"...What," I repeated, slower this time, because clearly she hadn't heard how insane that sounded.
Phoebe crossed her arms, arrow now fully lowered, but still in her hand. "You said it chased you halfway across the city. Climbed buildings for you. Jumped roofs. It's obviously hunting you."
"No kidding."
"So," she continued, like we were discussing the weather, "we use you to draw it out. I shoot it. It dies. You live. Easy."
"Easy for you. You have a bow. I have—" I gestured at myself, "a bird. A dress. And probably a concussion."
"It's a chiton," Phoebe corrected without missing a beat. "But you can't expect a man to know these things. That cuckoo is probably smarter than most I've met."
The bird made a satisfied clicking noise on my shoulder.
"Okay, wow," I muttered. "Betrayed by my own sidekick."
The cuckoo squawked, as if it was apologizing.
"No, no. I understand you hate me," I joked. "To think you'd agree with a sexist you've known for six minutes over me who you've known for two hours."
The bird chirped in protest, flapping its wings.
"Ugh, will you take this seriously?" Phoebe asked. "We need to deal with this Bull. And I am not a sexist. I treat the women who deserve it well."
I cringed, she sounded a bit like a few nymphs I knew.
"That's a harmful way to think, but we can talk about it when we get done with this bull."
Phoebe grunted but complied.
We began walking, our footsteps muffled by the wet concrete, the steady plink-plink of water echoing like a ticking clock. I stayed half a step behind Phoebe—partly out of caution, mostly because I was still trying to figure out if she would shoot me if I did something dumb.
"Alright," she said after a moment, "if we're going to do this, I need to know what I'm working with. What can you do?"
I scratched my chin. What could I do?
"I can't fly or else the winds will tear me apart and have me end up halfway across the continent. I can hit hard enough to dent tungsten —don't ask where I got it."
"Well, it's not useless information. But the Bull is too big for me or you to hit it at its heart, maybe you could fly up and have the winds carry you over?" Phoebe suggested, taking out a knife to cut through an over grown blockage in the tunnel.
"I can't control the wind," I told her. "... but I can control the distance I'm going."
It's extremely hard for me to do. But when cloud nymph's turn into the wind they can control the way they travel, it's just much harder to do when storm winds are forcing you in a specific way.
But maybe I can use that to my advantage.
If I can focus hard enough, maybe I can ride the storm winds just enough to stay on course—keep myself close enough to the ground so I don't get blown halfway to the next city.
I mean I have to help this girl. The bull literally spawned minutes after I arrived and tore straight through the city after me. So it makes the most sense that I'd help deal with it.
The only question now is how? Because she said so herself she couldn't shoot it in the heart.
"What about the scapula?" I suggested. "It's a clear shot and it should debilitate the bull?"
Phoebe didn't respond right away. She stopped carving through the vines clinging to the rusted grate ahead and turned toward me slowly, narrowing her eyes.
"The scapula?" she repeated, like I'd just suggested we tickle the monster into submission.
"It's—" I made a vague gesture to my shoulder, "—the shoulder blade. A clean shot there could disable a foreleg. And if it can't charge..."
"...Then it's easier to kill," she finished, her expression unreadable. She studied me for a moment longer than necessary. "Interesting."
Her voice didn't sound impressed. It sounded like someone trying to figure out how a goat just did math.
"You don't strike me as the anatomical type."
"Thanks," I muttered.
"No, really," she said. "Most of the people like you that I've met couldn't point out a femur if it was sticking through their own leg. But here you are, spewing medical terms like you've seen combat."
I shrugged, "I have seen combat... but I learned that from a veterinarian that had hired my mom when I was little, he'd teach me about them to put me to sleep. It's not that different, right?"
Phoebe tilted her head. "Depends on the animal."
She turned back to the vines and slashed cleanly through them with her hunting knife, the silver gleaming in the faint light of the tunnel's opening. The grating fell away with a groan of rusted metal, revealing a cracked concrete slope that led up to what looked like an abandoned rail yard. I could smell rain, copper, and distant smoke.
"Fine," she said, stepping over the threshold. "We'll go for the scapula first. But if that fails, I've got other tricks."
She tapped the quiver on her back.
"Tripwire arrows," she added when I must have looked confused. "And one that smells like a fart."
"You're joking."
