Instinct is the preservation I’ve given you; where your eyes deceive you, and your heart misleads you, when your mind rationalizes, and your soul is worn down, trust in this feeling, as sure as the stars that shine above—the Book of Balance, The Sacral Compendium.

  Runnel pointed up and to the left. “We camp.”

  Thank the Autarch, cause I lost feeling in my ass hours ago.

  Maro had been trailing the man’s wagon all day as they headed south over the countryside. Little passed between them, and he was content with that. He preferred solitude, and a quiet partner suited him fine, allowed for deeper insight into the foreigner, lagging behind.

  Maro eyed Runnel’s belongings inside the horse-drawn vehicle. Two massive casks tucked up against the seat, held in place by rough spun rope, not the fine, steer-herding brand. The bounty hunter had seen those kegs before, and they usually housed ale, but he doubted Bloodbane brought a hundred gallons with him.

  He can’t be that much of a lush, can he?

  The Mium also had several smaller crates and chests, all meticulously covered with canvas and tied down. The weathered wagon, by time and use, still held great condition, a testament that the foreigner took care of it. At this rate, he’d go another two decades before replacing the wood.

  The man’s well-organized. Too bad the army didn’t learn a thing about orderliness.

  Well, that wasn’t true. Their orderliness sprinkled in shovel-fulls of chaos. But Maro knew a thing or two about men like him: their disposition made them controlling, getting what they wanted, bossy or not.

  That’s why he keeps asking about my saddle.

  No wasn’t an answer in the foreigner’s vocabulary. And even if the bastard managed to make Maro cave, he wouldn’t be happy for long, nor would the Mium respect him.

  He’s kinda like a woman. Can’t respect a man who changes for her; that’s why I’ll always stick to my guns.

  Maro shifted the reins to guide his young mare to their new destination for the evening. She ignored his guidance—more of a suggestion—and continued along the trail.

  “Whoa, girl. I want to go this way.”

  Her head dipped, but she didn’t alter course.

  “Alright, Bitch. You’re young, but you’ll break before I do.”

  A snort punctuated his statement, but he couldn’t tell if she communicated or just random chance. Either way, she proved as stubborn as a jackass, and did so in quiet defiance, the telltale heehaw absent from their battle of wills.

  It took him longer to join Runnel than he would’ve liked, but he got there after doling out a few choice words, a strong arm, and a few swift heels into the flanks.

  After tying her to a cedar tree and hobbling her—that’ll teach the bitch!—he pulled his gear from her back and set to grooming. Rule one on the trail: take care of your animal and your equipment before yourself.

  The army taught him that, and it still proved true. Men lost beasts of burden, had weapon misfires, and equipment malfunctions because they were too concerned with their gut and feet than actual necessities that kept them alive.

  Finished, Maro dropped his saddle on the ground with a muffled thump, took off his hat, and wiped his sweating brow with the sleeve of his gray coat. It’d served him well, the garment, ever since he picked it up on the plains while chasing down the Lanton gang.

  His eyes swept over the sloping hills lined the right side of their southward trek, some with jagged ridges, all with crevices and ravines too numerous to count. Stone and shrubs peppered the jutting landscape like zits on the ass. South and to the left side of their path, rolling plains were broken up by the tall, willowy grass and clumps of trees in the deeper portions of the landscape. What little forestry that grew sprouted tall and wild, the armpit hair of the world Atar. From a quick glance, most were cedar with a smattering of firs. And like salt adding flavor to a dish, massive oaks sprinkled into the mix, often standing alone and larger than life.

  Or maybe they’re ash considering how massive they are.

  He shrugged his shoulders. It’s not like he could tell from a hundred meters away.

  Replacing the hat back on his head, he bent to rummage through his pack. Runnel was doing the same over by his wagon, but Maro noted the man would dig through a crate or chest, then close it or cover it back up in a tidy fashion. It might stem from mistrust, but he doubted it. People like Bloodbane were creatures of habit, and Maro liked the trait about the other bounty hunter. The ex-soldier had his own patterns, to an extent, but without being psychotic about it.

