved his hands above her body, back and forth, as if manipulating air—or maybe energy.