Page 7 of The Hunter's Mate
“You’re absolutely right,” I say.
Then I dig in.
The food is actually delicious, though it’s more alien than I might have liked. The fish tastes like a tangy and sweet kind of salmon, the greens hardy like kale. I’ve been living on jerky and canned food with the occasional unseasoned fish or squirrel, so this is definitely an improvement. Nyrik watches me eat, his expression unreadable—since he doesn’t exactly have a face.
“So here’s what I’m wondering,” I say. “You’ve already caught this thing, presumably. How do you expect me to win in a hunting competition?”
He hums. “You know this swamp,” he says. “I can see it in the way you navigate the terrain, and I know you keep a hunting post a few miles from here.”
“Okay—so I have a home field advantage,” I concede. “But you have claws, you’re huge, you’re muscular, you’ve got advanced weaponry…and I’m just a girl.”
Nyrik huffs out a snort. “You think you can trick me into thinking you’re harmless.”
“I know I’m not harmless,” I say. “But I’m also not a dinosaur.”
He makes a weird sound in his throat that I think is a laugh, and his frill flares out in a ripple of emerald and gold. “Fine,” he says. “I will hunt using only my claws and my teeth—and none of my tracking gear. Does that seem fair?”
“No,” I say. “I also want one of your weapons.”
He narrows his eyes, peering at me like he can see right through me.
“You hope to pierce my armor and escape,” he says.
“Can you blame me?”
His frill ripples again. “After we eat, I will take you to my armory and you can select a weapon—though I can’t promise they will be easy to use.”
“I’m a quick study,” I say.
He makes that weird sound again. “I’m sure you are.”
The uncomfortable feeling I got earlier burns in my chest, and I turn my attention back to my food in an attempt to ignore him. Okay—maybe I’ll admit there’s something appealing about him. I’ve never met someone who respected my skills this much, who seems to enjoy the thrill of it all quite like I do. This guy’s whole life is hunting.
“How did you get into hunting?” I ask. “You’ve clearly been at it for a while.”
He looks past me as if he’s deciding whether or not to tell me more.
“I have been a hunter since birth,” he says. “On my planet, it is not something one does purely for sport; we are contracted to hunt animals and other quarry, dead or alive depending on the contract.”
“Where’s your planet?”
“You wouldn’t know it,” he says. “It is a place populated by my people, the Mlok.”
“And you’re raised to be hunters?”
“Some of us,” he says. “But not all. It’s complicated.”
I stare at him, marveling at the prospect of distant worlds. I’ve never been one to believe in that stuff—but here I am, talking to a fucking lizardman about the culture on his homeworld.
“So give me a debrief,” I say. “What do I need to worry about with this thing?”
Nyrik looks over his shoulder at the zimya, which has unwound to crawl up the side of the enclosure on eight short, lizard-like legs. It dips its head into a bowl of water and laps at it, peering at us with what I’m confident is evil intent.
“There are two major weapons at the zimya’s disposal,” Nyrik says. “Its jaws—which contain a powerful venom—and its ability to constrict its enemies until they suffocate and their bones break. You want to evade both its bite and its grasp.”
“And what’s the best way to do that?”
“I’ll let you decide,” he says. “It wouldn’t be fun if I told you everything.”