Valentine's Rising by E.E. Knight Page A

blur—Jefferson’s rifle butt came down on the back of the Reaper’s head so that Valentine felt the wind pass his nose. Jefferson raised the gun up again.
    â€œIt’s done,” Valentine said.
    Valentine pulled his knife from the Reaper’s corpse, and Jefferson clubbed it again. “Jefferson, calm down. You might try loading your weapon. It’s deadlier from the other end.”
    â€œSorry, Captain. Sorry—”
    Valentine ignored him and listened with hard ears all around the woods. Years ago, when he’d learned the Way of the Wolf, a Lifeweaver had enhanced his senses. When he concentrated on his senses—hardening them, in the slang of the Wolves—he could pick up sounds others would miss. He heard branches breaking in the snow somewhere, in the direction of the Reaper who had been kicked and then run. Valentine tried to make sense of the behavior. They had attacked randomly and hit the biggest targets they could see. Evidently they were masterless; their Kurian had probably been killed or had fled out of control range and they were acting on pure instinct. The severed-necked Reaper gave a twitch of an arm, and Jefferson jumped a good two feet in the air.
    â€œJust a reflex,” Valentine said.
    â€œShould we burn it or something?”
    â€œGet inside. Don’t worry about the horses for now.”
    The Texan backed into the house. Valentine put a new magazine in his gun and took a few more steps around the yard, still listening and smelling. Nothing. Not even the cold feeling he usually got when Reapers were around, but his ears were still ringing from the gunshots inside, and the snow was killing odors.
    He rapped on the door and backed into the house, still covering the Quickwood.
    â€œAnything out back?” he called, eyes never leaving the trees.
    â€œNothing, sir,” Botun said.
    He heard a horse scream in the distance. The Reaper had caught up with the bay.
    â€œPost,” Valentine shouted.
    â€œSir?” he heard through the cellar floor.
    â€œI’m going out after them. Two blasts on my whistle when I come back in. Don’t let anyone shoot me.” Valentine caught Jefferson’s eye and winked. The Texan shook his head in return.
    â€œYessir,” Post answered.
    Valentine tore off a peeling strip of wallpaper and wiped the resinlike Reaper blood off the bowie. He considered bringing a Quickwood spear, but decided to hunt it with just pistol and blade: It would be vulnerable after a feed. He nodded to the Jamaicans and opened the front door. After a long listen, he dashed past a tree and into the brush of the forest.
    A nervous horse from the other team nickered at him. He moved from tree to tree, following the tracks.
    Valentine dried his hand on his pant leg and took a better grip on his bowie. He sniffed the ground with his Wolf’s nose, picking up horse blood in the breeze now. He instinctively broke into his old loping run, broken like a horse’s canter by his stiff leg, following the scent. He came upon the corpse of the bay, blood staining the snow around its neck. He turned and followed the footprints.
    He didn’t have far to travel. After a run that verged on a climb up a steep incline, he came to the Reaper’s resting spot. Water flowing down the limestone had created a crevice cave under the rocky overhang. An old Cat named Everready used to say that Reapers got “dopey” after a feed, that with a belly full of blood they often slept like drunkards. This one had hardly gotten out of sight of the horse before succumbing to the need for sleep. He saw its pale foot, black toenails sharp against the ash-colored skin, sticking out of a pile of leaves.
    Valentine heard whistling respiration. He put his hand on his pistol and decided to risk a single shot. He drew and sighted on the source of the breathing.
    The shot tossed leaves into the air. The Reaper came to its feet like a rousted drunk,