Master and Apprentice (3 page)

I sensed him move, knew he held a palm just above my throat like he always did when he healed me. The searing pain in my hand diminished to a deep, slow throb. Ian hissed through his teeth. “Not enough,” he whispered. “I am too drained.”

I risked a glance and gave my fingers a tentative wiggle. They moved, so at least my hand wasn’t mummified anymore, but the skin remained red and blistered and streaked with white blotches. The missing top third of my index finger wasn’t a result of the fire, though. I’d lost that a year ago against Lenka—and djinn magic didn’t cover regeneration, so I’d never get it back.

“It’s fine.” I eased into a seated position, exhaled slowly. “I guess this is our cue to walk,” I said. “Want a hand up?”

Ian nodded reluctantly. I knew he hated asking for help, no matter how much he needed it. He was a warrior, or at least he had been four hundred years ago, before he got banished to the human realm. And no self-respecting warrior would let a little thing like crippling injury stand in his way.

His banishment was another reason we hunted the Morai. He couldn’t return home until he’d killed every last one of their clan—Akila’s father, the head of the djinn Council, had seen to that. What a guy.

I arranged Ian’s good arm around my shoulders and lifted. He came up slowly, gained his feet, and motioned me away with murmured thanks. After a beat, he said, “What did the Morai say to you?”

“Um.” I hesitated. Wasn’t sure Ian should hear about it, especially the last part.

“Did you not understand him?”

I didn’t answer.

“It may have been important.” Ian had that determined look in his eyes, the one that said he’d stop at nothing to destroy
every last Morai in existence no matter what the cost—to himself, or anyone else. “Can you recall any of the words?”

“Yeah.” I stared at the ground. “He said, ‘Foolish apprentice. He knows not what he sees. Die in service to your master’s madness.’”

Ian recoiled like I’d gut-punched him. “You do not believe him … do you?”

“No.” I sighed. “I think you’re right. We’d better get out of here.” The stench of burned flesh and spent blood hung in the dead air. If we stuck around much longer, I’d have to become a vegetarian, because the idea of cooked meat would stage a revolt in my stomach.

Ian limped out the way we’d come in. I followed him, and tried to ignore the whisper that insisted the deceiver the Morai warned about could be anyone. Even Ian.

A
fter we’d put some distance between us and the cave, the terrain changed from mostly rock to mostly trees. Ian stayed ahead of me and trudged along at a steady pace, ignoring the arm dangling lifeless from its socket, the massive burn on his chest, and his likely broken ribs. Immortality and stubbornness weren’t the best combination.

I jogged to catch up with him. “Don’t you think we should stop for a few minutes?”

He ignored me.

“Ian.” I grabbed his good arm. “Stop.”

“It was not right.” He looked at me like he’d just realized I was still there. “He should not have been free of the tether. Akila’s vision has never been wrong before.”

Ian’s wife was Bahari—the hawk clan—and had a knack for air magic, especially flying and illusions. She did the scrying beforehand and found tethers so we could go on our little killing sprees. “Uh, there’s a first time for everything?” I said.

Ian shook his head. “There is something else here. Magical interference. This mountain is rife with it, and I do not like it. We must keep moving.”

“Come on, Ian. We’ll never make it back to town walking. Especially not with you beat to hell.” Despite my protest, unease coiled in my gut. Anything that made Ian uncomfortable was bad news for me. Usually painful, bad news in the form of a vengeful Morai. But Ian could barely walk, much less cast any spells, and only time would restore his power. And mine. “Let’s just make a quick pit stop, all right? Give it an hour. You can rest, and I’ll stand watch.”

He cast me a dubious look. And started walking again.

“Damn it, stop being a jackass!”

“I am fine.” He staggered a little, took two more steps, and collapsed.

I cursed under my breath and went to him. “So we’re resting,” I said. “Right?”

“Apparently,” he muttered into the ground.

“Glad you see it my way.” I knelt beside him and tried to look through the trees. “I think there’s a decent clearing up ahead,” I said. “You gonna let me help you get there, or are you comfortable here?”

He let out a long breath. “Very well.”

“You’re welcome.”