"I'm not."
"That's—" I wanted to say ridiculous, but the look she gave me stopped the words midair. "Creative."
She smirked slightly, and for a second, I thought she almost looked proud. Then the moment passed.
We moved out of the tunnel into the wet open air. The world outside was dark with stormlight, that kind of bruised purple sky that made everything look like a bad dream. Lightning flickered in the clouds, high and mean. The Bull was somewhere out there—I could feel it. Not just in the tremble of the earth or the way the wind caught wrong in my lungs, but in something deeper. A pressure in the air, like the world itself was trying to hold its breath.
Phoebe motioned for me to crouch behind the rusted shell of a railcar. I did, the metal cold and sharp against my palms.
"Alright," she said, crouching beside me. "Here's how this works. You go out there. Make noise. Draw it in. I'll find a high vantage point and shoot the scapula. If that doesn't drop it, I'll switch to the hind legs."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"Then we run."
I blinked. "You're surprisingly honest about the possibility of failure."
"I've hunted monsters longer than you've been alive," she said. "Some just don't go down easy. Or at all. That's why we're always ready to lose."
"...Comforting," I said dryly.
"Don't get soft on me, cloud boy."
I sighed and shifted my stance, closing my eyes for a second. Wind tugged at my sleeves, not with the fury of the storm earlier, but still sharp. I could feel the tug of the upper currents, wild and hungry, like they wanted to snap me up again and dash me into some distant ocean.
I couldn't give in to them.
I imagined myself as a string tied to a rock—free to flutter, but not to break away. One breath in. Another out. The feeling built in my chest, like static in my lungs. My skin prickled.
Then I let go.
My form blurred, not vanished, just... softened. I felt myself become mist and breath, stretched across the wind but anchored. The trick wasn't power—it was control.
I floated low, just above the cracked asphalt, gliding past rusted cars and broken fencing, my eyes scanning the yard for any sign of movement. The cuckoo flew overhead, circling once before perching on a nearby crane arm, ruffling its feathers anxiously.
And then I heard it.
A scrape.
A breath.
I didn't see it right away, but I felt it. The pressure in my bones shifted. The ground shuddered.
It stepped into view like a nightmare peeled off the page. Hooves cracked concrete with every step. Its white fur was matted with grime and blood, and those eyes—those glowing gold eyes—locked onto me like I was the only thing in the world.
I flickered sideways, letting the wind carry me a few feet to the left. The Bull's nostrils flared. It reared once, then charged.
Right toward me.
I didn't scream. (I thought about it.) Instead, I pulled hard against the wind, forcing myself into a tight curve just above its horns, the air singing in my ears. The beast roared past beneath me, plowing through a railcar like it was paper.
And then—thwip.
A silver arrow buried itself deep into its shoulder.
Right where the scapula should be.
The Bull staggered. It didn't fall, but it screamed—an awful, ragged noise that echoed across the empty yard. It whirled, blood frothing from the wound, and I saw Phoebe on the rooftop of a crumbling shed, bow already drawn again.
"One more," I whispered.
But the Bull was moving. Fast.
It threw its weight sideways, smashing into the shed like a battering ram. Phoebe leapt, twisting in midair like a fox, landing hard and rolling as the roof collapsed behind her.
She came up snarling, bow in one hand, knife in the other.
"Hind leg!" I shouted, circling low above the Bull again. "Go for the knee!"
Phoebe didn't question me. She didn't speak at all. She sprinted across the yard, planted her foot on a fallen beam, and leapt again. Her next arrow buried itself just behind the joint.
The Bull shrieked—and collapsed.
It didn't die. But it couldn't stand.
I landed beside her, breath heaving, limbs shaky from the effort of holding myself together mid-flight.
"Nice shot," I wheezed.
Phoebe didn't look at me. She watched the Bull, breathing hard.
"Thanks," she panted, holding her shoulder in pain. "Dear Gods I should not have rolled like that.
"Oh crap, we should you to a Me'dicus," I said, reaching towards her only to get swatted away.
"No," she protested, sitting down. "I have ambrosia in my bag, I'll get it after this thing dies."
Dear Gods she's another Reyna.
Phoebe grunted as she pulled out her knife and marched towards the pinned bull. I followed, not sure she'd make it another step with the blood leaking from her head.
