Master and Apprentice (30 page)

“You’re serious,” I said. “You really want to go deer hunting?”

Ian shrugged. “We must eat.”

“Yeah, well, I hope one of you guys is a better shot than I am, or we’ll be eating pinecone salad. I’ve never been hunting in my life.” I pulled out the Sig. “Who’s doing the shooting?”

They both stared at me like my last marbles had just rolled out of my ears. “The wolf does not require a gun to bring down his prey,” Ian said.

“Oh. Right.”

Tory gestured farther up the mountain. “There’s a good-size stream up that way. Maybe five hundred yards, by …” He glanced at the sky. “Damn. I don’t know your points here. Let’s go with north by northeast for now, and I’ll correct you once I’m up.”

Ian nodded. “Stay lower than usual. We should not separate for long.”

“True.” Tory sent me a smirk. “Try and keep pace, Donatti. And don’t shoot anything.” He glowed, became the hawk, and lifted off.

“Come.” Ian started through the trees.

I half-jogged after him. “So I take it you guys have experience at this.”

“Of course. Did you think there were grocery stores and refrigerators in the djinn realm?” He slowed for a few paces, studied the ground, and kept going. “The Dehbei have always hunted, though our homeland more resembled your
deserts than your mountains. But there were creatures similar to your deer. And after my village …” He drew in a sharp breath. I knew what he didn’t say—after the Morai army slaughtered every living thing in his village. “I spent some time in the Bahari lands, while I courted Akila,” he went on. “I was not welcome, of course, but Taregan was too young to let the court dictate his relations. He would often hunt with me, scouting prey in the wooded depths where my visibility was limited.”

“Yeah? I guess this is like old times for you, then.”

“Old times, indeed.”

A hawk’s cry sounded above us. Ian looked up, hesitated, and shifted his course a few degrees. “Your stealth has improved,” he said. “You no longer sound like a herd of
jembai
crashing through the underbrush.”

“Thanks.” I was marginally aware that
jembai
were kind of like elephants. “That’s mostly because of you. I picked up a lot of your wolf traits with that soul-bind thing. These eyes do more than look pretty, you know.”

“I am sorry for that.” He glanced at me, looked away. “I am afraid it will be permanent.”

“Hey, don’t apologize. If you hadn’t done it, you’d be dead right now.”

“What?”

“Maybe you didn’t hear me when you were all fucked up.” The thought of what I’d almost done gave me a serious case of the shudders. “I tried to destroy you, like you told me to. I went through the whole spell. I didn’t want to, but after a couple rounds of being there with you, feeling what you felt … Christ, I wanted to die myself. But I couldn’t do shit about it.”

“And if you had succeeded …”

“Akila would be on her way back to the djinn realm with Mister Fancy Pants right now.”

Ian blinked at me. “Who?”

“Nurien.” I made a face. “When Akila showed me the thought thing, he was wearing this gold outfit that would’ve made Liberace die of embarrassment.”

Ian laughed. “Fancy pants. You do have a unique way with words, thief.” Another call from Tory had him slowing, and he shifted direction almost imperceptibly. “Though I am glad you were unable to destroy me, I thank you for the attempt,” he said in coarse tones. “It means much to me that you would be willing to do what is necessary.”

“I’ve done a lot of things in the past few days that I never thought I’d do.” I tried to shrug it off, but levity eluded me. “I guess I’m more like you than I realized.”

“You are nothing like me.” A deep sadness filtered into his features. “You are not a barbarian, or a monstrous slayer.”

“Neither are you, Ian. And if you need proof of that, just ask those kids you didn’t kill, even though you’re bound by that damned curse.” I made a mental note to happily pitch in and kick Kemosiri’s ass later. “You’ve had to make some tough choices, but that doesn’t make you a monster. It makes you—well, a prince. And I may be a really small kingdom, but I’ll follow you to the end. Wherever that ends up being.”

“I do not wish to be followed.” Ian smiled faintly. “I would rather have a friend.”

“Then you’ve got one.”

The hawk swooped in close with a low whistling sound. Ian glanced up, then peered ahead and grinned. “We are near,” he whispered. “Do you hear it?”

I listened. Through the steady rush of wind, I heard a low
and liquid muttering, a silvery splash. Running water. The sound sank fishhooks of thirst in my dry throat, and it was all I could do not to sprint for the stream. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “It sounds like dinner.”

