The Bird King(88)

Fatima’s head broke the surface. She pulled away from Vikram and arched her back, drawing air into her lungs so fast that they began to burn. A wave scooped her up and carried her forward, rolling her like a log. It deposited her on a slope of warm sand.

Fatima tried to move and couldn’t. She heard Vikram emerge from the surf, muttering and shaking water from his pelt. She tried to focus on him and found she couldn’t do that either: he was a mere suggestion of himself, a blot in her eyesight, like ink suspended in water.

“You’re different,” she croaked, her throat raw.

“I’m not,” said Vikram indignantly. “I’m exactly the same. You’re different. Or rather, you’re seeing things differently.”

“But you don’t look anything like yourself. Not like a dog, or like a man, or—”

“I’m not any of those things. I never was. Those are corpses I carry around for convenience’s sake. Every hunter has his camouflage.”

Fatima repeated this to herself, testing it for some deeper meaning she was too exhausted to detect. She began to shiver violently. The coil of dark fire that was Vikram interposed itself between her and the velvet sky. Though he had no expression, she could tell he was uneasy.

“You’re hurt,” he said.

“I’m not,” said Fatima. “I’m only a little tired.”

“You’re hurt, though.” He bent down and Fatima felt pressure on her face. Then Vikram straightened and spat a stream of blood into the sand.

“What are you doing?” cried Fatima, shielding her face with her hands.

“Cleaning the wound and sealing it. I don’t know whether there’s anything here that could make you septic, but it’s best not to take chances.” He bent again, straightened, and spat more blood. Fatima closed her eyes.

“Where’s here?” she murmured.

“Where do you think?”

Fatima’s eyes flew open. The sky was a buttery yellow, fading along the edges into blue and pink; in places a few radiant stars were visible. It might have been dawn or dusk or anything in between. Fatima was reminded of the long late afternoons of high summer, when light left the sky with reluctance. She knew where she was. She cried out and reached toward Vikram, impatient with her own weakness.

“Take me to him,” she begged.

“What, now? To the Bird King? You’re hardly fit to walk.”

“It doesn’t matter.” She wriggled her fingers, the only part of her body still under full control. “He knows me and I know him.”

“Yes, I expect you do. All right, little beast! You always get your own way in the end. Hold on.” Furred arms lifted her. Fatima found she could still feel the delineation of Vikram’s body, or corpse, though it was no longer visible to her. She threaded her fingers through his hair and held on as he carried her, like a cat with a kitten, away from the beach.

Trees cut through Fatima’s view of the sky. The sound of the surf was replaced by the hiss and rustle of leaves and the steady drip of dew, and high, curious animal sounds that Fatima could not identify. The trees, too, were not any sort she had seen before, not elm or cypress or oak or pine, but graceful, thin-limbed things with rough silvery bark. Fatima let one arm drop to caress the ground. Mosses slid beneath her fingers. She could hear running water, and soon enough she touched it: a stream, bitingly cold, lined with smooth stones. She lifted her hand again and sucked on her fingers, tasting water that was sweet and rich with some tart mineral.

“It tastes like silver,” Fatima murmured, half drunk.

“It tastes like rocks,” said Vikram. “Like the quartz vein that runs along the streambed, which you’d see if you looked down. This island is halfway between your country and mine. Where you find quartz, you’ll find the jinn.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why. Why do the banu adam love gold? We were all made to covet one thing or another. Rest, if you can. You’re hurt and there’s still a bit of a walk ahead.”

Fatima closed her eyes obediently, and for several minutes, Vikram’s hunched, loping gait lulled her into a light sleep. But the air changed, growing steadily colder, and when she felt her breath begin to freeze on Vikram’s fur, Fatima opened her eyes again.

The ground before her was covered in snow. The forest had given way to a sloping hillside fringed with winter grass. The air was soundless, hanging over the blue earth in one chilled breath, and leading away over the crest of the hill was a line of forked footprints made by a creature much larger than anything Fatima had ever laid eyes upon. She clung to Vikram in a panic.

“What made those?” she demanded, struggling to climb onto his back. Vikram shifted to accommodate her.

“If your people ever had a name for it, it’s long been forgotten,” he said. “But listen to me, little friend—stop clambering around and listen. You have only one natural enemy here, and that is fear. Nothing in this place can hurt you, no matter how large its footprints. But if you give in to your terror of the unseen, those very same things will devour you and leave not one bit of gristle behind.”

Fatima pressed her face into Vikram’s pelt and began to relax the muscles of her back, one after another. It was the effort itself that calmed her.

“You might eat me too,” she muttered.