A Cast of Shadows: An Araneae Nation Story (2 page)

No matter how enchanting he found Daraja, she was not worth losing such a precious gift.

“You are quiet.”
Errol nudged Brynmor’s leg.
“Are you angry with me?”

“No.” Brynmor had approached Daraja and had incited Errol. “I’m angry with—”

Errol paused, lifted his head and scented the air. A vicious rumble poured from his throat.

In a flash of black fur, Errol bolted into the trees and disappeared.

Tipping his head back, Brynmor inhaled rapidly, filling his lungs with a sharp copper smell. Beneath that, he caught a faint whiff of pine and musk hard to distinguish from the other scents. He was a tracker by trade, all those of his line were, so he caught the scent trail and followed it to where he first heard Daraja sing. There they found a tent and the snuffed-out remains of a fire.

A crossed pair of hind legs extended past the neatly folded bedroll. Brynmor’s blood ran cold as he skimmed their length, his gaze snagging past the hocks, where the paws should be.

Fisting Errol’s scruff, Brynmor tugged to slow him down. “Wait here.”

“No.”
Errol snapped at Brynmor’s hand, drawing blood on his knuckles.
“You wait here if you like.”

He tightened his grip. “We don’t know for certain the female is traveling alone.”

“Then we find out.”

Brynmor’s hand slid down the length of Errol’s spine when the canis darted past him. He rounded the tent as Errol leapt the bedroll and approached the body. Lowering his head, Errol sniffed at the blood matting the fur until it became more rusted brown than gray.

“It can’t be.”
Errol tossed his head.
“I saw Scipio only hours ago.”

The kill was recent, but the familiar scent of death made Brynmor’s gorge rise. The corpse’s head and all four paws were missing, but a thin white ring around the right foreleg identified the mutilated canis. Brynmor swallowed past a tight throat. “Scipio is the only pack member with those markings.”

Errol choked on an anguished cry, and Brynmor collapsed as sorrow saturated their bond.

When Errol threw back his head and sang for their departed brother, the chorus was lifted by the voices of the pack. Howls pierced the night sky as canis rushed from their den to the clearing.

“She will pay for this,”
Errol swore.
“Tonight we will hunt the huntress.”

“We can’t be sure—” Brynmor began.

“—she won’t kill another of us?”
Errol circled him.
“You came to me as a spirit, as nothing. You asked that I use my body to give your soul shelter. I agreed. All I asked for in return was your vow that you would protect the pack as if they were your own, that you honor my rule and never endanger those under my protection. Yet here you are, eager to lead us to slaughter.”

“I have kept my word,” Brynmor grated past tight lips.

“But will you continue to do so?”
Errol asked.
“Something has changed. You are no longer the restless soul I offered asylum to. In the past few weeks, you have begun leaching my essence, using my life force to manifest in the flesh. I did not begrudge you this use of my strength. Your triumph was my own. I know how it pained you to be…insubstantial. But it worries me how fast you leapt to the defense of a female you met tonight, when we have been bonded for far longer.”

No ready excuse for his actions sprang to his lips. Through Errol, he all but lived once more.

He was a fool to risk that for anything. He was a fool to risk that for anyone.

Flicking his tail against Brynmor’s leg, Errol asked,
“Where do your loyalties lie, brother?”

“With the pack,” Brynmor answered by rote.

Errol was right. They were his family now.

Chapter Two

Father would grumble if he caught me alone by the river at this time of night. Mud up to my knees and silt squished between my toes. Let him huff and puff, I enjoyed the quiet, the coolness.

A low rustle of leaves brought my head up in time to spot a black canis, its teeth bared and fur bristled, step from the trees. The fat salmo in my hands squirmed free, and I released it to better focus on the predator doing his best to pen me at the sandy shore between himself and the river.

My night vision was keen, at least as sharp as his I bet, but that was my sole advantage.

Armed with only a net stuffed with struggling salmo, I was trapped by the material gathered at my feet. Either I dropped the net, or I risked becoming tangled in the mesh if the canis charged.

The decision—and my net—were ripped from my hands when the canis launched at me.

I dove aside, landed on my back on the riverbank and sank in the mud. Grunting, I shoved to my feet and whirled on the canis in time to dodge its second lunge. Where was my blasted spear?

A quick glance pinpointed it, leaned against the nearest tree along with the small pot holding my snack. Lovely. I held up my hands, palms out. Maybe he wanted what was in the pot. If food was on his mind, he could have mine. Bending down, I picked up a handful of smooth stones and hurled them at the pot, cracking the lid and collapsing the sides. The canis ignored the rocks once he was assured I didn’t intend to pelt him with them. He ignored the food too. Me, he growled at.

I should have known a hunter wouldn’t be content to scavenge dried salmo jerky.

“You’re a pretty boy,” I told him. It was the truth. He was sleek and his fur was black. Gold shone in his eyes, and his sharp teeth gleamed. I took a cautious step closer to the spear. When he snapped at me, I made my voice soft and sweet. “Bite me and I’ll skin your furry arse to make a blanket.”

The canis slicked his ears against his skull as if he understood me, then padded several steps to his left, until he stood between me and the spear. A grumble of annoyance rose in my throat. I tensed, prepared to lunge for the weapon and take my chances, but a terse voice hailed me from the forest’s edge.

“You’ll never make it.”

I registered movement from the corner of my eye. “Thank you for your encouragement.” The canis glared between us, then barked once. “I don’t suppose I could convince you to toss me my spear.” My request was met with silence. “No? All right. Do you have a quiver filled with arrows and possess a reasonable aim?”

“I can’t help you, Daraja.” The male sounded closer. “You butchered his pack mate.”

“I have never hunted canis,” I said, grateful it was the truth, “let alone butchered one.”