“Can you track my progress if I go ahead?”

“No problem. I don’t know that I want to see you take down a deer, anyway.” I swept a hand out. “Go for it. I’ll catch up.”

Ian transformed. I caught the predatory gleam in the wolf’s eyes just before he vanished into the trees without a sound, and decided I was grateful not to be a deer.

I
’d always thought a wolf attack would be loud and messy, punctuated with snarls and growls and the screams of whatever luckless animal happened to be on the wrong end of the teeth. But what I heard was so unremarkable that I half thought Ian hadn’t caught anything. There was a bit of running, a few light splashes that I guessed were the extras getting away. A single brief bleat, a thud. Some almost rhythmic rustling. Then only the stream again, a continuous throaty note underscoring the stillness.

I pushed ahead and emerged into a wide clearing along the side of a rocky, rushing, step-down stream. Ian, still a wolf, crouched with his fangs sunk into the throat of a medium-size buck. No puddles of blood or streaks of gore. No torn chunks or flaps of flesh. Ian shook his head, and the buck twitched a little—but the reaction was pure nerves. The deer’s eyes were dull with the blankness of death.

For a minute I ignored him, and the hawk circling to land on a boulder overlooking the stream, in favor of my body’s demand for cold wet anything. I stretched out bellydown on the bank and caught frigid water in my cupped hands. My throat clenched in anticipation.

The first sip damn near brought me to tears. I’d never tasted anything so sweet, so real. The best steak dinner I’d ever had in my life cost me upward of a hundred bucks, and it might as well have been seasoned cardboard compared to this. I could’ve started a religion. The Way of the Mountain Stream After Two Days Without Sustenance. Even Jesus would’ve signed up.

My hands weren’t fast enough. I stuck my face in the bubbling water and drank, deep, sucking swallows, like I had an invisible straw. Damn, this was good. I was pretty sure I heard clouds parting and angels singing. I kept going, and wondered if it was possible to drink a stream dry.

Until something small and wiggly slipped between my lips and lodged in my windpipe.

I jerked back with a splash and flopped over. A deep, hacking cough failed to loosen whatever it was—and air suddenly refused to move in or out. I bucked and jittered across the ground, slapping the air, one hand on my throat, trying to squeeze the obstruction out while black flashes dazzled my vision.

Rough hands hauled me upright, pounded on my back. I made a desperate bid for breath. The wiggly thing worked itself down and finally dropped past the sticking point. Everything whooshed from my lungs at once, and I drew a burning gasp of air that forced itself out fast in a series of barking coughs. Tears scalded my eyes and squirted from the corners.

At last I managed to stop coughing. Ian stood beside me, one hand under my arm and the other supporting my back. Tory was a few feet away, losing a fight with a smile. “Did I mention how much I hate nature?” I croaked. “Think I swallowed a fish.”

Tory howled with laughter and dropped to the ground,
clutching himself. “A fish!” he gasped between cackles. “Oh, damn. You’re killing me! Guess you won’t need dinner, then …” A fresh laughing fit overcame him.

The gale force of his amusement cracked a smile across Ian’s face. “Will you live, thief, or shall we begin the burial preparations now?”

“I think I’ll make it. Thanks.” I staggered a few steps and sat down. “That was fun. I hope it isn’t swimming around in my stomach or something.”

“I would conclude it is not.” Ian glanced over at Tory. “Taregan, if you would be so kind as to stop rolling about long enough to gather wood for a fire.”

Tory sat up, wiping his eyes. “Sure, yeah. Wood.” He snorted. “Hey, maybe if we hold Donatti’s head in the stream, we’ll catch enough minnows for a side dish.”

“Taregan.”

“I’m going.” He stood and wandered off with a grin. The occasional chuckle escaped him and rolled back on the breeze.

Ian shook his head, but a faint smile lingered on his lips. He blinked and looked down at me. “I presume you have a blade somewhere in those pockets of yours?”

I’d almost forgotten about the deer. “I have a few,” I said. “The tethers are probably the biggest.” My ankle blades were four-inch jobs, not much better than shivs, and the switchblade was even more useless at three.

“I would prefer to use one that is not bound to a djinn,” Ian said. “Particularly me.”

“Sure.” I freed one from an ankle holster and handed it to him. “Here you go. Have fun.”

Ian took it. “How quaint.” He held it sideways and made a few passes over it. The blade lengthened and thickened, grew teeth on the lower edge and a sliver-sharp sheen along
the upper half of the top. “You should consider carrying more efficient weapons, thief.”

