Husk: A Maresman Tale Read Free Page A

could be right under his nose, maybe even turn the tables on him.
    Course, a third possibility presented itself, like it always did. Jeb had learned the hard way it was seldom just one thing or the other, but often the last thought to occur to him was the one he didn’t want to dwell on. If the husk could screen itself from his senses, who was to say it hadn’t deliberately let him pick up the trail in the first place? He shook his head at his growing paranoia—must have got that from his father, not that he’d ever met him. What if the husk was luring him? What if he was the one being hunted?
    The sheriff’s words served to highlight the fear that had overcome most of the other Maresmen. It was a hard turn of events to realize you weren’t the only one doing the hunting. Had to wonder what kind of husk had the gall for such a thing, let alone the power. By all accounts, there’d been no commotion, no discharges of magic, no sightings of anything out of the ordinary, and certainly no warning. The three dead hunters looked to have been caught with their britches down—literally. Mind, in Rang Lurin’s case, it would’ve been a surprise to find that lecherous bastard with them up. Not that Jeb was one to talk.
    He rapped his empty glass on the bar, caught the landlady’s eye.
    She weren’t a looker, that was for sure: hair dyed a couple of shades unnatural, teeth crooked like she’d had a life of brawling. She winked at him and showed more flaccid cleavage than he cared to see; then she hobbled over and topped him up. Label on the bottle was coated with oil and grime, but least the whiskey burned the way he liked it.
    Course, the serving wench was another matter. Jeb swiveled on his stool to track her arse as she took an order from a table by the window. Big bloke sat with a group of sailor types caught him looking and glared daggers. Jeb let his eyes rove round the rest of the punters, playing it innocent. Filly like that was ripe for fooling with, but she weren’t worth causing no trouble over.
    He could still feel the big man’s eyes boring into him. Must’ve been one of those sad bastards obsessing about what he couldn’t afford, coz there was no way she’d have lain with a lummox like him.
    Truth be told, the staring was starting to get his blood up, more than the wench already had. Jeb cocked his head and looked the man in the eye, held his gaze sure and steady. He was mountainous, head and a half taller than the sailors at his table, square-jawed and bullish, but even so, he blinked first and looked away, picked up his ale and took a long pull. They always did. Saw something in Jeb’s eyes, something not quite human. Owed that to his mother, may she rot in the Abyss.
    The big man was seething, you could see that. Veins on his neck stood out, and his purple cheeks likely didn’t come from the drink. Jeb knew he’d better tread careful. He already had enough on his plate, rooting out the husk. Last thing he needed was trouble with the locals. Always said his eye for the ladies would be his undoing. Owed that to his mother, too. Not women, exactly, though that wouldn’t have surprised him none, what he’d heard; it was the call of the flesh, the urge for taking pleasure, same as the urge for killing.
    He forced himself to relax, let a wry smile curl his lips long enough for Mountain Man to notice, then switched his focus to the card game in the corner.
    “That’s me out,” a fat man said. More’n fat: he was rounder’n a ball, with jowls so droopy, it looked like his face had melted into his chin.
    He flicked Jeb a look that turned into a frown. Sweat glistened from a forehead that had his hairline in full retreat. His white robe was stained with mustard or some such, the hem under the table frayed and spattered with mud. He pushed himself upright on stubby legs and cocked a thumb toward a door at the back. A couple of louts watching from the neighboring table stood and went with him. Both sized