The Huntsman And The Nix Ch 02 03

Hey, everyone. So this will be a double chapter post, since it takes a darned moment to get to the heavy breathing. Thanks to Bellie444 and others who showed me how to do italics. I'm so frigging grateful. -Harp

CHAPTER TWO

[Sutter]

Sutter was standing over Nivea-1's sleeping form, his eyes scanning the surrounding area and coming back. It was just dawn, the thin spire of smoke left from the fire trickling up. He didn't like being exposed like this, having seen footage of the grassland predators on Tilles Moon. She could outrun one, maybe, but he couldn't. "Wake up, killer."

The little Nix startled up from under his jacket, her short black hair a mess and sticking up in every direction, blinking up at him, looking cuter than hell. He controlled his face. She was so sweet. He must have a thing for female sociopaths. "Go do your business. You can be out of sight, but the proximity shackles are still on, and don't forget I can make your whole life hurt."

She left the jacket and walked into the bushes. In not too long, she returned, her arms crossed over her breasts, her shoulders rounded with cold, shivering, the red bandage edge dirty and flopping. She glanced at the jacket.

"Put it on. I'll tell you when I want it back," he said, picking up his pack. "Walk in front of me."

They walked that day, back the way they'd come. She was limping lightly. The shoes she had hadn't been intended for hiking. When he noticed that the bottom of one of them had separated, he stopped them, motioning for her to sit on a rock. Squatting in front of her, he removed her shoe and wrapped it in tape and put it back on.

He got a few more hours out of her, but by midday, her limping had gotten more noticeable. She didn't hide it or call attention to it, and she wasn't faking. He waited another hour and it got worse. "Head to the river," he said.

She changed course, not needing him to tell her a direction and without comment.

He had her sit on another rock and took off the shoe. Her eyes were fixed on him. He almost smiled again, looking down. She was no different from any other target. She wanted to take him out and simply couldn't think of any way to do it without him triggering the tag. He often got fugitives all the way back while they were still waiting for their moment.

It was just important to remember that the closer you got to your destination, the more last-chance they became. At that point, their moment started to look like any possible moment, and soon. Right before he brought them in, he'd seen targets do desperate things, and he'd seen targets do stupid things, and he'd seen targets do things that were desperately stupid.

He looked up at her. She was watching him, that solemn intensity she'd had in all the pictures of her. Her foot was only going to get worse if she walked on it, and huntsmen had a code for an injured target. "We're going to make camp and treat your foot."

When he'd made a fire, he pointed to a rock and she went and sat. "Keep the fire going," he told her. "I'll stay in proximity." Getting a large collapsed bucket from his pack, he went to the river, filling it, and heaved it back.

The Nix watched him as he walked the huge heavy bucket over and set it down by her feet, the contents sloshing. Going into his pack, he opened a small tin and pulled out a pill, tossing it into the water. The water became steaming hot, killing any microorganisms.

"Put your hand in first, killer, so you know it won't burn you. I know it'll hurt to put your foot in, but it will help it to heal. The pill will keep the water hot for about an hour. It's sterile."

She got off the rock and approached the bucket, taking off her shoes, still in his jacket, glancing at him and putting her hand in. Her good foot went in first and then the injured one. Her eyes scrunched with pain, but she didn't make any noise, breathing fast, her shoulders up.

Sutter rose, walking down to the river and washing his hands and face and then gathering firewood. She would need the heat tonight. He didn't have a bedroll for her. Usually he wouldn't care. Maybe he wouldn't ask for female targets after all. It was turning into a lot of work.

When he returned, she was standing in the water, her pants rolled up, cleaning her legs. The Nix was filthy, that was for sure. He went to his pack and pulled out another small box, getting a thin slip from it. He walked and handed her the slip, tossing a small pad in the water.

Looking at the slip in her hand, which was soap, her eyes shifted to watch the pad in the water expand, a washcloth suddenly there, her brows flickering up. Taking it, she smelled the soap slip, rubbed it on the cloth, and glanced at him. He looked away, feeding wood into the fire.

She made use of it. She took off the jacket, turning her back to him. He watched as she washed her face and then her ears, his mouth twitching, and then wet it and ran it over her hair, washing it, squeezing the washcloth repeatedly, avoiding her hurt shoulder.

