Red Rising — Chapter 41: The Jackal

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The Jackal

He jerks back his hand. He is fast.

I am faster.

I bury my dagger through his hand, pinning it to the table.

His mouth gasps open at the pain. Some weird sort of feral

exhalation hisses from his mouth as he jerks at the dagger. But I am

bigger than him and I drove the dagger four inches into the table. I

hammer it down with a agon. He can’t pull it out. I lean back and

watch him try. There’s something primal to his initial frenzied

panic. Then something decidedly human in his recovery, which

seems more brutally cold than my act of violence. He calms himself

faster than anyone I’ve ever seen. It takes a breath, maybe three,

and he leans back in his chair as though we were at drinks.

“Well, shit,” he says tightly.

“I thought we should become better acquainted,” I say. I point to

myself. “Jackal, I am Reaper.”

“You’ve the better name,” he replies. He takes a breath. Another.

“How long have you known?”

“That you were the Jackal? A hopeful guess. That you were up to

no good? Before I entered the castle. No one surrenders without a

ght. One of your rings didn’t t. And hide your hands next time.

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Insecure sobs always hide or ddle with their hands. But really you

had no chance. The Proctors knew I was coming here. They thought

to make it a trap to ruin me by telling you I was coming. So you

would sneak in here, try to catch me with my pants down. Their

mistake. Your mistake.”

He watches me, wincing as he turns to look at my sober-as-day

soldiers rising from the ground. Nearly fty of them. I wanted them

to see the ruse.

“Ah.” The Jackal sighs as he realizes how futile his trap has

become. “My soldiers?”

“Which ones? The ones that were with you or the ones you hid in

the castle? Maybe in the cellars? Maybe beneath the oor in a

tunnel? I don’t wager they’re smiles and giggles right now, man. Pax

is a beast and Mustang will be helping him just in case.”

“So that’s why you sent her away.”

And so she wouldn’t accidentally ask why we were pretending to

be drunk on grape juice.

Pax will have found their hiding place. Thunder still rolls. I hope

the Jackal sank a large size of his force into this ambush. If he

didn’t, it’ll be a hassle, because if he has Jupiter’s castle, he

probably has Jupiter’s army, which has Juno and much of Vulcan,

and soon Mars’s. His army will be twice the size of mine and we will

be the only two left. But I have him here.

The Jackal is pinned, bleeding, and surrounded by my army. His

ambush undone. He has lost, but he is not helpless. He is no longer

Lucian. It’s almost like his hand isn’t impaled. His voice doesn’t

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waver. He is not angry, just pissinyourboots scary. He reminds me of

me before I go into a rage. Quiet. Unhurried. I wanted my soldiers

to see him squirm. He doesn’t, so I tell them to leave. Only the ten

Howlers, old and new, stay.

“If we’re to have a conversation, please take this dagger out of my

hand,” the Jackal says to me. “Believe it or not, it hurts.” He is not

as playful as his words suggest. Despite his resolve, his face is pale

and his body has begun to tremble from shock.

I smile. “Where is the rest of your army? Where is that girl,

Lilath? She owes my friend an eye.”

“Let me go and I will give you her head on a platter, if you want.

If you lend me an apple, I’ll even put that in her mouth so she looks

like a pig at feast. Your choice.”

“There! Now, that’s how you got your name, isn’t it?” I say with

mocking applause.

The Jackal clicks his tongue regrettably. “Lilath liked the sound of

it. It stuck. That’s why I’ll put the apple in her mouth. Wish I could

have been something more … regal than Jackal, but reputations

tend to make themselves.” He nods to Sevro. “Like the Little Goblin

there and his Toadstools.”

“What do you mean, ‘Toadstools’?” Thistle asks.

“That’s what we call you. Toadstools for Reaper and Goblin to

squat on. But if you would like a better name beyond this little

game, you need simply kill big nasty Reaper here. Don’t stun him.

Kill him. Drive a sword into his spine, and you can become

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Imperators, Governors, whatever. Father will be happy to oblige.

Very simple stu. Quid pro quo.”

Sevro pulls out his knives and glares at his Howlers. “Not so

simple.”

Thistle doesn’t move.

“Worth a try,” the Jackal sighs. “I confess, I am a politico, not a

ghter. So if we’re to converse, you must say something, Reaper.

You look like a statue. I don’t speak statue.” His charisma is cold.

Calculating.

“Did you really eat your own Housemembers?”

“After months in darkness, you eat whatever your mouth nds.