“Yet there is a carcass in your camp.”

“Liar.” I risked a quick glimpse over my shoulder. I saw nothing but the slant of deep shadows. “How do I know you didn’t leave the carcass there to incite the canis?”

The instant the words left my mouth, I shook my head. Our whole conversation was bizarre.

Who was this male? Why wasn’t the canis as concerned with him as he was with me?

And why were we speaking of the canis as if it had a mind enough to plot against me?

“The canis are my brothers. I would rather chop off my own hands than harm one.”

I crept toward the spear. “I would pay to see a one-handed man chop off his own hand.”

The male’s voice roughened. “I don’t think you appreciate the danger you’re in.”

“There’s a feral mongrel eager to tear my face off if I can’t reach my spear, a spear it sounds as if you’re much closer to than I am, and you refuse to aid me.” I expelled a tired laugh and wished I had stayed in bed. “I think I understand the situation better than you give me credit for.”

The canis gnashed his teeth, and the male’s voice turned urgent. “Can you prove your innocence?”

“Why should I have to?” In a moment of defiance, I asked, “Who are you to ask that I do?”

He didn’t answer. Had I honestly expected him to?

“The Mimetidae paladin brought this pack with him from the northlands. They are under his protection,” he said at last. “To kill one of them is to be killed yourself, courtesy of the gallows.”

I cleared my suddenly tight throat. “Who are you, their keeper?”

He paused before saying, “Something like that.”

Relieved by the notion his concern was legitimate, I lifted my chin. “What proof do you require?”

“Let me examine your person and your belongings for teeth marks or more canis blood.”

I glanced at my hands. “How can you tell salmo blood from canis blood except by volume?”

“I can scent you.”

Gods above. I had forgotten the Mimetidae were a clan of trackers. This male’s talent would prove I was innocent, but his demands rankled. “Then you can scent me from where you stand.”

“That’s not good enough.” He sighed. “All good hunters know how to cover their tracks.”

“My tracks are obvious,” I snapped. “At least they are to anyone who opens his eyes.”

“Then I won’t be responsible for the justice their alpha metes out against you.”

“You speak for the canis, then?” Of course he did. The male was three ticks past mad.

Silence lingered a moment. “I do.”

“Fine.” I angled my head to try and catch a glimpse of him. “Then I—”

Teeth snapping, the canis leapt for my throat. I whirled aside, gasping for air, eyes swiveling in their sockets, desperation quickening my pulse as I sought out the one male who might aid me.

I saw no one and heard nothing.

A growl behind me raised the hairs on my nape. We had traded positions, so I lunged for my spear, but the canis vaulted between me and the tree with ease. Cursing, I spun toward the river.

Forget the male. I would save myself.

In the shallows, my net rippled in the current, its edge hung on a limb protruding from shore. Muttering a curse that would make Father’s ears blush, I ran for all I was worth toward the water. As I waded in, I heard the splash of the canis closing in on me. I shouted relief as I ripped the net free.

I entered the river as far as I dared. With water lapping at my chest, I flung the net over the paddling canis. It barked as my first tug drew it closer, then yelped when my next tug pulled it under. Strangled sounds caught in its throat as I gathered the edges as best I could and dove deep.

I didn’t make it far. The canis was fighting to live as hard as I was.

Luck favored me, and I found a waterlogged tree tangled in debris in the riverbed. Wrapping the net around the thickest limb, I heaved until the canis was immersed in water. Its thrashing shifted the log, which proved to be rotted and less substantial than I had hoped.

A moment was all I needed to escape. Perhaps the net might drown the beast outright.

Either was fine by me.

Kicking off the bottom, I propelled myself up and gasped for air when my head broke water. An instant later, I was shoved aside and under, left coughing up water and bobbing in the current.

The male—who was more than a voice after all—cried out to the canis, “Hold on, Errol.”

Unwilling to have my hard work undone, I swam for him and climbed upon his back. I sank my fingers into his hair and slammed his face into the water until I noticed he wasn’t coughing or gasping. Was he even breathing? Ignoring me, he paddled awkwardly to the spot where the canis had sunk.

“Are you mad?” I spluttered when I realized what he meant to do.

“He’ll die if I don’t cut him free.”

“That’s the point,” I yelled at the back of his head. “He wanted the same fate for me.”

While the male struggled to keep us both afloat, his black eyes met mine and my fingers slid from his hair to rest on his shoulders. “Errol is wild with grief. Please, help me save him.”

“I would rather—”

“Gold,” he said, gaze sliding back to where I’d left the canis to drown. “I’ll pay you to help me.”

Even as my skin prickled at the insult, my thoughts flashed to my father’s face, how his smug grin would crack if I returned home with such a decadent prize.

“Gods damned fool,” I cursed myself. “Might as well spit and roast myself while I’m at it.”

Launching into the deep, I kicked my legs until I reached the canis. I grasped the knife from my waistband and sliced through the silken tether, freeing the net from the limb where I had tied it. After gathering the bag’s topknot, I propelled myself through the water with my legs and one arm until my muscles burned from exertion. My lungs stung from holding my breath and my eyes itched.

When I broke the surface this time, I passed the burden onto the waiting male, who promptly sank like a stone. Father’s parting words echoed through my memory.
Be kind. Let all you meet along the river recall your charity with fondness, and may their gratitude wash upon your shore.

Manners ingrained since childhood tugged on my conscience until I gulped air, then fisted the net and tugged it in my wake. Once I reached the shore, I dragged the unconscious canis onto the beach. The male climbed from the shallows and staggered to his feet. His outline flickered, and I decided right then if he wasn’t Kwaku Ananse, he was the sort of trouble that I didn’t need.

“Is he…?” the male asked.

I nudged the canis with my toe, and he spat a watery growl. “He sounds fine to me.”