Somehow I managed to get him up and leaning on me. My burned hand let out a few shouts of protest during the struggle, and settled back to a persistent ache as we pressed awkwardly forward. The clearing that looked no more than fifty feet away took five minutes to reach, and it wasn’t much of a clearing. Just a semicircular patch of ground covered in browning pine needles. At least there weren’t as many rocks here.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll let you down here, and—”

“You all just keep movin’.”

The voice, not clearly male or female, came from across the
clearing. A shotgun protruded between two trees, with a figure in a wide-brimmed hat behind it.

For a minute my brain went blank. Why the hell would anybody else be on this oversize pile of rocks in the middle of nowhere? The only quasicivilization, the little mountain town where we’d rented a room, was miles away. But the shotgun suggested hunter, so maybe whoever this was had been hunting something they shouldn’t have and didn’t want to be discovered.

The sharp blast of the gun jolted me out of pondering. A cloud of dirt and pine needles burst from the ground near my feet. “Jesus Christ!” I yelled, dragging Ian back a few steps. “You can’t just shoot people.”

Brilliant. I sounded like a Sunday school teacher. That’d deter the nut with the gun.

“I said move. Get on outta here.” The barrel came back up. “I won’t miss next time.”

Ian breathed in shakily. “I can walk,” he whispered. “We will find another spot.”

“Guess we don’t have a choice.”

The gun bearer moved forward and stopped just outside the light in the clearing. “You hurt?” The tone was a few degrees gentler, but no more welcoming.

“Yes. My friend’s arm is broken, and … stuff.” Rattling off a list of Ian’s injuries didn’t seem like it would help. I might have to offer an explanation, and I didn’t have a lie handy.

“You ain’t from town, or that militia bunch?”

Militia?
“Uh … no.”

“Saints and shitpokes. Dumb-ass tourists. You from up north too.” The voice edged into feminine territory as some of the coldness wore off. “Were you climbin’, or huntin’?”

“Climbing.” I seized the innocuous excuse, hoping Ian had enough sense not to contradict me. “We were checking out the
caves up there and lost our footing. He fell farther than me.”

Ian stiffened, but he didn’t say anything.

She—I was positive it was a woman now—sighed like I’d just confessed to not realizing the sky was blue. “S’pose you better come back to my place, then. It ain’t too far. Your … friend can ride Zephyr. You’ll have to walk.”

I ignored the suggestive way she said
friend.
“What’s a Zephyr?”

“My mule.” She turned and moved back into the trees.

Ian shuddered and coughed. “A mule,” he murmured.

“Sounds like fun.” I suppressed a grin.

“Indeed.”

“Come on.” I led him across the clearing after the mystery woman. She stood about ten trees in, fitting the shotgun into a holster mounted at the side of a rich brown, wiry-looking animal laden with stuffed saddlebags. The mule glanced up at us, blinked slowly, and went back to munching on a clump of green leafy-looking things.

The woman kept her head bent enough not to show her face under the hat brim, and then she turned her back. She wore a thin black long-sleeved shirt, jeans faded to the color of mud, and men’s work boots. A sheaf of copper brown hair hung down her sturdy shoulders. “Mount up,” she said without facing us. “There’s stirrups and a saddle, so even green slicks like yourselves can figure it out. You ain’t got to guide him. He’ll follow me.”

It took a few tries to get Ian up on the saddle. Zephyr snorted once, when Ian wobbled and grabbed handfuls of stiff black mane to keep from falling, but he didn’t buck or protest. I found the reins and wound them around Ian’s hand a few times. “Better hold on,” I said. “I don’t know if I can pick you up again.”

Ian looked down at the mule and blanched. “Are you certain about this?”

“Sure. It’ll be fine.”

“Jus’ don’t put your fingers near his mouth. They look like carrots to him,” the woman said. “You set?”

Ian groaned.

“We’re good,” I said. “Thank you.”

She made a sharp clucking sound and started walking. Zephyr swung from his feast and plodded along behind her with Ian swaying uneasily on his back.

I stayed next to the mule. Whoever this woman was, she obviously didn’t want to get too friendly. I couldn’t blame her. Ian tended to make people uneasy, and I wasn’t much better.

“Name’s Mercy,” she said eventually. “You?”

“I’m Donatti. He’s Ian.”

“All right.”

She lapsed back into silence.