  The sun almost slipped below the red horizon, and after a full day of travel, what they hunted still remained a mystery. Was that intentional on Runnel’s part, or did he not think about such things? It was time to broach the subject. He couldn’t get a read on the Mium, but a little chat, perhaps some philosophizing, and everything might wash down like hot, early morning coffee.

  Or I could end up not liking him and be tempted to put a bullet in his head.

  The thought soured in Maro’s stomach.

  “Nice coat,” Bloodbane said from behind him.

  Still bent over his pack, Maro glimpsed the man out of the corner of his eye. “Ain’t for sale.”

  Runnel chuckled and ran fingers through his beard, pulling it out long and untangling the curls. “All’s for sale, even morals.”

  Maro contemplated for a moment. His initial gut reaction was a refute, but while in the army, he let them erode a bit for a slice of compound interest to his soul.

  “Not anymore.”

  Runnel nodded as he sat on the ground. “Good.” He held up a finger. “One day, you do again. What will you do?”

  Maro straightened without finding whatever the hell he was looking for. He kind of forgot now, what with Runnel talking and Maro trying to decipher his strange accent and his broken speech.

  “I guess shoot whatever’s making the problem.”

  Bloodbane laughed. “You funny man, Maro! I like you.” His laughter died, and he spread his arms wide, glancing around. “Not everything be shot.”

  Maro shrugged. “Worked so far.”

  Another chuckle. “You see? That’s why you come! I sad when you die.”

  Maro’s spine stiffened. “Pardon?”

  Uh, ain’t you supposed to keep it a secret about killing someone?

  The Mium sighed, his left hand untangling the unruly mop on his face. “You die on hunt. Don’t worry, I try to save, but don’t hope.”

  “Well, that’s fucking comforting.” He swallowed. “What’re we hunting, anyway?”

  “Offod,” Bloodbane said, scarcely above a whisper. In profile, Maro could see a bitterness etched on his features. And then, it was gone.

  “A what, now?”

  “Offod; their name. Sorry, my tongue. They copy you, a mimic, a cackle.”

  “I’m lost.”

  Bloodbane frowned, thinking. “Crocotta? Not nice.”

  Maro didn’t say anything, letting the man talk. He ambled around their budding campsite, searching for rocks to form a campfire ring, and kindling to feed it. He bent to pluck a stone from the ground and tossed it into the area between him and Bloodbane, noting the man sat on his ass with no intention of budging.

  “Nasty,” Runnel mused, scratching the left side of his head. “Come in twos.”

  Another twig, another rock, both tossed. “Pairs? Why did you call them mimics?”

  “They mock you, laugh, taunt.”

  By now, he had enough rocks to build the meager ring, so he went to the center of their possessions, squatted, and assembled the circle of stones. Now that he thought about it, whenever Maro wasn’t trying his damnedest to understand him, Runnel’s accent softened, and he understood easier.

  Runnel sighed. “They vanish.”

  Maro squinted at him as he spoke. “How so?”

  “Like scaled bug on twig.”

  “A chameleon?”

  “Yes, chameleon. Can’t see them; tear into you.”

  Shit; sounds horrible.

  “Any weakness?”

  The Mium shrugged. “Turning, er—move direction. Too fast.”

  What in the Autarch’s he saying?

  He let the words tumble in his head while he worked, trying to make sense of the jumble. Stones in place, Maro stacked the twigs. With his flint and steel, he could create a spark, and that’d be all he needed to let his boon take over and make a flame. “Too fast? Can they outrun us?”

  Runnel nodded.

  “A horse?”

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  “Too easy.”

  Well, my chances of survival are diminishing.

  Maro tried to think of what might be faster than a horse. There were plenty of animals in the world of Atar; he just never cared to know them all. It’s not like they were all local. He knew plenty about serpents, but that’s because they gave him the heebie-jeebies. The term phobia didn’t describe his visceral reaction, and there were only three: freeze up, blind rage, or run like the Cursed chased him. Most of the time, it was freeze or run, but the blind rage was something he’d learned about himself in the army.

