Adelphi Chapter 1— Book One of the Covenant Series (Adelphi//Eros//Agape)

The Hunt

I’m a twenty-foot drop from a sleek phantomcat, one misstep away from my carefully laid snare. Its breathing is labored, though barely audible through the da-dumph, da-dumph pressing in on my throat.

It’s my first hunt, and I am no killer.

The phantomcat drags another paw forward, sniffing at the hare struggling against its bind to the tree root. It settles, sinking a canine into the hare’s back. The hare stills. I don’t.

My dagger bounces against the snareline, waiting, pushing gently, gently…

“Boo.”

I start, and the dagger slips, not quite severing the snareline. I turn, pushing my assailant against the branch, dagger squared beneath his jaw.

“Jumpy, aren’t we, Remy?”

“Ambrose!” I hiss, planting the dagger into the bark next to his head. I glance downward— the cat has fled, seeking a safer meal elsewhere. It carried off the hare, too.

“You lost me the kill, Ambrose. And my bait.”

“Can’t let you take all the glory now, can we?”

I damn near shove him out of the tree. Instead, I start to dismantle the snare.

“Hey, I didn’t know the cat was there. I’m sorry; but, I’ve been up here for twenty minutes, and you managed to not notice me. What if I’d been a carrion?”

I sigh; it comes out uneven. I haven’t yet recovered steady breathing, nor banished my heart from my gullet. Honestly, I’m quietly relieved; the phantomcat was too powerful, too beautiful, for me to want to conquer. I’d had enough trouble watching the hare squirm for half an hour. I feel steady, firm hands on my thin shoulders. Ambrose presses his forehead into my hair. He knows. He always knows.

“Hey, Ambrosia, quit nitpicking Lover Girl’s hair, Rett got a lead on a wolfboar!”

I look through the branches. It’s Braxton, practically bouncing with excitement and bravado.

Ambrose takes an end of the rope out my hands and lowers himself down the tree, drawing the bow from across his shoulders as he breaks into a sprint. I allow myself to slump against a branch, willing myself to settle.

It’s the last hunt, and I am no killer.

When I reach the others, they are crouching in the long grass, watching in silent awe as Loreto makes slow steps towards the creature. His arm is outstretched, palm open, yet his countenance is smooth and calm, his movements steady like earth.  Lemleigh shuffles in next to me, and is quickly chastened by shushes from five different directions.

“What’s the plan, Thorn?”

As if hearing her, Loreto, unflinching, holds up two fingers— a symbol, on my mark. The air itself suspends movement.

“Quinn’s taking the shot. Leander’s following to do the dirty work. Atlanta and Del are flanking in case things get hairy.” I recite, too easily. We manage to avoid using the word kill, but the circumlocution hardly helps.

Thunk. The boar rears, howling. A shaft protrudes from its hindquarters, clean through its inner right thigh Loreto holds his hands out, shooting a panicked scowl at Quinn’s post. Quinn holds his loaded crossbow out; he’s taken no shots.

“Something is wrong.”

Thunk. Thunk. Howl.

It’s enough for strong, silent Loreto to tumble back into the grass. The boar makes a rush at him, but stumbles over the arrow in its flesh, roaring. Quinn leaps from the tree, a graceful tuck-and-roll that nearly ended over the boar’s horns. Ambrose’s hand finds mine, and it’s only then I realise I’m shaking again.

Two horses materialise from the dust. A final thunk, and the boar collapses. The horses rear, their riders whooping and shaking their bows.

“We got sniped.” Lemleigh states the obvious.

“Like hell we did.” Leander unsheathes his sword, rising out of the grass. Braxton lifts his spear and stands. It’s unlike Brax to let anyone get away with what he wanted, but it’s also unlike him to let Leander make a fool of himself, let alone join in. As for me, I prefer to stand back and watch.

Another two horses swoop in, stopping right in Brax and Lea’s path. From their horses, Callie looks indignant. Breckyn’s wearing his normal belligerence, but is licking his lips like he does when he’s about to berate someone, as if he needs to moisten the words lest they burn his lips as he speaks them.