Even if it’s still moving. It isn’t very impressive, really. Less human

than I would have liked, very much like animals. And anyone would

have done it. But dredging up my foul memories is no way to

negotiate.”

“We aren’t negotiating.”

“Humans are always negotiating. That’s what conversation is.

Someone has something, knows something. Someone wants

something.” His smile is pleasant, but his eyes … There is something

wrong with him. A dierent soul seems to have lled his body since

the time he was Lucian. I have seen actors … but this is dierent. It

is as though he is reasonable to the point of being inhuman.

“Reaper, I will have my father give you whatever you like. A eet.

An army of Pinks to screw, Crows to conquer with, whatever. You’ll

have prime placement if I win this little year of schooling. If you

win, there’s still more schooling. Still more tests. More hardship. I

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hear your family is in debt and Shamed—it will be dicult for you

to rise on your own.”

Almost forgot I had a fake family.

“I will make my own laurels.”

“Reaper. Reaper. Reaper. You think this is the end of the line?” He

makes a clicking sound of disgust with his tongue. “Negative.

Negative, goodman. But if you let me go, then hardship …” He

makes a brushing motion with his free hand. “Gone. My father will

become your patron. Hello, command. Hello, fame. Hello, power.

Just say goodbye to this”—he gestures to the knife—“and let your

future begin. We were enemies as children. Now let us be allies as

men. You’re the sword, I’m the pen.”

Dancer would want me to accept the oer. It would guarantee my

survival. Guarantee my meteoric rise. I would be inside the halls of

the ArchGovernor’s mansion. I would be near the man who killed

Eo. Oh, I want to accept. But then I would have to let the Proctors

beat me. I’d have to let this little whorefart win and let his father

smile and feel pride. I’d have to watch that smug smile spread

across his bloodydamn face. Slag that. They’ll feel pain.

The door opens and Pax ducks into the room. A smile splits his

face.

“Goryne night, Reaper!” he laughs. “Caught the little turds in the

well. Fifty. Seems they had long tunnels down there. Must be how

they took the castle.” He slams the door and sits on the edge of the

table to gnaw on a piece of leftover meat. “It was wet work! Ha! Ha!

We let them come up and it was dandy ne carnage, I tell you.

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Dandy ne. Helga would have loved it. They are all slaves now.

Mustang is making them as we speak. But ohhh, she’s in an odd

mood.” He spits out a bone. “Ha! This him then? The Jackal? He

looks pale as a Red’s ass.” He peers closer. “Shit. You nailed him

down!”

“I think you’ve taken bigger shits than him, Pax,” Sevro adds.

“Prime have. More colorful ones too. He’s drab as a Brown.”

“Guard your tongue, fool,” the Jackal tells Pax. “It may not

always be there.”

“Neither will your prick if you keep sassin’! Ha! Is it as small as

you?” Pax booms.

The Jackal does not like being mocked. He stares silently at Pax

before icking his eyes back to me as a serpent might ick its

tongue.

“Did you know the Proctors are helping you?” I ask. “That they’ve

tried to kill me?”

“Of course,” he says with a shrug. “My bounties are … above

average.”

“And you don’t mind cheating?” I ask.

“Cheat or be cheated, no?”

Familiar.

“Well, they’re not helping you anymore. It’s too late for that. Now

it’s time you help yourself.” I stab another knife down into the table.

He knows what it’s for.

“I once heard that if a Jackal becomes trapped, it will chew o its

own leg to free itself. That knife might be easier than using teeth.”

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His laugh is quick and short, like a bark. “So if I cut my hand o,

I can leave? Is that really it?”

“There’s the door. Pax, hold the knife down so that he doesn’t

cheat.”

Even if he ate others, he won’t do it. He can sacrice friends and

allies, but not himself. He will fail this test. He is an Aureate. He is

no one to fear. He is small. He is weak. He is just like his father. I

nd his Pluto ring in his boot and put it around his nger so his

Drafters and father can watch their pride and joy give up. They will

know I am better.

“The Proctors may be nudging me, but I still have to earn it,

Darrow.”

“We’re waiting.”

He sighs. “I told you. I am a something dierent than you. A hand

is a peasant’s tool. A Gold’s tool is his mind. Were you of better

breeding, you may have realized this sacrice means so very little to

me.”

Then he starts to cut. Tears stream down his face as the blood rst

wells. He’s sawing and Pax can’t even watch. The Jackal is halfway

done when he looks up at me with a sane smile that convinces me of

his complete insanity. His teeth chatter. He is laughing, at me, at

this, at the pain. I’ve not met anyone like him. Now I know how

Mickey felt when he met me. This is a monster in the esh of a man.

