Foxhunt Read online

  Strange, really: the Wild were hunters, most of them gritty and down-to-earth. Aside from killers, what they put Orfeus most in mind of was the fae hunt her mother Basma told stories about, fine lords and ladies astride shining white horses, hunting down prey. But they floated up here free as birds. Like they thought themselves closer to the gods out of those old legends.

  The broad room where Luga held court had no doors, just an opening. There were no lights on and the shadows loomed. Orfeus took a few steps in and halted. Silence, except for creaking metal as the base shifted in the wind.

  She turned around and tensed. Luga stood silhouetted in the entrance, watching her.

  He looked the same, his fair hair tied back, face smeared with ink. He wore the golden sword at his side, and his twisting crown of antlers dangled from one blackened hand.

  “Fox,” he said calmly.

  It felt like being caught somewhere she wasn’t meant to be, but if there were rules here, no one had told her. Orfeus bit her tongue and dipped a short bow, flourishing her cape.

  “Leader,” she said as cheerfully as she could, straightening. “I’m glad to find you here. I had a few questions.”

  His gaze dug into her, wintry green eyes. After a moment he inclined his head, barely a fraction. “You can certainly ask,” he said. He walked past her, heading to his throne.

  May as well try. “Honoured Leader,” she said, “who sent the Wolf after me, that first time in Tinctora? I’ve learned you’re the one to ask.”

  “Hm.” Luga reached the pile of junk, but didn’t climb it. He turned, bracing his back against it, and surprised her by sitting down on an outcrop of metal, nearly casual. He laid his sword over his knees. “I can’t betray a client’s trust,” he said, setting the crown down next to him. “I’m sure you understand.”

  Orfeus hissed out a breath through her teeth. What she’d expected, but still disappointing. “Of course, Leader. You won’t even tell me the name they used?”

  He drew out a whetstone, and looked up at her as he drew it over the bare blade, sending out sparks. “Maybe if you climb higher in my Order, Fox.”

  Interesting. Worth trying, if she could bear the weight, but then she’d borne it all so far. “That’s the other thing,” she said, and put her hands on her hips. “Why partner me with someone who hates me, someone who anyone in my position would hate?” She frowned. “Which of us are you punishing?”

  The Leader paused at his work and looked up at her. The slightest smile drew up his thin lips, as devoid of warmth as the sky in winter. “If you’re ever in a position of power, you’ll need to think with more nuance,” he said, and she bristled. He drew the whetstone slowly over the blade. “No one who knows the game would be enough of a fool to make any move that only accomplishes one thing.”

  Talking to him made her cold. She drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders. At least Faolan was straightforward. “I see.”

  “Work on your combat,” Luga said. “Watch and learn. Prove I made the right decision, when I didn’t just ask Hyena to kick you out into the sky.”

  Another threat, and she knew he meant it, but there was something else. “You sound…” Orfeus said slowly. “Invested.”

  “Hm. Here, with no one watching, I’ll say you have potential.” He rested his chin on one hand, watching her with that faint smile. “Better if my Wolf had carried out his duty, but if you had to survive, at least I can make the most of the opportunity. I’m familiar with your work, singer. Some of my hunters have passed around recordings.”

  Orfeus blinked.

  “So I knew you had some little ability with Blood, from your performance,” Luga said. “Besides. I quite liked it.”

  “Oh?” Orfeus said, thrown again. “Thank you.” Overall she preferred patrons who didn’t carry swords.

  “I enjoyed your mention of the Morrigan,” Luga continued, “who far too many people have forgotten.”

  “Oh,” Orfeus said, brightening. “Yes.” She gestured. “And the crow queen washes clothes / In those long-forgotten groves… I had to dig deep into the archives at Eldergrove to even find which name to use, but it was worth it. In some stories there were three of her in one, which is why I made each verse three lines, of course—”

  But someone among the Elders had taken her Blood secret as thieves in the night. She stopped short, stumbling into the memory.

  “Of course,” Luga said, without seeming to notice. He undoubtedly had noticed. “Enjoyably creative. You’ll need more than a knack for rhymes to survive in my Order, however.”