And I was right, as five feet away from the bull, she collapsed onto the asphalt.
I was at her side before she even hit the ground. The sound of her knees slapping the wet asphalt made me wince, and I caught her just in time to stop her head from hitting the pavement. She was burning up, her breath shallow and fast, and one of her arms twitched like she was still reaching for her knife.
"Phoebe?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. "Hey. No dying. That's not part of the plan."
She groaned, which I decided to take as a good sign, even if it was more aggressive than grateful.
"I'm not—dying," she snapped, eyes fluttering open just enough to glare at me. "I'm... resting."
"Resting with a concussion and probable internal bleeding?" I adjusted her to sit more upright. "That's not rest, that's denial."
Her eyelids drooped again, but she fumbled weakly at her side. "Ambrosia. In the side pocket. Black pouch."
I found it after a moment's rummaging—careful not to disturb the rest of her gear. The pouch was warm, almost unnaturally so. Inside were two small, wrapped squares of what looked like golden bread.
Ambrosia. Food of the gods. Healing, sacred. Delicious. Deadly to mortals.
And here I was, hands trembling, holding it like it might explode if I moved wrong.
Phoebe's hand twitched again.
"Right," I said, more to myself than her. "Don't let the Hunter die."
I unwrapped one of the squares. A buttery, warm smell hit me immediately—like fresh honeycake from back home, with just a hint of something citrus. My mouth watered just smelling it. Gods, it must taste like heaven.
I broke off a small piece. She wouldn't need the whole thing—not unless she wanted to wake up feverish and hallucinating. Carefully, I pressed it to her lips.
"Phoebe," I coaxed. "You need to eat this."
Her eyes cracked open again, barely. "You... feed me... and I'll stab you."
"Noted. Stabbing later. Healing now."
To my surprise, she took the bite without further protest. Her jaw moved slowly at first, then faster as she chewed. Her whole body seemed to sigh. Color came back into her face almost instantly, and the cut at her temple began to knit itself shut.
I waited, watching her carefully so she didn't keel over and die. When she finally sat up on her own, I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding.
She wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist and gave me a sharp look.
"I said don't feed me."
"Would you have preferred I let you bleed out face-first in the dirt?"
"I'd prefer you not act like my nursemaid."
I blinked. "You collapsed."
"I slipped."
"You lost consciousness."
"A strategic rest."
"I fed you ambrosia, Phoebe. You were about to keel over and die in front of a monster."
That shut her up for a second.
Then she mumbled, "...Fine. Maybe. Thanks. I guess."
That was the closest to gratitude I was going to get, I figured.
"Next time," I said, helping her to her feet, "just admit you're injured. You don't lose honor points or whatever by accepting help."
Her scowl returned, but her hand stayed in mine for a moment longer than necessary before she pulled away.
"I don't trust men," she muttered, brushing her knees off. "They always want something."
I sighed. It was all I could do since she technically had a point. Working under the daughter of the second biggest man whore you could meet? I'd stop trusting men too.
"So you decided that death is a better option?" I asked.
Phoebe sputtered slightly, "no, I just—"
"You let your distrust of men cloud your judgment and put yourself in more danger."
"No I do—" Phoebe grunted, holding her head in pain. She wiped her head, bringing her hand down to look at the blood.
I smiled at her, she turned away glowering.
The Bull gave a low groan behind us, reminding me it still existed—still pinned, but very much alive. Its blood leaked in thick, black rivers onto the asphalt, and its sides heaved like a bellows. Phoebe stiffened and turned back to it, knife still in hand, but I grabbed her wrist before she could take another step.
"You're not killing that thing like this."
"I'm fine."
"You're not. Your knees are still shaking."
"So what, I let you do it?"
"Why not?"
"Because you look like you should be playing a harp in a temple courtyard, not finishing off a monster."
I sighed and grabbed her back the back of her shirt, lifting her off the ground with one hand.
"Look, I'm not asking you to hand me your knife and pray I don't stab you. I've seen what this thing does. It's strong, but it's dumb. I can handle it long enough for you to catch your breath and maybe line up a proper final shot."
Phoebe opened her mouth—probably to say something cutting and full of disdain—but then paused. She looked back at the Bull, then at me. Then at the blood drying on her fingers.
"I could shoot it through the eye," she murmured. "From here. If I had a clean line."