Well, that was done. "Take your clothes off and bathe if you want."

She turned her head and slid a glance to him, her face expressive.

He shrugged. "You've gotten your clothing soaked. You'll make yourself sick if you leave them on wet. Put them on the rock to dry while there's sun, Nix. I'm a huntsman. I won't touch you." Besides, having her undress would give him an opportunity to look for the data ring. A deal was a deal.

She turned around and actually spoke to him. "You're a

huntsman

?" she said, seeming surprised, holding the washcloth in both her hands.

His brows went up, the undershirt like a second skin. This ought to be good. "Who did you think I was?"

"The system authority sent a huntsman for me?" she said like he hadn't asked the question, probably because she didn't have an answer.

The wet shirt had to be to distract him. Or seduce him. She could try. He certainly wasn't bothered by it. She did have gorgeous tits. "You're a Nix. You killed Adelaid Forsyte and a security guard at the institute. I'm taking you back to stand in front of a tribunal."

"I killed Adelaid," she echoed a little blankly. She was still for a moment and then she looked down and startled. Her arms crossed in front of herself and she turned around in front of him.

Now that she'd gotten his attention, Sutter waited for her to continue, to give him the story. He'd heard every one there was.

Instead, she tried something else. She drew off the shirt, putting it on the rock, keeping her back to him. Her shoulder blades were fragile, a tiny waist and a delicate back. She was bone pale, luminous in this light, the red of the bandage stark against her skin.

He shifted his eyes back to the fire when she turned her head to look at him, and then back to her when she faced forward again. He'd said he wouldn't touch her. He hadn't said he wouldn't enjoy looking at her. There was no rule against that.

She stepped out, looking at him again, his eyes already shifting away, and drew off her pants, his eyes shifting back. Putting them on the rock to dry, she got back in, her hands held out for balance, graceful. His breathing deepened. That skin, and she was so very nicely formed, surprisingly curvy, sweetly round hips and a fat butt, the empty triangle space where her thighs met high and the pouch of her pussy visible just above it, a small and discrete crease, all of her in perfect miniature.

Many women--not all--in Aloet System removed their hair below the neck, a one-time treatment done when they were teens. He wouldn't have expected it from a Nix, but she was bare. His eyes roamed over her. Women could be beautiful, but so few were remarkable like this, a perfect contradiction. Delicate and sturdy, little and fierce, gorgeous and a fucking mess. What a shame.

She bent down to wet the washcloth and a slow, thick sinking went through his gut, his eyes between her legs. Straightening quickly, she turned her head to look at him, his eyes shifting to the fire, returning when she faced forward. It was a little astonishing to him that she might imagine he wouldn't look.

She had to be doing it on purpose. What had laReine said? That the Nix was a liar and would try to seduce him. Well, laReine would know, being a liar who had tried to seduce him.

By the time the little Nix was rinsing, Sutter's cock was hard and his heart was pounding and he was definitely distracted and seduced and troubled. He rose and walked to her, the Nix huddling into herself, keeping her back to him as he reached first for his jacket, searching it, and then her clothing, going through the pockets, all of it.

The Nix watched him without commenting. When he was done, he retreated and sat again as she snagged her undershirt, putting it on, such as it was, and then his jacket, which came down to the backs of her knees, drawing it on and zipping it up. His mouth twitched when she dropped the washcloth onto the ground and stepped out of the bucket. Her toe was pointed, avoiding the dirt, her hands up again with that careless balance, turning around and putting her pants on. She sat on a clear part of the rock, her toes still on the washcloth, perching on it. Just well put together all around.

He got his med kit, walking to her. Going down on one knee, he looked at her foot, small and well formed, taking it in his hands. She let him. Her body was tense, her eyes fixed on him. She wasn't stupid. She meant him harm, but she also still feared the tag, as she should.

Her foot was clean, but it was torn up and blistered. He got things out, tending to it and wrapping it. "The antiseptic spray has a long-lasting analgesic and will encourage healing. We'll keep walking tomorrow. Want to tell me where the data ring is?"

She eyed him like he was crazy. It wasn't in her clothing. It wasn't on her unless it was in her, one place or another, and it wasn't his job to search her that way. Probably a good thing.