The Jackal is about to break his own wrist to make the job easier

when Pax curses and gives him an ionBlade. It will go through in a

single stroke.

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“Thank you, Pax,” the Jackal says.

I don’t know what to do. Everything inside me is screaming sense.

I should kill him now. Put a blade through his throat. This is

someone you do not let go. This is someone you do not piss on and

then send back into the wild. He is so far beyond Cassius it makes

me want to laugh. Yet I told him he could leave if he cut, and he’s

cutting. Dear God.

“You’re gory mad,” Pax breathes.

The Jackal mutters something about fools. It’s just a hand, he

says. My hands are my everything. To him, they are nothing.

When he has nished, he sits there with a mostly cauterized

stump. His face is like snow, but his belt is fastened into a

tourniquet. There’s a shared moment between us where he knows I

am not going to let him leave.

Then I see a distortion move through an open window. The

Proctors came as I hoped, but I am distracted, unprepared. And

when I see a small sonic detonator clatter onto the table and the

Jackal grab it with his one hand, I know I’ve made such a mistake. I

gave the Proctors time to help him. Everything slows, yet I can only

watch.

With the same hand that holds the tiny detonator, the Jackal

lashes upward with Pax’s ionBlade. He sticks the blade into my big

friend’s throat. I shout and lunge forward just as the Jackal presses

the detonator’s button.

A sonic blast rips out from the device, throwing me across the

room. The Howlers slam into the walls. Pax ips into the door.

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Cups, food, chairs, scatter like rice in the wind. I’m on the oor. I

shake my head, trying to gain my bearings as the Jackal comes

towards me. Pax staggers to his feet, blood dripping from his ears,

from his throat. The Jackal says something to me, holds up the

blade. Then Pax launches himself forward, not onto the Jackal, but

onto me. His weight crushes me, and his body covers mine. I can

barely breathe. I do not see what happens, but I feel it through Pax’s

body. A shudder. A spasm. Ten impacts as the Jackal stabs at Pax

trying furiously to get at me like some rabid animal digging in the

dirt, digging through Pax to kill me while I’m down.

Then there is nothing.

Blood drips onto my face, warms my body. It is my friend’s.

I try to move Pax. I manage to squeeze out from under him. The

Jackal has ed and Pax is bleeding to death. A banshee wails in my

ears. The Proctors are gone as well. The Howlers stumble to their

feet. When I look back to Pax, he is dead, his mouth pulled into a

quiet smile. Blood slithers along the stone. My own chest tightens

and I fall to a knee sobbing.

He had no last words. He had no goodbye.

He threw himself upon me. And was savaged.

Dead.

Loyal Pax. I clutch his huge head. It hurts to see my titan fallen.

He was meant for more. Such a soft heart in such a hard form. He

will never laugh again. Never stand on the bridge of a destroyer.

Never wear the cape of a knight or carry the scepter of an

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Imperator. Dead. It shouldn’t have been this way. It is my fault. I

should have just ended things quickly.

What a future he could have had.

Sevro stands behind me, face pale. The Howlers are up and

seething. Four weep silent tears. Blood trickles from their ears. The

world is soundless. We cannot hear, but a pack of wolves does not

need words to know that it is time to hunt.

He killed Pax. Now we kill him.

The Jackal’s trail of blood leads to one of the keep’s short spires.

From there, it disappears into the courtyard. Rain has washed it

away. We jump in a pack of eleven from the spire to a lower wall,

rolling as we hit. Then we’re down in the courtyard and Sevro, our

tracker, leads the way through a postern gate into the rugged low

mountains.

The night is hard. Rain and snow sweep sideways. Lighting

ashes. Thunder rumbles, but I hear it as though in a dream. I run

with the Howlers in a staggered line. We roll over dark crags, along

precipitous drops in search of our quarry. My swaddled boots slow

me, but they must be covered. My plan can still work, even after all

this.

I do not know how Sevro guides us. I’m lost in the chaos. My

mind is on Pax. He shouldn’t have died. I cornered a Jackal and let

him chew his way out. I remember how Mustang looked at him. She

knew who he was. She knew and she wanted to talk to me in

private. Whatever their connection, her loyalty was mine. But how

does she know him?

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Sevro takes us into the high mountain passes where snow still

stacks kneehigh. Tracks here. Snow urries around us. I’m chilled.