  “I don’t owe you anything,” Orfeus said. He did not move, just sat there, smiling calmly. Too brusque. “Leader,” she added.

  “Mind your tongue,” Luga said. He went back to sharpening his sword. Old-fashioned, primitive, and deadly sharp. “It would be a pity to kill you.”

  Orfeus bit her lip, and bowed again instead of speaking.

  She turned, walking back out into the corridor. After a few steps, another sound mingled with the shifting of metal and song of the wind: a whistle, off-key but recognisable, as Luga whistled the tune of her song.

  She stopped dead in her tracks for a moment, shivering without knowing why.

  Then she shook her head to clear it and strode out into the light and away from him.

  When Orfeus glanced into the Trial arena, it was empty and dark. She wondered if they’d scrubbed the blood from the floor yet.

  The door next to it yielded a room nearly as large, with the same tough, springy floor. A set of bars up along one wall formed almost a ladder, and ropes hung from the ceiling, mannequins set up at the back: a training area, then.

  Faol was here, beating the ever-living pulp out of a mannequin. Orfeus watched as Faol drew back his fist, claws gleaming, and sliced it cleanly through, a motion that Orfeus only saw through the afterstreaks of light the claws left behind. The mannequin’s head flopped off and rolled a little on the ground.

  “Do you go through a lot of those?” Orfeus said. “That must draw on the Order’s resources.”

  Faol didn’t turn around, but tension went into those thick shoulders. “It’s my luxury,” he said after a pause. Orfeus had actually been joking.

  Of course. Some people had luxuries that were guitars, or cats, or fine embroidery. Faol? An endless supply of things to destroy.

  “We all need hobbies,” Orfeus said. “Of course, most of us have hobbies that aren’t also our sole occupation and pastime as well as the place we live and the only people we spend time with, but, Faol, you do you. I respect that. Honestly.”

  Faolan didn’t rise to the bait, just snicked her claws back into place and turned. She wasn’t wearing her armour, and seeing her in just a plain black tank top and short pants, her bare skin gleaming with sweat like she was a real human, was in some ways as startling as if she was seeing her naked. Faol all peeled out of her armour like a lobster, looking at her disapprovingly.

  “You need more rest,” Faol said.

  Orfeus flared out her cloak with her hands, smiling a little. “And yet.”

  Faolan sighed, audible across the room. He prowled forward –and the motion was most certainly a prowl, even when in anyone else it would have just been a walk, or a saunter. Faol didn’t move except with purpose.

  He walked past her and into a corner, where a shelf of towels sat next to a basin like the one in her room. There was a little walk-in cubicle for shyer folk, tiles and a drain on the floor below. He draped a towel around his waist and splashed water on his body. Orfeus took a careful step back to avoid the damp.

  Faol ran the towel roughly over his skin, spiking his hair into tangles, then hung it on a hook. A little more civilised than she’d been expecting. “Alright,” he said.

  Orfeus couldn’t help but grin. Faol sounded just as grimly despairing about this as she felt.

  The hunter strode out of the room, and Orfeus fell demurely in line behind him as he walked through the corridors. She made note of the t
urns in her mind. It wasn’t too far a distance between the training room and the heavy locked door that led to their little armoury.

  Faol slapped her hand on the door. She waited with impatience building in her shoulders, then hauled the door open without fanfare. Orfeus followed.

  “Do I get even more knives now?” Orfeus said. “I’m starting to worry about the sheer quantity of knives you’re allowing me. You really should be wiser…”

  She trailed off. Faol had something in his hands, and held it carefully as he turned to show her.

  Her mask had been made incredibly fast. The features of a fox were clearly recognisable, pricked ears and cunning eyes shaped into a material that gleamed red, almost closer to bronze.

  Orfeus reached out to touch it, and Faolan passed it to her. Orfeus hefted it. “It’s light?”

  Faol nodded. “They aren’t meant to take more than that one blow.” He wasn’t wearing his mask today, she realised. Maybe that was why he looked nearly unrecognisable; she was seeing his whole face for the first time. He had rounded cheeks and a wide, gently curved nose, skin paler where the mask would normally cover it. His eyes were familiar at least, his grim mouth. He tapped his head and said, “They take the hit so your head doesn’t have to.”