I nodded. "I'll give you one."
"You're offering to bait it again."
"I'm offering to help."
Phoebe didn't answer right away. Her eyes searched my face like she was reading a passage she didn't quite trust. I saw the moment she realized something — not everything, not yet — but enough to hesitate.
"Fine," she finally said, not quite looking at me. "But if you get gored, I'm not scraping you off the pavement."
I gave her a half-smile. "Fair."
I stood slowly, not bothering to dust myself off. There wasn't much point — I was soaked, scraped, and bruised in a dozen places already. I turned my eyes back to the Bull. It was struggling, thrashing against its ruined knee, its hooves gouging ugly divots in the concrete. But it wasn't going anywhere. Not fast, anyway.
The wind kicked up again, brushing across my skin like a living thing. I could feel the pressure building in my chest — that pull to become vapor, to scatter across the sky, free and formless. But I held it back. I had to.
I stepped forward, keeping my movements loose, natural, like I wasn't about to taunt a creature big enough to flatten me with one flailing hoof.
"Hey," I called out, my voice clearer than I expected. "Over here, you undercooked stifado!"
The Bull's head snapped toward me, golden eyes burning.
Good. Still mad.
I took another step closer. I didn't need to fight it. I just needed to give Phoebe her shot. Which meant I had to get its attention — and hold it.
"You're not very smart, are you?" I continued, drifting sideways. "Just all muscle and fury and not enough brain to understand when you've lost."
The Bull bellowed, loud enough to rattle my ribs. It heaved itself up on its good legs, head lowering. I could practically see the heat radiating off its horns.
Behind me, I could hear Phoebe moving, the soft whisper of fabric and leather as she adjusted her aim. She was trusting me.
Gods help her.
The Bull charged.
I didn't try to run. Not immediately. I waited until it was almost on me — close enough to feel the heat and smell the blood on its breath — before I leapt sideways, twisting in the air and letting the wind catch me just enough to avoid the worst of the shockwave as it tore past.
The Bull roared in frustration, skidding as it tried to turn. Its front legs faltered, the injured shoulder giving out again.
Now.
"Phoebe!" I shouted.
A heartbeat passed. Then a silver gleam flashed through the air — straight and true, cutting the stormlight in half.
The arrow struck deep, right through the Bull's eye.
The creature screamed, a hideous, rattling sound that shook the earth. Its legs buckled, its body shuddered — then, finally, it collapsed for good. A groan of crushed metal and broken bone echoed across the yard as it fell.
Silence followed.
Even the wind seemed to hold still.
I stood there, panting, knees weak, staring at the monster. It didn't move. The light in its eye — the one that remained — had gone out.
I turned, slowly, to see Phoebe lowering her bow.
She was breathing hard, face pale under her freckles, but steady. She looked at me, eye to eye for the first time since we'd met. Like she didn't quite know what to make of me anymore.
I gave her a shaky thumbs-up.
"You kill all your monsters that dramatically?" I asked, voice hoarse.
She blinked. Then, for the first time, she actually smiled. Just a little.
"Only the ones stupid enough to chase cloud nymphs across the city."
"Ah," I said, walking back toward her, "so I'm useful now."
"You're still a man," she muttered, but her tone had changed. Softer. Less barbed. "But... maybe not the worst one."
I shrugged. "Still a bad thought process. But it's a start."
She didn't stop me when I reached out to steady her again. Her legs were still shaky, but the color had returned to her face.
I helped her down onto a piece of rubble, and we sat there for a moment, catching our breath while the storm began to ease overhead. The rain slackened to a drizzle, the thunder distant now.
The Bull was dead.
I knelt beside the body, gently touching its flank. The fur was coarse, almost wiry. Beneath it, I could feel the unnatural cold of monster-flesh beginning to come apart, even if it hadn't disintegrated yet. It would. In time. All monsters did.
Phoebe approached slowly, bow now slung across her back, knife drawn again. Her limp was subtle, but there.
"We have to skin it before it dissolves," she said bluntly, crouching beside me. "I need the hide."
"I figured," I murmured, still staring at the corpse. "Spoil of war?"
"Tribute to Artemis," she corrected. "It's a ritual."
We sat there for a few moments
"... thank you." Phoebe said, not looking my way. "For the help."
