Peter Mercier and the Hunters of Artemis

Introduction

"Keep your guard up, Peter."

Ainier's wavy black hair fell just below her ears, where sparkling earrings pressed against her illuminated cheek, the setting sun making the few freckles on her nose seem like islands in a sea of sand. The sword in her cloth-wrapped hands was dull yet heavy, just sharp enough to pose a threat to the boy she faced.

Peter grumbled, lazily wiping the sweat from his temple with his sweaty hand and looking up at her. "Mom," he started, his brow furrowed in resistance. "You know I know that already."

His eyes darted to the window in the kitchen, expecting his father's face behind the glass, looking at him expectantly. The house was bathed in dying red light, the smell of cooking food radiating outside and making Peter's stomach growl.

To his intrigue, no eyes met him, but when he turned back he found his mother had stepped forward, holding the flat of her blade against his chest playfully. She smirked as he lowered his weapon with a small grunt, the sharp yet thin blade of the sword almost touching the ground, just light enough for the young boy. "Then do it," she replied, backing away. "Square up, kid. Give me a fight I can brag on you about."

He rolled his sea-blue eyes. "Can we go inside now?" he asked, gesturing to the house. "I'm tired and hungry."

Indeed, they'd been training for hours in the cool autumn breeze, the waves of the beach a distant sound, masking the shuffling of their feet as they sparred. "I'm mom," Ainier said slyly, taking the boy's chin in her hand with her warm hands and gently making him look at her. Peter tried to avoid eye contact, knowing that it meant defeat. "Nice to meet you."

She held onto his chin for a second, the dull emerald in her silver ring digging into his cheeks as she squeezed. He begrudgingly looked at her as she snaked her fingers to his neck, tickling him.

"Let go!" Peter laughed, a smile forming despite his best efforts. He took a step back, and Ainier sighed. "Ugh, fine," said his mother, reaching for the sword in her son's small hands. She started unwrapping the cloth on her hands. "Go help your father. Tell him I'll come in a minute."

He went inside, taking his shoes off by the door. "Hey dude," said his father, inspecting a pot on the metal stove, the red-hot coals inside making Peter's eyes hurt just looking at them. "Your mother wore you out?"

Peter nodded, scratching his back. "I'm hungry," he said, taking a seat at the table. "What's for dinner?"

"Food," his father answered. Outside, his mother snickered as she walked away to the workshop near the forest, a forge among the many things kept inside the well-used brick building. Peter scoffed, leaning his head back on the chair. "Not you too," he grumbled, crossing his arms. His hair glowed in the glare from the skylight, and he blew the unkempt locks out of his face.

"Is your mother cleaning up the mess you two made?" his father asked, not looking up from the cauldron. "You should go help her."

Peter shrugged. "She said I should help you," he replied. "Do you need any?"

"I'm fine," his father said, turning around. He looked at Peter's hair, watching him blow it out of his eyes once or twice more. "I think it's about time for a haircut, son. Soon you won't be able to see."

His son shook his head. "No," he protested. "You can't make me. Michael cut me the last time he did it."

His father raised a brow. "I certainly can, Peter," he said calmly, sighing as he glanced out the window, seeing Ainier fiddling with the latch on the door to the workshop. "But you have a point. Maybe you should grow it out, and I'll braid it instead."

Peter turned red. "No! Not that!" he said loudly, sitting up straighter in his seat. "No braids! No haircuts!"

Erin shrugged, turning back to his son. "A bun? That's a little bit harder, but if you insist," he joked, walking over with his hands outstretched as if preparing to dishevel his son's hair. "Or are you more of a ponytail type?"

"Dad, stop!" Peter said, getting out of his chair and retreating. "No haircuts!" he laughed, sinking away up the stairs as his dad stopped, seemingly disappointed. "Fine," Erin conceded, turning around. He rushed over to the cauldron, seeing it bubbling.

Ainier came inside, putting her hands on her hips. "Stop hovering over it like that, dear," she instructed, her boots clicking against the wood floor. "Your eyes will evaporate."

"I want to make sure it's perfect," Erin protested. "Like most things," his wife muttered. "It's fine, it's just soup," she assured. "Don't fuss about it."

Erin sighed. "If you say so," he grumbled. Peter's footsteps thumped quietly from upstairs, the thin floors making it obvious where he stood even as he tried to muffle them. Ainier noticed the chair pushed away from the table. "What'd he do?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, nothing," her husband dismissed, picking up a metal ladle and stirring the thin broth absentmindedly, watching the small brownish-green flakes of seasoning swirl around. "I was teasing him about his hair. It needs a cut."

"That's true, too bad Michael couldn't make it last run. We're almost out of tea," she frowned. "Will he be coming tomorrow?"

"I hope so," Erin said, picking at the stubble on his tanned chin. "I'd hate to have to tell Peter he couldn't make it. He's been wanting more books."

Ainier sighed. "Kid can read good," she admitted, putting a hand on his back. "Almost as much as you, and he's only twelve, nearly thirteen. Wonder how good he'll get, give him a few years. A good skill to have, especially if he intends on leaving."

"You think he'll want to leave?" Erin asked. "Probably," Ainier said. "I think you should tell him about Henrique, love. Gods forbid something actually happens, Erin."

He shook his head, silently walking over and leaning on the wall. "Speaking of which," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Michael said he's seen ships trying to tail him. He's lost a few in the fog already."

Ainier's eyes widened. "How long ago was this?" she asked, more curiosity in her tone than anger. "Last time he came," Erin said. "He told me it was nothing, but I'm not sure. What if they've found us?"

Ainier bit her lip. "I doubt it, but we should still be careful," she said. "His daughter keeps him tied to that base of his. He wouldn't come here if she had to be left alone. Assuming he isn't sadistic enough to bring her along," Erin looked up, meeting her gaze. "You think the Hunters could get here first?" he asked.

Ainier took a second to think, tapping her finger on her lip. "Artemis is thorough, if anything else," she admitted, saying the name as if it was sour. "But I think I did a good job making sure they couldn't track us here," she smirked, as if the memory pleased her. "It's just a matter of time at this point, dear. That's why I want you to tell him, in case we need to do anything..."

She paused, looking around the room. "Drastic," she concluded, planting a long kiss on Erin's cheek. He didn't seem to react, lost in thought. "I'll try to get it in," he said. "Do you think he knows?"

Ainier hummed, walking to the stairs. "I don't know," she admitted. "I'll tell him to come and eat."

"Dinner is ready," Erin sang, his tenor voice trembling in vibrato. He waggled his eyebrows. "And so am I."

Ainier blushed, smirking, waving her hand at him dismissively. "Yak-noodle soup, as requested," he added, beginning to set out cutlery and bowls. "I hope it's good."

"It will be!" she shouted back, ascending the staircase.

It was the last meal they ate together.