  Orfeus nodded. She turned the mask around in her hands, then lifted it, fitting it onto her head. Closer to a helmet than a mask, but so light. It fit her well.

  Faol continued, “If your enemy gets your head, you’ve already lost,” and Orfeus pulled the mask down over her eyes, checking that she still had her full range of vision.

  “Yes, I get it, thank you,” she said testily.

  Faolan nodded to the side of the room with the mannequins—these at least had escaped his mindless thirst for destruction–and loose bin of armour pieces. “Armour hasn’t been made for you yet, but you can take loose pieces.”

  Orfeus glanced at the bin and shook her head. “Unless I’m going out into battle right now, I’m fine as I am.” Impressions were important. She’d rather these people not think of her as a motley patchwork fool.

  From the way Faol flattened his lips together, he disapproved, but he didn’t say anything. She was glad to be spared a rant on the dangers of vanity.

  He turned from the mannequins, crossing his arms across his chest. Seeing him out of armour was still unusual. Bulky but compact, with modest breasts and arms like steel cables. Stomach like a plank. Orfeus would be tempted to try to trip him into bed if they had met differently, if Faol hated her just a little less. If she remotely felt up to anything of the kind right now.

  Faolan said, “We’re short on scientists, but one could be called within a week or two.” She lifted one arm and flexed. “Do you want to be augmented?”

  Like him and some of the others, inhumanly strong, inhumanly fast. “No,” Orfeus said too quickly.

  Faol looked away, smiling thinly. “Of course it disgusts you,” he said, sounding amused.

  She could argue against this aspect of his hatred at least. Orfeus shook her head. “I’m not that hypocritical.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “What do you mean?”

  Her stomach lurched. It seemed like such a small secret now, but she wanted to cling to anything she had. Orfeus touched her earring and shrugged lightly. “We all modify our bodies to some degree,” she said. Faolan’s eyes glazed a little: judging whether or not to believe her. Orfeus hastened on, “And I don’t know how well it would work, with my Blood.”

  Faol nodded shortly. Orfeus cocked her head, looking at him. “You don’t approve of Blooded, do you?”

  A brief pause. She may never be able to catch him off guard with a knife or a blow, but she could with words. “I’ll use any weapon that is in our hands,” Faolan said. Not an answer.

  Orfeus laid a hand over her chest and sighed. “Of course it disgusts you.”

  Faolan snorted out through his nose. “We don’t have any other Blooded,” he said. He strode out of the room again, and she followed, again, tagging along like a puppy. “The Leader never wanted any. So we must find your strengths.” A brief pause, to imply she didn’t have any. “The light wall you made yesterday, can you always do that?”

  “Of course,” Orfeus lied. She needed every asset she could convince them she had.

  But she hadn’t convinced him: for someone so stupidly honest, Faol didn’t fall readily for her lies. “You didn’t use it before,” he pointed out, opening a door.

  Without the input of her mind, Orfeus’s mouth said, “The fights before were hardly worth it,” and Faolan stiffened. Orfeus opened her mouth to take back the words, then closed it.

  Faolan stepped into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving her blinking at a smooth wall. “Ah?” she said.

  She waited for a few moments, unsure of what she was meant to be doing. Nothing happened, and Orfeus cleared her throat, taking a step back. “I’ll just…”

  No such luck. The door opened again and Faolan strode out, fixing the last piece of his armour into place. He walked off again, beckoning her to follow, and resumed as though there had been no interruption and no barb that went too far: “You have some moderate control over electricity, and heat…and you were able to kickstart your body, before?”

  That had been the trick that made him realise she was Blooded, back before all this, when she was just a singer and he an unknown Wolf. “Releasing adrenaline,” Orfeus said. She was a little proud of that one.

  Faol nodded, and stopped to yank down on a lever of some kind. “Rely on that less,” she said shortly. “Your own reflexes must be enough.”

