Assassins Bite by Mary Hughes Page A

companionship and challenges, always a game to play or animal tracks to follow or hidden places for talk.
    He lived with his mother, unless his father was visiting. The man made threatening gestures and gave the boy evil looks when his mother’s back was turned, then acted like nothing had happened. The boy might have told his mother, but she smiled as if everything was fine, and he was too young to understand. So when the man visited, the boy hid. Except for that, the boy was by nature a happy, outgoing child, trusting. He learned quickly and made friends easily.
    Until his mother died—and his father stole him.
    Because the boy knew the man, he didn’t run away when his father came upon him alone. Then his father grabbed him and gagged him and stuffed him in a canoe under a pile of furs.
    The boy nearly suffocated before his father uncovered him. Even then, the instant the furs came off, he sucked what air he could and tried to call out to his people. But all that emerged was a muffled cry.
    â€œShut up, kid. Ain’t no one coming for you.”
    The boy knew his father was wrong. His mother’s people would find him. He kept alert for an opportunity to escape, ready. The hours wore on and his father gave him no food or water, but the boy stayed awake, waiting. Hoping.
    It was two days downriver before his father removed the gag and gave the boy water. The boy had gone without food before, but his throat burned and the gulp barely made a dent. Still, he managed, “Why have you taken me?”
    His father didn’t answer. He untied the boy’s wrists but left his legs hobbled. His father dragged him out of the canoe, onto land that no longer felt solid. His father hoisted the canoe over his head. “We walk here.”
    The boy still hoped for rescue and tried to leave a trail, but the ground was frozen and his mind was dull from lack of water and sleep, and his father butted him along with the canoe. They made camp that night on bare soil without a fire. The boy dozed fitfully, still trying to be alert. Ready.
    The next morning his father kicked him awake.
    â€œYour ma bragged what a great hunter you are. Show me.”
    The boy sat slowly. His belly was starting to eat at him, but the air was too cold and the smells were wrong. “No.”
    The man smacked him, hard palm shocking his cheekbone, snapping his head around, pitching him onto his back.
    That was the first time the boy had been hit. He lay in pained stupor. “W-why?”
    â€œFor your own good, to learn you not to sass.” His father grabbed the boy by his hair and dragged him to his feet. “Now hunt .”
    The boy glared, trying to kill his father with his eyes, but the man just laughed. So the boy pointed at some scat. “Rabbit.” He hobbled off, pretending to follow the animal’s spoor in a dusting of snow.
    The moment he got out of the man’s sight he tried to run.
    But his legs were still bound by the hobble. He fell, and fell again. Hope prodded him up from increasingly skinned hands and knees. His breath made quick puffs and soon he couldn’t feel his feet. Still he tried to run.
    The crack of a twig was his only warning. His father came from nowhere and planted a fist in his gut. The boy folded in two.
    â€œYou think you can run from me?” The man jerked him straight and backhanded him. The boy reeled, ears ringing. “You’ll never get away, you hear? Never.” The man punched his face. The boy fell, nose broken, blood running into his mouth. “Now hunt!”
    Bleeding, sparks of pain floating in his eyes, the boy did.
    He found the small telltale hole of a ground squirrel. He looked for the back entrance and filled it in, then used his hands to dig into the tunnel. He hoped for a hibernating rodent but the tunnel was too shallow and the animal awake. It tried to escape. The boy grabbed, forgot he was hobbled, and went crashing.
    His father was waiting. He