Venators: Promises Forged. Devri Walls
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Rune snatched another from the table, a determined look plastered on her face. Grey had seen that look before. She’d force that adilat to submit if it killed her. He smiled. Once they’d crossed through the gate, Rune had been a nervous wreck—not that he blamed her—but the self-confident, stubborn girl he’d known in high school was now making an appearance.
“Grey.” Tate grabbed an ankle knife holster from the table and tossed it to him. “The throwing knife is a valuable tool in your arsenal. I know you’re familiar with these. What I want you to work on is not the throw itself but the motion of retrieving the weapon from where it’s hidden and making a smooth transition into the throw, lethally hitting your target.”
“That means it can’t just bounce off,” Rune added.
Grey scowled. “I know what it means.” He crouched down to secure the holster around his ankle. “And if you’re going to be a smart-ass, try doing it after you hit the target.”
“Hey!” She shook the adilat at him. “I’d like to see you try and throw this thing.”
Grey held out a hand. “Gladly.”
“Both of you, shut up.” Tate gave them a warning look. When Rune turned back to her throwing, he continued, “In addition to weapons, your markings are also a tool—if you learn how to use them properly. Those markings are a gift unique to your species, and they will act as a warning system.”
“Like how I knew Dimitri was close because our markings went red.” Rune threw another adilat at the target. She hissed in disgust at the failed shot.
“No.” Tate said. “You did not know. You assumed. And assumptions are fatal. Those markings don’t tell you who or how many—just what. All you really knew was that a vampire, or vampires, were close. You must start memorizing which color belongs to which species and the subtle variations between them.” Tate pointed to Grey. “What are you doing? Don’t just stand there. Drop and roll, pull the knife on your way up. Go.”
“But werewolves—”
“I said go.”
Grey rolled his eyes but dropped, grabbing his knife on the way up. It got caught on the top lip of his boot, and his fingers slipped free.
“Again.”
Grey stood up and reset his stance. “Werewolves and vampires are both red. That’s not a very effective warning system.” He rolled again, managing to get the knife free this time but missing the target.
“No, werewolves are a deep red, almost maroon,” Tate said. “Vampires—”
“Are bright,” Rune interrupted. “Cherry red.” Her adilat missed again, and this time, she let loose a string of profanities.
“A little patience would do you good, Rune.”
“Again with that word.” Rune snatched another adilat and shook it in Tate’s direction. “You know what I think? Screw patience.”
“Lovely, Rune. No, Grey.” Tate grabbed a knife from the table and rolled forward, trench coat and all. He released the blade in one smooth motion, and it flew toward the target, hitting dead center. “Like that.”
Oh, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?
Tate walked downrange to retrieve the blade he’d thrown, still talking over his shoulder. “When you’re around the council, your markings must be black. There are other diplomatic situations where this will also be required. But when we are out, they will act as a weapon. I want you learning how to use them and what your colors mean. Those markings are also a tool against creatures that would try to deceive you.”
Rune threw another adilat, which veered sharply to the side.
“Tate!” Grey yelled.
Tate turned just in time. He stepped back. The adilat struck where his foot had been a moment earlier. He looked down to the piece of metal poking out of the ground and then up at Rune, his dark eyes cool beneath his brow. “Do not ever throw a weapon until the range is clear.”
Rune swallowed. “Sorry.”
Tate snatched up the adilat and strolled back. “There are things that will try to deceive you—fae, to name one. Knowing what you are dealing with is important.”
“What about shifters?” Grey asked. “Like Beltran.”
“As I’m sure you’ve noticed, Beltran doesn’t affect your markings. It’s unfortunate, given how dangerous he is.”
“What’s your deal with Beltran?” Rune asked. “He saved our lives.”
“This is not a commentary on him, just his species. You saw what he could do when dealing with Cashel’s pack. They lost that fight the minute they sent half the pack flying into the woods after a phantom.”
Still hungry, Grey took a thick-cut piece of white bread from the table and slathered it with butter. “Are there many shifters?”
“No,” Tate said. “At least, we don’t think so. I know of only two.”
“Hold on.” Rune’s arms were out, and she twisted them, inspecting both sides. Their markings were currently a pale green. “This is the giant’s color . . . I think. Which means you don’t affect our markings, Tate, and neither did Arwin. And neither did that, that, uh . . .” She waved her hand in the air, trying to remember something. “You know, that creepy little thing we ran into out in the woods.”
Tate and Grey both stared blankly.
“Oh, come on. You have to remember.”
“I don’t think ‘creepy thing’ is narrowing it down for either of us,” Grey said around a mouthful of bread. “I saw a lot of creepy things.” He picked up a knife and threw. It thwacked dead center.
“The . . . the . . . the thing!” Rune insisted, as if dropping the “creepy” adjective was somehow helpful. “Weird, gray skin, big eyes, bat ears.”
“Danchee.” Tate’s face darkened, and he gripped the dagger handle so hard his knuckles turned white.
Grey remembered now. Rune was right: “creepy little thing” should’ve been an adequate description.
“Yeah! That was his name. He started talking in that other voice, remember? Something about a family affair and—”
Tate deliberately dropped the dagger onto the table, hard. “The markings are part of the gene alterations done to your kind. Most things that don’t cause your markings to react were either unknown at that time—like the shifters, who had managed to hide themselves very well—or didn’t exist yet. The same scientists and wizards that altered the genes of the original Venators went on to experiment further, creating a series of mutants. Each has a special ability given to them by their creators—like Danchee’s ability to perfectly imitate any voice—and they don’t show up on Venator markings.”
Although he was listening, Grey’s suspicions rose. Tate had refused to talk about Danchee that night in the forest, and now he was avoiding it again. Whatever Danchee had been talking about, Grey was certain Tate had either been heavily involved or deeply impacted.
“Things like Danchee are considered to be abominations . . .” There was a hesitation, and Tate looked over their heads, squinting into the sun. “Much like myself.”
Rune’s mouth dropped. “Wait a minute. You’re a . . . a lab experiment?”
“No,” Grey said, saving Tate from voicing the answer he was loath to talk about. “He’s part Venator.”
Rune looked from Grey to Tate and back again. “Well, I’m completely confused.”
“Keep throwing, both of you,” Tate ordered. “I’m a Venshii, which is to say, half Venator.