  Orfeus stepped back as a vast door shuddered open, big as an airlock. It led out not into rushing air and freezing temperatures but a more open space. One wall was made of windows, looking like it could open out into the blue-sky world outside. Hoverbikes and a few larger flight machines were stacked through the hangar in neat rows. “Faolan, I’m a guitarist.”

  He shook his head impatiently, erasing that with a swipe of his hand. “Push your body too far…”

  Orfeus jutted her chin. “It hasn’t failed me yet.”

  His look was all astonishment. “You passed out.”

  Faol strolled along the rows of bikes like how she walked between the cabbages and lettuce to see what was sprouting, how the plants were coming along. “Yet here I am,” Orfeus said breezily. “No damage done. Passing out is fine if it’s in front of allies.”

  He stopped short and she jerked back to avoid walking into him. Faol gave her a wolf-eyed glare. “I don’t want to fight with you by my side,” he said. “I don’t trust you.”

  As though she would ever want this either, after he’d nearly killed her. Orfeus glanced away, studying the bikes. She touched a musing hand to the handlebars of one. “That’s not news,” she said. Faol grunted. Orfeus shook her head and risked it: “You’re not going to do anything about it. Not when it’s Luga’s orders.”

  A gritty, shifting sound. He was grinding his teeth together.

  “Stop chomping your fangs down, you need those,” Orfeus said. “For jugulars and such.”

  “I’ll show you how to fly,” he said, dully.

  That was a big enough claim to shut her up, just for a moment.

  Faolan waved at a bike, and Orfeus, not wanting to give him time to change his mind, strode forward and sat on it. She leaned thoughtfully back then forward in the saddle, then pulled off her cloak, bundling it up. “I don’t need this dragging at my neck,” she said.

  Faol nodded. “Enemies can grab it,” he added. “I wouldn’t wear one at all.”

  Orfeus sparkled a grin at him, leaning forward to twist one handle experimentally. “The whole world is glad I don’t dress like you do, pup.”

  Faolan said nothing, but leaned forward, twisting the other handle. The bike roared into power so fast, Orfeus yelped, gripping hard to hang on. It didn’t move forward, but seemed to hang hovering, humming, suspended eagerly in the moment before movement. Orfeus
exhaled, settling back down, slotting her feet into the grooves. She didn’t look at Faol’s doubtlessly smug face.

  These were no gas-burning old hell-machines, certainly not as powerful as machines back in the Industrial ages, but sitting here, it felt more than powerful enough. Orfeus fitted her hand to the handlebar.

  “Wait—” Faol said, and Orfeus twisted it experimentally.

  The bike jerked forward, smooth and quick. Orfeus yelped. She hunkered down, staring ahead: those windows came forward far too fast, the big room blurring past her.

  She slammed one foot down at random, then the other, and with a screech it braked. Orfeus was flung forward, flipping over the front of the bike to land hard on the ground.

  For a moment, she sat there breathing. Faolan came and stood over her, didn’t offer her a hand up: doubtless he thought she deserved this.

  He had told her to wait back at Tinctora too. Both times, she should’ve listened. The Wolf wasn’t as stupid as Orfeus tried to pretend.

  “That’s enough for today,” Faolan said coldly, and Orfeus stopped and blinked up at him. She hadn’t expected to burn through her chances quite that fast.

  “Just a short flight?” she said, aching though she was. Faol crossed his arms, looking down at her. Looming taller than he really was.

  “If you think you can handle it.”

  And that made it a challenge. Orfeus hauled herself to her feet, even as her side screamed in protest.

  She settled down on the bike and fitted her hands over the handles again, sitting up straight like she wasn’t afraid of being thrown. She didn’t twist the handle. Faolan strode past her, and there was a low purr. He cruised up on his own bike, leaning forward over the handles: smooth and easy and controlled.

  She watched how he did it, watched like a hawk. He stopped, resting one foot on the ground. “Forward,” he said with insulting simplicity, twisting his hand in the air above the handle. “Steering is by moving these.” He moved the handles, back and forth. Orfeus set her teeth but listened. “The brake…” Was that a glimmer of dark grin? “The brake you’ve found already.”