At first glance, Mercy’s place looked like a few acres of trees had exploded and fallen back to the ground in random piles. An open-face shack with a log fence growing out of it apparently belonged to Zephyr. Just outside the far end of the fence stood something that looked like three doghouses stacked on top of each other. Two smaller buildings, each about the size of two toolsheds pushed together, flanked a small but thriving garden.

The main house might have been a normal shape once, but irregular additions had been patched on until it resembled a deformed starfish. A wide, roofed porch ran the front length, where two screened windows flanked a rough plank door painted bright red. There was a small gray satellite dish on the roof. The huge, squat metal box on the right side of the house, with thick wires feeding in between logs, was probably a diesel generator.

On the left, a curtained shower ring had been fastened to the outside wall. The curtain was metallic silver, the stuff they
made solar car windshield covers from. There were duckies embossed on it.

Mercy stopped the mule in the front yard and waved at the house. “Go on and get him inside,” she said, still without turning around. “Just gonna get Zephyr unpacked, then we’ll see about setting that arm up.”

“Thanks,” I said. “We really appreciate this.”

She made a noncommittal grunt that could have been
You’re welcome
or
Go to hell.

I helped Ian down, who’d turned an unhealthy shade of green, and clumped across the yard with him. Hopefully he wouldn’t need too much time to recharge his magic. I wasn’t sure what Mercy intended to do with him, but I couldn’t exactly tell her he’d be fine once he could turn into a wolf again. At least he’d be resting.

We made it onto the porch and through the door. The inside of the place looked a lot more organized than the outside. A pegboard just to the left of the door held a yellow rain slicker, a hooded sweatshirt, and a few empty hooks. There was a massive fireplace across the room, with the hearth and the inside grill swept clean and a few logs stacked in a metal basket beside it, and a sturdy three-foot cross mounted on the wall above. A couch and two chairs were arranged around a low coffee table on one side of the room, and behind the grouping stood bookshelves and a detached closet, with the folding door slightly ajar.

The other side of the room contained a table with bench seats next to a curtained window, and a set of countertop cabinets with a two-burner propane stove. A coffee percolator occupied one of the burners. Next to the cabinets were a water pump and a metal bucket. A desk in the far corner held a newer model desktop computer with a flat-screen monitor, complete with active modem. That explained the satellite dish. I guessed
anybody could have internet access these days, even if they lived on a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Two open doorways led to other rooms, presumably the oddly shaped additions.

I settled Ian on the couch but didn’t sit down myself. For some reason, the cross above the fireplace demanded attention. I moved in for a closer look. There were symbols carved on it. More djinn writing.

“Ian. You see what I see?”

He raised his head and grimaced. “Yes. It is a protection spell.”

“What do you think? Should we make a break for it?”

He breathed in, and a coughing fit overcame him. A fine spray of blood flew from his lips and spattered the floor.

“Okay. I’ll take that as a no.”

“She is human,” Ian rasped. “I do not perceive a threat here.”

“Did you happen to perceive the shotgun?” Frowning, I paced back toward the chair. Maybe Ian was too injured to be paranoid, but I wasn’t. First the cave, now this cabin. If whatever the cross had on it was a protection spell, it might’ve been against the Morai we’d just killed—but who put it there? I couldn’t think of many reasonable explanations outside of Mercy knowing something about the djinn.

Ian seemed convinced she was human. But we hadn’t seen her eyes. She’d made sure of that, and it was definitely deliberate. That was the thing about djinn. No matter how human they made themselves look, their eyes gave them away. They always retained the animal qualities of their clan—Ian’s were rounder than a human’s and ringed with black; Akila, like a hawk, didn’t have any whites.

And all the Morai had slitted pupils, with swamp-mean hatred lurking behind a yellow-green gaze.

I opened my mouth to say something and heard scratching sounds. Claws on wood. They were coming from the closet.
My heart slammed a few times, and I tried to convince myself it was something domestic. Maybe a dog or a cat. I inched closer, cleared my throat.

The scratching stopped. A low chittering took its place, an alien sound I was sure no self-respecting dog or cat could ever make.

The front door flew open, and Mercy strode in clutching the shotgun. Her head turned toward the closet, where the disconcerting noise had grown louder. “You get outta there, Sister,” she said. “And you better not’ve touched that blanket.”