  His fellow soldiers caught wind of his fear, and they thought it’d be funny to bring a grass snake into his tent one night. He would’ve killed the kid had others not been there to pull him off. The serpent in question squirmed away as Maro tore up the tent, bashing the young soldier.

  Should’ve broken his jaw.

  “One chance,” Runnel said, breaking into Maro’s thoughts, “be close. Behind ear, stab with knife—not deep—mimic freeze. Keep blade there.”

  Yeah, just get close and stab behind the ear. Don’t worry about the sharp teeth trying to bite you.

  Maro grunted. “So, what makes them monsters and not animals like everything else?” He stood, walked to his pack, and pulled his flint and steel from within.

  As he returned to the kindling, Runnel spoke, “Good question. You have mind for hunt. Animals hunt, breed, and eat all but Atarian. Some, yes, but rare. Monsters hunt anything, you, me, horse.” He shook his head. “They have power. Mimic copies laughter; a siren copies real p-person. Person? This correct word?”

  “People.”

  Bloodbane gave a single nod. “Sirens not Atarians. Not like you and me.” He sighed and rubbed at both temples with one hand, hiding his eyes for a few moments. “Atarians are monsters.”

  Ain’t that the fucking truth?

  Maro struck the steel against flint; a shower of bright sparks bloomed in the night. With his boon, he grasped three and engorged them into flames. With absolute control, the fire burned hot, catching onto the twigs he’d gathered.

  “Oju kayan,” Runnel whispered.

  Maro frowned. “What now?”

  “You have fire boon!”

  “Half.”

  “Half’s better than none!”

  “I supposed. What’s yours?”

  Bloodbane came forward, holding his hands near the flames. “Water.”

  “That’s helpful.”

  The other shook his head. “I’m thirsty, always. If no bath or swim, I grow sick, weak.” He waved a hand back to the wagon. “That’s why I bring barrels.”

  Maro glanced over his shoulder. He’d been wondering what was in the enormous casks, but he hadn’t wanted to pry. “Both are filled with water?”

  Runnel nodded. “I get pot and meat. You cook dinner, yes?”

  Maro nodded, and when Bloodbane turned away, he rolled his eyes. He supposed he couldn’t complain too much. Bloodbane was taking him under his wing and letting him get his first taste of hunting monsters. Before long, Maro hoped to be chasing down hags, sirens, harpies, and whatever else he could kill. He didn’t want to be so green that he’d end up dying while chasing coin.

  Runnel dropped his stone-gray pack at his feet and tossed a new shovel with his other.

  Maro’s eyes tracked to the fresh tool, remembering the conversations he had with Horace and Drallus. “What’s the shovel for?”

  Runnel’s gaze went to the wooden haft, and he shrugged. “Just me, I wouldn’t bring.”

  “So, what’s it for?”

  Bloodbane rubbed his belly. “Two reasons: we dig hole for shit, and I bury you.”

  Man’s got my death pretty well planned out. Wonder if I should be worried or just put a hole in his skull.

  “You seem to be counting on my death a lot.”

  “Odds, not personal.”

  Feels pretty fucking personal.

  “Course not.”

  Bloodbane continued, “Each hunt, you grow wise, less chance to die. This … eh … is caution. That right word?”

  “Precaution.”

  Bloodbane cocked an eyebrow and glared at Maro. “Yes, precaution. Unless you want to feed birds and beasts?”

  Maro shook his head.

  “Good, now, cook supper.”

  As Maro prepared the meal, the Mium set his portion of the camp to how he liked it. Part of this included configuring some form of hanging bed under his wagon, suspended from the axles, and well off the ground. He thought the man both a genius and ludicrous.

  When asked why, Runnel pointed to the sky. “Rain comes.”

  Maro grunted and glanced at the emerging stars. There were some heavier clouds rolling in from far off, but he wasn’t a weatherman. He thought about calling the pale Mium out on his bullshit. It’d been a dry winter, after all, and they were starving for rain, everything from the rivers, to the grass and the beasts.

  “You sure?”

