Marked by Magic (The Baine Chronicles #4)(24)

“The child,” I said, surprised at how hoarse my voice sounded. Iannis let go of my shoulders, and I stiffened my core to keep myself from swaying. Damn, but I was weak as kitten.

“Go,” he told me, using mindspeak. “I’ll take care of the child. And next time, perhaps, don’t attempt dangerous magic without contacting your master first.”

“Sorry,” I snapped, a little annoyed at the scolding. “I’ll make sure to run off and find you the next time I come across a dying man.”

“You could have contacted me mentally,” he observed as he took the child and laid her carefully across the grass. “I was close enough, and you knew it.”

I sighed. “Fine, fine,” I muttered, turning away. I was too tired to argue, and besides, he was right. I could have called him for help. I just hadn’t thought to.

“Be safe, Sunaya,” he told me, his voice softer now, and I felt guilty for snapping at him. He had to be exhausted – I doubted he’d slept since we’d arrived back at Solantha, and here he was, about to heal a little girl with a nasty burn that was going to hurt him like hell.

“You too,” I said, turning the corner, and then I disappeared into the shadows.





11





Furious beyond belief at the Resistance, I wanted to do nothing more than chase down the bastards who’d set fire to the airship yard and pummel them into a bloody heap. But after my impromptu healing attempt, I was running on fumes, and I was going to be good to no one if I didn’t take a break.

Resigned to the fact that I needed a nap, I managed to drag myself into a small, abandoned house. After determining there were no squatters hiding in there, I dragged a blanket and pillow into a closet and crashed for a good hour. It wasn’t enough to recharge me completely, especially not without food, but it was enough to give me a little boost.

The fridge in the house held nothing but sour milk and rancid beef, so I changed back into the teenage boy and went out, searching for food. Most of the market shops in Maintown had closed down, their storefronts smashed in and their innards cleaned out by desperate looters, but I eventually found a small store on the eastern section that was still open. The left side had been boarded up, and the wooden stands that had probably once held fruits and vegetables had been smashed to bits, but a beam of light cut through the door and onto the street, a glimmer of hope in the darkness.

I pushed open the door, and a bell jangled as I stepped inside. There were only a few aisles, and a row of glass refrigerators on the right wall. A quick glance told me supplies were running low – many of the shelves were empty. To my left, behind the counter, stood a man in a grocer’s apron. His shoulders stiffened momentarily before he realized I was a harmless teen and relaxed. He was a stocky, balding guy with brown hair and a ruddy, tough-looking face. But the lines in his face suggested that he was more accustomed to laughing than scowling, even if he was shaped like a barrel and looked like he had no problem being intimidating when he wanted to be.

“Hey old man,” I said easily, wandering up to the counter. “Got anything to eat around here?”

He gave me the beady eye. “You payin’?”

I pulled a pandanum coin from my pocket – the shifter-friendly version of silver. “Sure, if the price is right.”

The man sighed, running thick, stubby fingers through what was left of his hair. “I ain’t got much,” he admitted, scanning the store with his mud-brown eyes. “What with the Port being closed off, and local farmers afraid to bring their wares up to town, supplies are scarce. But we’ve still got some tins of mystery meat.”

Ugh. I resisted the urge to wrinkle my nose. “I’ll take them.”

“Right this way.” The man led me to the third aisle and pointed to a small stack of cans on the top shelf. “That’s all we’ve got left.”

“It’ll work.” I plucked one of the tins off the shelf, then paused as I caught sight of the company name. Timbran’s Gourmet Food. I snorted – there was nothing gourmet about mystery meat – then remembered where I’d seen the company name before. It was on the much larger cans of food Annia and I had served to the Resistance camp back in Mexia.

“Any idea where this company is located?” I asked, tapping the front of the tin.

The grocer squinted at the label. “Timbran’s? They’ve got a factory up north, about ten miles from Turain. Why?”

I shrugged. “Just curious.”

I grabbed the rest of the cans, then returned to the counter so that the grocer could bag them and ring up the sale. As he did so, I drummed my fingers on the counter, considering. Was Timbran’s a clue of any kind? I had wondered how the Resistance was getting their supplies. They’d seemed to have ample food at the camp, which was surprising considering its remote location. ‘Follow the money’ was a phrase Roanas had often repeated to himself when he was on a case, and that applied here too. How was the Resistance being funded and supplied? Might it be possible to follow their money trail back to the source through the distributors they dealt with, like Timbran’s?

Just as I was accepting my change from the grocer, the front door crashed open, and three human thugs stormed in, wielding bats.

“Give it up, old man!” shouted the one in the lead, a thickset blond with bulging biceps. He smacked his bat in his meaty palms as his two cronies split up, shoving food and supplies into large burlap sacks they’d brought in with them. “Looks like your son isn’t here to help fend us off this time, is he?”