I shrugged, "no problem, if maybe this'll help you treat strangers better."
Phoebe opened her mouth to protest but stopped and sighed, "I'll try."
I didn't say anything. I just nodded and reached for one of the blades she passed me — a clean hunting knife, worn from use but still sharp. The moment I touched it, the hilt warmed in my palm.
Phoebe knelt opposite of me, rolling up her sleeves. Her hands were steady, precise. I mimicked her motions as best I could, watching how she slid the blade beneath the hide just above the shoulder joint, slicing along the muscle with practiced ease.
I had gutted goats before, helped Hylla cut a stillborn calf out of its mother once. This wasn't much different — just bigger, tougher, and somehow heavier than it should've been. Not in mass. In presence. Even dead, the Bull didn't feel like it belonged here. Like the air around it still bent a little wrong.
"Do you know what it was?" I asked after a while, keeping my voice low. "There aren't many two story tall bulls that trample cities."
Phoebe flicked a look at me. "Cretan Bull."
I blinked. "The thing Theseus killed?"
Phoebe gagged in disgust. "Please don't mention that freak, I just started liking you."
I cracked a smile at that, despite the gore beneath my fingers. The laughter barely made it to my chest, but it was real. Strange how a person could be elbow-deep in monster guts and still manage to joke.
Still, something about the name stuck in my head. Cretan Bull. I knew of the Roman tales. The Labyrinth. Minos. Minotaurs. Hercules dragging the Bull back alive.
"Do you know why it came here?" I asked.
Phoebe shook her head. "Just that Artemis said it needed to be put down. It's been stirring for months. Took me forever to find it. This is the third city I've chased it through." Her brow furrowed. "I thought I'd get it alone."
I glanced up at her. "You were alone this whole time?"
She paused, gave a small shrug. "I'm the best healer. They weren't worried since I'd just come back."
Not arrogance. Just fact.
Still, something in me twisted. "That's a heavy thing to carry alone."
She didn't answer that. Just kept cutting.
The hide came away slowly, in long, heavy folds. We moved around the body, grimy with blood and effort, working by the dim silver light that pierced the thinning clouds above. I couldn't tell how long we spent there, but by the time we were done, the drizzle had stopped, and the storm had sunk somewhere beyond the skyline.
Phoebe stood first, wiping her blade on a torn scrap of shirt from the Bull's side. She looked exhausted. Somehow more real, more human like this than she had before.
"You held up," she said, glancing down at me.
"Thank you?" I offered, unsure if that was praise or judgement.
Phoebe nodded as she shifted the weight of the hide onto her shoulder with a grunt. It nearly dragged the ground behind her.
I started to brush the blood off my arms but stopped. It was everywhere. In my clothes, on my skin, in my hair. I must've looked like I'd rolled around in a tar pit.
"You helped kill it," Phoebe said suddenly, voice flat. "That means something."
I frowned. "What does it mean?"
"It means you get to present it. To the Hunt."
I stared. "Me?"
"It's tradition," she said. "When someone joins the Hunt on a kill, even if it's just once, they help deliver the trophy. You don't have to take an oath or anything. But..." She paused. Her mouth twisted like she hated asking, but meant it anyway. "You want to come?"
She didn't look away, not this time.
I looked past her, at the Bull's carcass starting to smoke at the edges. A beast that had just been trying to kill me not even an hour ago, now dead on a broken track under a half-dead sky.
And then at her — this bloodied warrior with eyes that seemed like they could decide between the silver of her blade and a dark brown, asking me to follow her into a camp led by the woman known for turning people into animals for minor slights against her.
But I didn't exactly have anywhere else to go. I wasn't sure where I was supposed to go now. I hadn't exactly planned past not dying.
"Will I be turned into a deer and get fed to dogs?" I asked.
Phoebe paused, thinking for a moment before she spoke"are you going to peep on any of the hunter's while they bathe?"
"Why would I do that?"
Phoebe shrugged, "men and some women do stupid things in acts of lust."
I scratched my head, "I don't think I've ever felt lust. So I don't plan on doing any of that."
"Then no, you probably won't get turned into a deer."
"What do you mean probably," I asked. But Phoebe was already walking away, carrying the hide and meat of the Cretan Bull behind her.
Seeing no other choice, I followed her.