  Runnel laughed. “Huh huh huh. You chance the rain? Go ahead. I stay dry.”

  Well, that’s that. Who’d know better about the rain coming than someone with the boon of water?

  By now, the ex-soldier came to understand some of the cadence to Runnel’s speech. Being a stranger to the land and language, Maro suspected the man’s vocabulary was more extensive than he expressed, but why use twenty words when four sufficed? The more the foreigner talked, the more his sentences varied, but it wasn’t by much.

  Meal prepped, a stew with salted venison and potatoes, they sat down to eat, and Maro returned to their conversation regarding boons as they ate.

  “So, what can you do with the boon of water?”

  Bloodbane shrugged, then spoke around a mouthful of food. “Much like fire. Heat up, cool down, make ice, or steam.”

  “Can you?”

  “No. My skills … different.”

  “Such as?”

  “Wonder about my name? Bloodbane? Not normal back home.” The man sighed. “Blood is water of body; ancestors cure town of blood sickness. Very useful.”

  Maro took another bite, this time chewing slower. By the Autarch, something that powerful … to think what someone could do with it!

  “Not all family was … er … decent,” Runnel continued. “Great uncle killed a man.”

  Maro swallowed. “How?”

  Runnel, who’d been holding his bowl near his mouth as he shoveled his food, lowered it until his arms rested on the insides of his legs. “Pulled out his blood.”

  Maro felt his stomach drop out at the declaration, and he went cold all over. That sense all battle-hardened veterans get in the calm before a gun fight, when they sense the wrongness of the moment … yeah, that settled over him right now. All of what Horace said tumbled in his mind again—the group of fighters went out with Bloodbane, and they didn’t come back. They were experienced hunters, and here he was, eating a meal with the man and ready to sing around the campfire.

  Fuck.

  “The fool did it in town,” Bloodbane commented. “Ever since, family is Bloodbane.”

  By the Autarch! I don’t have to watch for a gun or knife; he can yank out my blood!

  “No one cares about rule,” Runnel supplied, “only ception.”

  “Huh?”

  “Ception. No one cares about rule, only ception.”

  “Oh, exception.”

  Runnel nodded, then locked eyes with him. “People focus on one time, not when saved from death. Our name, it is bane.”

  Maro swallowed a small spoon of stew. “So, why keep it? You’re in a new place.” His eyes roved over the foreigner and the tangle on his face. “Why not call yourself Runnel Blackbeard?”

  “Are you Maro Stick?”

  Asshole’s got a point.

  “Yeah, but ain’t Blackbeard more menacing?”

  “Is stick scary?” Runnel shook his head. “It’s not curse.” He thumped his chest. “Badge of honor. You crazy people love my name.”

  Better than Prakk.

  “I’ve heard some,” Runnel continued, “breathe under water.” He made swimming motions with his arms, still holding his bowl in one hand, thumb hooked over the wooden spoon so it wouldn’t fly out.

  “Can you?”

  The foreigner shook his head.

  Maro’s mind flashed back to some of the darker times with the army. That’d come in handy during torture sessions and replicated drowning.

  An owl hooted in the distance, drawing his attention to the night. Another owl took up its call, followed closely by a third.

  Three? Never heard that before; then again, I’ve never paid the wildlife much attention. It was covering our tracks at night while we scouted or slept in the bush.

  There was another kind of bush he wanted to scout out, but he couldn’t afford to spend ten crowns for it.

  Maro glanced out into the darkness, seeing if he could spy the winged predator perched on a branch. As he scanned, in the distance and on the ground, something moved. His skin tingled. The movement had been two quick blurs, one right after the other, or at least he thought so. Did the night played tricks on the eyes? He blinked, unsure of what he saw, if anything.

  Maybe I imagined it? With Runnel’s story and all, perhaps I’m a tad jumpy?

  “What?” Runnel asked.

  He shook his head. “Might be seeing things.”

  But Maro doubted it; deep in his core, his gut warned him, and his eyes never betrayed him. At least, not during the night. In daylight was another matter entirely. Would he listen, or let his rational mind assuage him? But the eyes didn’t lie, not his anyway. He could see at night better than in the day, where he contended with the bright glare, and his eyes ached from squinting, but without the sun, the shadows were his to command.