I shrugged. “I have a gun.”

“Yes. And it is far simpler for a djinn to stop a firing gun than a flashing blade.” He walked over and bent to the deer carcass. Wet ripping sounds commenced. “Also, knives do not run out of bullets.”

I nodded absently and tried not to watch him. “I hope you know how to cook that stuff,” I said. “Never had it personally, but I hear venison is awful if it’s not made right.”

“I have sufficient experience.” The blade sawed through flesh with a faint squelching noise that tried to rid my stomach of all the water I’d drunk. And the fish. “Have you never prepared meat?”

“Are you kidding? I can’t even boil water.” I stretched my legs out. My muscles had finally stopped shaking from lack of oxygen. “I don’t cook food. I just eat it.”

Ian chuckled. “How have you managed to survive this long?”

“Takeout is a man’s best friend.” I grinned. “Plus, there’s TV dinners. And prepackaged stuff. I’m a big fan of cherry Pop-Tarts.” The idea of food had my mouth watering again, despite the awful sounds of the butchering. “The nuns never taught any of us how to cook—especially me. I wasn’t allowed in the kitchen. The one time I did go in there, Sister Maggie beat my ass. Said I was stealing bread or something.” A startled laugh escaped me. “Figures I’d catch hell for the only time I was actually innocent.”

I trailed off, not sure why I was talking about this. I’d never brought it up to anyone before. Not even Jazz.

“It must have been difficult for you.” There was a catch in Ian’s voice.

“Hey, everybody’s got a sob story. It wasn’t like they kept me chained in the basement and flogged me every day or anything.” I grimaced. Bad choice of words. But Ian didn’t seem to notice. “I did steal food, you know. Not there. But when I ran from the orphanage, it only took a couple weeks of rooting through Dumpsters to figure out a better way to survive.” I stared at my feet. “Wasn’t a huge leap, graduating to stealing money instead. Bought food tasted better. After that, I just kind of didn’t stop. I was good at it.” I looked away, focused on nothing. “I’d never been good at anything else.”

“I am sorry,” Ian said softly.

“Don’t be. You didn’t make me a thief.”

“Not for that. For doubting your integrity.” He half-turned. Dark blood streaked his arms to the elbows. “You have made hard choices as well. Your world demands it. I cannot fault you for surviving.”

“Thanks.” I nodded at the carcass, feeling a change of subject was in order. All this bonding was making me itch. “You gonna finish that? I’m starving.”

Ian laughed and went back to cutting.

Whether it was Ian’s culinary skills or sheer hunger, venison tasted a lot better than chicken-fried bat. By the time we ate and washed as best we could in the stream, the suggestion of sun behind the clouds had disappeared and it was nearly dark. It would’ve been nice to sit around the fire and dry out, but Ian had doused it the minute he finished cooking, reasoning that a fire was easy to spot from a distance. The reminder that we were being chased didn’t do much to lift the mood.

Marginally less grimy, my full stomach broadcasting a false comfort, I craved sleep. I would’ve crashed right there if we weren’t so exposed. Ian and Tory both looked ready to pass
out too. I made myself stand and grab a last quick drink—just water this time—then cleared my throat. “I guess we should keep moving,” I said. “I can probably still find that cave, so we can get a little rest.”

Tory, stretched out on the ground, threw an arm over his eyes. “Sounds cozy,” he said. “Can’t wait.”

“Donatti is right. We must not remain in the open.” Ian unfolded himself from his crouch by the stream and glanced at the sky. “Besides, it will rain soon.”

I opened my mouth to ask how he knew that, and thunder muttered in the distance.

“Crud.” I did a fast check of the area to make sure I hadn’t left any useful things lying around and waited for Tory to stand. “Should we do anything with that?” I gestured at the decimated deer carcass.

“There is no time to properly prepare it. We will leave the rest for other animals.” Ian stirred the remains of the fire with a foot. “This cave of yours. Do the Morai know of it?”

Shit. “Yeah, they do.”

“In that case, we should not stay there. We will be found.”

“I hate it when you’re right.” Lightning flashed across the sky, and thunder chased it almost instantly. “Okay. Any idea where we should go?”

“Perhaps we should—”

“Get the fuck out of here. Right now.” Tory pointed downstream, his features somber. “They’re coming.”