My cloak is soaked. The slingBlade bounces on my back. My shoes

squish. And blood dots the snow. We sprint uphill through a snowy

pass between two rugged peaks. I see the Jackal. He’s stumbling one

hundred meters distant. He goes down in the snow, then he’s up

again. He’s iron to have made it this far. We will catch him and we

will kill him for what he did to Pax. He didn’t have to stab my titan.

My pack begins to howl sorrowfully. The Jackal looks back and

stumbles on. He will not escape.

We sprint up the snowy incline. Night and darkness. Wind sweeps

sideways. I howl, but it is mued after the sonic blast, like the

sound has been swaddled in cotton. Then something strange distorts

the urries in front of us. A shape. An invisible, intangible shape

outlined by the falling snow. A Proctor. A stone sinks down into my

stomach. This is where they kill me. This is what Fitchner warned

me about.

Apollo deactivates his cloak. He smiles at me through his helmet

and calls something. I cannot hear what he says. Then he waves a

pulseFist and Sevro and the Howlers scatter as a tiny sonic boom

blows ve of our pack back down the hill. My eardrums wail. They

may never be the same. PulseFist again. I dive away. Pain lances my

foot. Spins me. Then the pain is gone. I’m up and sprinting at

Apollo. His st ickers a distortion of force at me. I dodge three

blasts. Spinning, turning like a top. I jump. My sword comes down

on his head and stops cold. PulseArmor, when activated, cannot be

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penetrated by anything but a razor. I knew this. But there has to be

some showmanship.

Apollo watches me, impervious in his armor. My pack has been

blasted back down the hill. I see the Jackal struggling on the

mountainside. He seems stronger now. A distortion follows him.

Some other Proctor giving him strength. Venus, I think.

I scream out the rage that’s been building in me since I went

under Mickey’s knife.

Apollo says something I can’t hear. I curse him and swing my

blade again. He catches it and tosses it into the snow. The invisible

layer of pulseShield around his st strikes my face—never touching,

yet sending agony into the nerves. I scream and fall. Then he picks

me up by my hair and we rise into the storm. He soars on gravBoots

till we’re three hundred meters up; I dangle from his hand. The

snow swirls around us. He speaks again, adjusting some frequency

so my damaged ears can hear.

“I will use small words so that you are sure to understand. We

have your little Mustang. If you do not lose in your next encounter

with the ArchGovernor’s son so all the Drafters can bear witness,

then I will ruin her.”

Mustang.

First Pax. Now the girl who sang Eo’s song by the re. The girl

who pulled me from the mud. The girl who curled beside me as the

smoke swirled in our little cave. Brilliant Mustang, who would

follow me out of choice. And this is where I led her. I did not expect

this. I did not plan for this. They have her.

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My stomach sinks. Not again. Not like Father. Not like Eo. Not

like Lea. Not like Roque. Not like Pax. They will not kill her too.

This son of a bitch will not kill anyone.

“I’m going to rip out your bloodydamn heart!”

He punches me in the belly, still holding me by my hair. His face

is strange as he tries to place the word. Bloodydamn. We’re oating

in the air now, high. Very high. I dangle like a hanging man as he

hits me again. I moan. But as I do, I remember one thing I learned

from Fitchner as I clapped his shoulder in the woods. If Apollo is

holding my hair and I do not feel his pulseShield, then it is turned

o. And it is turned o over his entire body. He has physical

recoilArmor everywhere else, except one place.

“You are a stupid little puppet, I realize now,” he says idly. “A

mad, angry little puppet. You won’t do as I say, will you?” He sighs.

“I’ll nd another way. Time to cut your strings.”

He drops me.

And I oat there, inches from his outstretched hand.

I go nowhere, because beneath fur and cloth, I’m wearing the

gravBoots I stole from Fitchner when I assaulted him in Apollo’s

warroom. And Apollo’s shield is down. And he’s pissed me o. He

gawks at me, confused. I ex the knifeRing’s blade out and punch

him in the face, jamming the blade through his visor into his eye

socket four times, jerking upward so that he dies.

“I’m no puppet!” I scream at him as he fades. All the rage I’ve felt

swells in me, blinding me, and lls me with a pulsing, tangible

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hatred that seeps away only as Apollo’s boots deactivate and he

tumbles down through the swirling storm.

I nd my Howlers around his body. The snow is red. They stare at

me as I descend, my knifeRing wet with the blood of a Peerless

Scarred. I had not intended to kill him. But he should not have

taken her. And he should not have called me a puppet.

“They took Mustang,” I tell my pack.

They look on silently. The Jackal no longer matters.

“So now we take Olympus.”

The smiles they give one another are as chilling as the snow.

Sevro cackles.

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