  “No,” Bloodbane said. “Crocotta.” The older bounty hunter belched. “You good cook, Maro. You come more hunts.”

  “Hmm, what’s that now?”

  “Good cook.”

  “No, the other part. You said it’s the Crocotta? The mimic?”

  Runnel shrugged. “We close; they roam for food.”

  Ice poured down Maro’s spine, and his head snapped back to the open area where he’d seen the movement. Right now, we might look like a tasty treat.

  “Damn the Autarch, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Bloodbane eyed him from his seat, shoveling another heaping spoonful into his mouth.

  Despite Runnel’s words, what Maro’s eyes saw, he couldn’t be sure. In fact, it might’ve been tall grass swaying in the distance, a flicker of shadows in moonlight, the shiver of trees in the wind. Animals were easier prey than two bounty hunters.

  He hoped.

  The nagging feeling wouldn’t abate, and his scalp tingled. Maro set his dish aside and stood, wading away from the fire and deeper into the darkness where the woods, wildlife, and wind kept him company.

  “You shit?” Runnel called after him, laughing his familiar huh huh huh. “Don’t forget shovel!”

  Maro scanned the immediate surroundings, listening, watching. He lowered his hands to his side, pulling the trench coat behind his holster. The other hand twitched closer to the massive hunting knife on his left hip. The shadows revealed their secrets; nothing remained hidden from those born with the boon of fire. A possum nosed around the trunk of a tree; he caught sight of one of the hooting owls from earlier perched high above it, its eyes large and dark, and the shadows danced in the moonlight.

  While he and others like him enjoyed the rarity of getting sick, immune to almost all poisons, and commanding all aspects of flames, the other half of the boon—the absence of light—yielded to their control: deepening shadows or piercing them. Sometimes, Maro thought the boon wasn’t worth it, not when he suffered from perpetual coldness, light sensitivity, and weakness in the sun. Brittle bones and lack of body strength rounded off the drawbacks, not to mention his rail-thin figure no amount of food would sate or cure, not even animal fats, dairy, or sweet cakes.

  “Hey,” Runnel called again. “Shovel.”

  “I ain’t gonna shit!”

  Maro’s eyes drifted to the middle of the field, in the tall, willowy grass, the area where he noted movement earlier. Had it been his imagination? The serenade of crickets came to life like a maestro on strings. His gaze roved the ground and vegetation not a few paces away. A rabbit hopped along, causing the owl to swivel his head. It took off, its flapping wings silent, honing in on its next meal. Branches rocked with the gusting breeze, and flitting tree critter dashing from limb to limb. Otherwise, nothing stirred. His hands tingled, the way they used to right before the shooting started and an advancing enemy charged his position. It made his asshole pucker, too. For some ungodly reason, his mouth went terribly dry.

  But he knew what he saw, two distinct movements, low to the ground and quick. But low was relative, and from his vantage point of sitting, they could be larger than initially thought. Whatever the movement was, it was too small and quick to be a bear; too quiet, too. Besides, he hadn’t heard of any this far south, but anything could happen. Not long ago, a warg almost tore out his throat.

  “What?” Runnel called from by the fire.

  Still, that pent up energy, the bated breath, didn’t fade. Maybe he was going crazy? Maro shook his head. “I wanted to make sure.” As he turned back, he tripped over a root sticking out of the ground. He stumbled forward but kept his feet. Bloodbane gave a hearty chuckle.

  “Huh huh huh.”

  “Ain’t that damn funny,” Maro said through gritted teeth.

  By the Autarch, why’d he have to be an asshole?

  Maro glared at him as Runnel stood, his face slack. “That wasn’t me.”

  Maro’s gut tightened, and he cast his eyes behind him, his hand going for the musket-pistol on his hip. “Fuck.” Goosebumps riddled his flesh, and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

  Runnel came to his side with a noisy sigh. “Long night. Give me gun. I watch first.”