The Last Hunter - Descent - Jeremy Robinson [42]
He’s an old man, I think.
I look at my climbing claws and think about how easy it was to use them against the egg-monsters. Could an old man be any harder? Something deep within revolts at the idea. He’s a human. They were food. Could I really just kill him?
I could, I think.
And he reads my mind.
“You may try once,” he says, his English perfect and proper, tinged with a British accent. But the sound is wet and rough. Barely human. He steps to the side, giving me a clear path around the burning embers. This makes no sense.
“You want me to kill you?” I ask.
“If you can kill me, you are already fit to take my place.”
Take his place? As what?
I don’t bother asking. To my surprise, I charge.
My hands are gripped into fists, the one inch teeth extending from my knuckles. I aim for his throat like I would the belly of an eggy. One slice. That’s all it would take. And the man who brought me to this hell-on-earth, the fiend who took me away from my parents and everyone else I care about, would be dead.
My fist cuts through the air, headed for the man’s neck. But it finds only empty space. The old man moves like lightning, sidestepping the attack and striking my back. I fall forward, landing half-way in the pool. Without thought, I gulp in a drink. The water is fresh and cold. The distraction nearly costs me my life.
A pounding pressure smashes into my back. The man is on top of me. I push against the pool floor, but find it slippery with algae. He grips my long hair and shoves me down. I shout and thrash, helpless in his hands. My lungs begin to burn. My broken ribs pulse with pain with each heartbeat.
As the urge to breathe becomes unbearable, I resign myself to my fate and stop fighting. My mind turns to the past, to those I’ve lost, but as the images take root, he pulls me up.
Sounding like a howler monkey, I breathe hard. Despite filling my lungs, each breath seems to have no effect. He drags me over the stone floor by my hair and shoves me into the corner.
I shiver, but not from the cold. Coming so close to death has broken some part of me that had yet to break. As my breathing evens out, I pull my legs to my chest and look at the floor, afraid to meet the eyes of my captor.
His feet approach and stop in front of me. The toe nails are thick and yellow. Possibly sharpened as well. By the way his lower legs bend, I can tell he’s squatting in front of me, but I don’t look up.
“You will stay in this corner until I tell you otherwise,” he said. “Understand?”
I nod.
He strikes my head. The pain is sharp, but doesn’t cause injury. “Speak your replies. Head nods do no good in the dark.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not call me, sir,” he says, his voice even now.
I’m not sure what to call him, but I suspect the truth. “Master?”
He chuckles. “Were you lucky, that might be true. You will meet your master when you are ready.”
“What should I call you, then?”
I see his hand lower. He takes my chin and raises my head. My eyes meet his—dark black saucers surrounded by bloodshot white. He smiles a rotting grin. “You can call me Ninnis.”
19
“Sit,” Ninnis says. And I obey, settling down against the stone wall. We’ve been at this for some time. I recognize that he’s treating me like a dog, that he’s training me like a dog. The simple commands of sit, stay and come are the basics of canine obedience. I should be revolted by the idea, but I really don’t mind.
I’m fed once a day, sometimes after begging and always his leftovers. I’m not sure what it is I’m eating—it’s not egg-monster—but it’s cooked. He rations out