"I can treat your shoulder," he said, reaching for the dirty bandage.

She pulled away sharply, frowning at him, her hand moving to cover it, and shook her head.

He studied her and then shrugged. "Suit yourself."

Sutter rose and walked, reaching into his pack to get his comb, tossing it to her, a rapid flick. She caught it absently, helping him to remember she was a Nix, that she'd killed two men and probably four, that she'd attacked him with a knife and would have killed him too, if she could.

#

The next morning, they were back on the trail. Her limp was better. They traveled all that day. In the afternoon, there was a ground shake.

"Get down, killer," he said, both of them crouching until it was over, the trees around them swaying and a wind coming up. That was new. He hadn't realized they came so often here. When it was done, he rose, looking around, and they walked.

In the evening, they stopped to camp.

Sometimes Sutter got targets who just didn't want to talk. It was easier for both of them, at least as far as he was concerned. Except when she'd learned he was a huntsman, the Nix hadn't said anything to him. After he fed her, she curled up in his jacket and went to sleep.

He got them on the trail in the morning. They would arrive at the institute tomorrow. The Nix wasn't going to go down without a fight. She was going to try something today.

Sutter stayed ready, and sure enough, mid-morning, as they were walking along a high ridge, a deep gorge to their left, a river at the bottom, she bolted straight for the edge of it with no warning, surprising the shit out of him. That was not a direction he'd expected her to take.

She almost made it, she was that fast. Sutter shoved his hand into his pocket and triggered the tag and she yelled and dropped like she'd been smacked by a huge hand, curling up, holding her thigh and writhing. He released it, walking toward her, and she got on her hands and knees, crawling toward the edge.

He triggered it again and this time she screamed, curling up again. His jaw was clenched. Releasing it, he walked toward her as she got up again--

again

--and was almost there, her hands scrabbling for the edge, fuck's sake. He bent down, lifting her and pulling her up in front of him, turning them in the other direction.

"Stop it," he snapped when she sagged, refusing to walk. Her knees weren't holding her up, tears streaming down her face. Couldn't, maybe. When triggered, the tag was agony, and she was little, the tag made to bring down big men. It was why he hadn't wanted to use it on her. "Don't pass out on me, Killer," he said through his teeth, supporting her.

And there she went, the Nix limp, Sutter bending and putting her over his shoulder. She was such a presence that you forgot, sturdy as she was, as badass as she was, that she weighed nothing.

Within an hour, they were off the ridge. He set her down on the ground and made camp. They wouldn't travel any more today. He was looking at her, no reason not to while she was out, and she was such a beauty. They'd be at the institute tomorrow. She stirred, opening her eyes.

Sitting up, she put her head on her knees, wrapping her arms around them.

He got up and came and squatted by her. "What were you thinking? You wouldn't have survived that drop. You would have been killed."

She ignored him, lying down and turned on her side, curling up and closing her eyes. Sutter went and sat down by the fire, glancing at her.

He hadn't needed Bruja laReine to warn him. Fugitives got creative, discovering all sorts of acting skills.

Still. It wasn't just that the Nix had run for that edge like it was going to save her when she had to know it was suicide. It was that she'd gotten up twice from a tag-trigger to try to reach it. A tag-trigger.

Twice

.

His nape was prickling. He needed to stop the second-guessing. It wasn't his job, and once you gave their stories the slightest credence, they would smell it on you.

But she hadn't given him a story. His eyes returned to her.

#

In the morning, Sutter stood over her. He'd packed the camp and she hadn't moved. The little Nix looked like she was still asleep, curled up in his jacket, and he didn't trust it even a little. They would reach the institute today and she had to be desperate at this point, willing to try anything.

"Wake up, killer."

She didn't respond.

"Killer," he said, speaking again when she didn't respond, his voice sharp. "Nivea-1."

He squatted by her, ready for whatever she might attempt, deciding he didn't need the tag to control her and he wouldn't use it again. It was too cruel for someone like her. Then he looked at her face more closely. Bright red, flushed. His hand went to her forehead, to the back of her neck.

Dammit

. Not faking. She wasn't asleep. She was unconscious. Very high fever. He pulled her upright and unzipped his jacket, peeling it off of her in stages, supporting her weight, the Nix limp.

He saw it right away, red streaks from under the bandage on her shoulder. Why wouldn't she tell him? Whatever she'd done to herself, it was infected. He should have insisted she let him treat it. "Stupid, killer," he said under his breath, meaning both of them, putting her down and getting his med kit, his mouth tight. She could die out here.

Opening the tie of the bandage she'd wrapped around her shoulder, he unwound it, her limb fragile. The bottom layer was stuck to her skin on one side, bloody and swollen and suppurating, fuck's sake. He tugged as gently as he could at the bandage and she cried out, her eyes opening, looking up at him, glassy with fever. Her hands came up, trying to push his away.

"Stay still, killer," he said. He winced as he pulled the last of the bandage off, the little Nix crying out again. Sutter stared, his gut falling out from under him. It had been done recently, within the last week.

He remembered the footage, remembered her holding her shoulder when she rolled.

"They fucking

branded

you?"

"Please don't touch me anymore," she said, beginning to cry, rolling onto her other side, crossing her arms to cover her breasts. Her whole body was shaking.

Sutter straightened slowly to his feet, staring down at her. "Son of a

bitch

." Sutter moved, pulling the med pack toward himself. "Hold on, killer," he said, pulling out an antibiotic pen.

By late morning, she was asleep in his bedroll, her shoulder wrapped in clean linen. The Nix was shivering, still feverish. Sutter pulled the locket from his jacket, looking at the I.F. in common writing, fancy letters embossed on its surface. And there it was.

Isobet Forsyte.

* * *

[Isobet]

Isobet swam up from sleep. Her head was pounding, although the hot pain in her shoulder that had gotten worse with every step, that had made her feel like Speculo was doing it again, had eased, now a dull throbbing ache. Speculo was dead. If she was lucky, she would be soon. She slipped under again.

Someone was touching her, a cool hand on her forehead, and then behind her neck. It felt good in all the heat. Rolling onto her back, she startled awake, staring up at the huntsman, who was close. He had deep brown eyes, dark brown hair, a scar that cut across his mouth and ran into his close beard. He was big and handsome and arrogant, and he was a huntsman from system authority who had hurt her, and she hated him.

"It's a small bedroll, killer," he said. His voice was deep and his smell a pleasant musk.

He'd put her in his bed. The huntsman leaned back as she sat up, crossing her arms in front of herself. "What am I doing here?" she demanded.

"Staying warm so you don't get sicker. Why didn't you tell me you were Isobet Forsyte?"

She felt naked in the undershirt. And she'd been sleeping with him, not even aware he was so close. Reaching for the jacket, she eyed him. "I thought you knew," she said, putting the jacket on and zipping it up and getting out of his bed, all that warmth gone. "Does system authority not bother to tell you who you're hunting?"

"If they know," he said like he was being patient, like talking to her was an effort and a little ludicrous. "Didn't it seem strange to you that someone had sent a huntsman after Isobet Forsyte?"

"You weren't interested in hearing me say anything, and that led me to believe you had no difficulty with that fact," she shot back. "I thought you people didn't care that I was Isobet Forsyte. Just that I was a Nix." He was taking her back to the institute today, Isobet fighting panic. She couldn't escape him. She couldn't fight him and get the key and he had put that tag in her leg. The huntsman was a lost cause. He would never listen to her. He wouldn't even allow her to choose the way she went out of this world, a little mercy, to make it quick instead of suffering what was waiting for her. "I have to pee."

"Go," he said, because she was his prisoner and needed permission to go squat in the bushes.

She went and found a place. When she got back to his camp, he wasn't there. Sitting on a rock, she looked at her wrists, the fact of the shackles crawling through her. Sometimes she couldn't breathe thinking of them there, invisible.

He walked into camp, tall and confident, handsome, how he walked everywhere, every line of his face saying not to bother him, and especially not to bother saying anything to him. He'd heard it all before, his face said. He didn't care, you disgusted him, and you'd just make yourself even more disgusting by trying.

He went to his pack and then turned and approached her. He had gauze in his hand. She was breathing a little fast, her nose flaring, watching him. She didn't want him to touch her, had been hiding her shoulder, hoping she would die before she got back. He wasn't even going to allow that.

"Let me see your shoulder," he said, looming over her.

"Why would I?"