She pursed her lips. She hated the idea of putting the dog behind bars, especially if he might be Wyr. If he was Wyr, and whoever had tortured him knew it, why had they tried to kill him? What would they do if they found out he wasn’t dead? Jackson was sharp but he was also an elderly man, and at the moment the dog couldn’t defend himself.
“I should take him instead,” she said.
Jackson squinted an eye at her. “And do what? Go where? He’s too badly injured to travel, and the storm’s blowing in. You said you were from New York. Where are you headed, anyway? You were on I-80 going somewhere, and it won’t be good highway driving tonight.”
“I’m on vacation,” she said. She had walked away from the army four years before she had earned a twenty-year pension, but with what her parents had left her, she got by. She’d been on vacation for the last couple of years, unable to concentrate for long periods of time. Unable to settle into a new job, unable to sleep, unable to stop the nightmares when she did. “I was headed south to do some early camping. But I have no agenda I need to follow. I’ve got time to look after him.”
Like the nearby mountain range, Jackson’s profile was worn, the edges softened by age. After a moment he said, “Back trailer’s empty.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I keep it for my daughter when she comes to visit from Fresno. She’s not too comfortable with the layout of my kitchen.” She managed to avoid grinning. Jackson continued, “You can stay there to look after the dog, if you like.”
“That’s generous of you.” She couldn’t resist and let her fingers stroke lightly over the soft skin of the dog’s broad head. It was one of the few places he wasn’t covered in gauze. “Might be best if I checked into a motel.”
He snorted. “How do you figure? I’m offering you the trailer for free. That’s a lot cheaper than a motel room. It has hot and cold running water, propane heat, and it’s hooked up to my electricity. The kitchen is small but usable. It’s a lot quieter than a motel too, except for the wind, and tonight you’re gonna hear that anywhere in Nirvana. And you don’t know if that dog’s gonna give you any trouble. He should be in an animal hospital, except there isn’t one around here. I want to keep him close by for the first night or two, so I can see how he does.”
She rubbed the back of her neck. “All right,” she said. “That makes sense. Yes, thank you.”
“Okay.” He paused. “Think we can move him into the trailer while he’s still out?”
“If I could wrestle him into my car all by myself, I’m sure that together we can move him into the trailer.”
The look he gave her was speculative. Nothing about his mind was worn or softened by age. “I don’t believe for a minute that you tortured that dog. You’re too angry about what happened to him. But John’s right, there’s something off about that story. He was in bad enough shape he couldn’t help you get him in the car.”
She was too many years past innocence to manage a completely innocent smile. But she did bland really well. “I’m stronger than I look.”
An hour later, reality had assumed a different appearance. Claudia folded her sleeping bag to use as a bed for the dog, and then she and Jackson carried him into the trailer. She used a surreptitious touch of her telekinesis, which made shifting his massive body more of an inconvenience than a real strain.
Jackson turned on the trailer’s heat and showed her how to use the controls. She moved her car to the parking space by the trailer and carried in supplies—her Coleman cooler of food and drinks; the case that held her laptop and satellite phone; the locked metal box that held her stored handgun; the suitcase that contained her clothes, a few paperbacks, and the odd gift of an antique Elder Tarot deck.
As the trailer warmed, the outside cooled fast with the setting of the sun. Inside, the living space was all in miniature, the furnishings a good thirty years old. The kitchen was about as big as a postage stamp. It was possible to wash dishes, cook something on the tiny stove, use the microwave and get something out of the refrigerator without taking a single step. Someone had stocked it with a basic supply of cookware and dishes, and at least the fridge was a decent size.
In the living area, Jackson had folded up the dining table and secured it against the wall, so she could use the L-shaped booth as a couch. An old thirteen-inch television was bolted to a small shelf, along with a VHS tape player and a digital converter box. A portable radio rested on the narrow sill in front of the kitchen sink. The bathroom was almost the size of an airplane’s lavatory, except it had the addition of a shower stall. A double-sized mattress rested on a shelf where the trailer was designed to attach to a pickup truck.
She liked the space in the trailer. It was cozy. The shades from the lamps threw a soft, mellow gold over everything. The dog’s prone form took up most of the floor space. She set a bowl of water in a corner, near enough so he could reach it, stepping over him carefully as she moved around. She stowed the things from her cooler in the refrigerator, mostly sandwich materials, yogurt, fruit, and bottles of water and unsweetened tea.
After that she showered, dressed in dark jeans, t-shirt and plain black sweatshirt, and slipped on tennis shoes. She found an old set of sheets and blankets in a cupboard and threw them over the mattress, plugged in her satellite cell phone and laptop, and set the old wooden, painted box holding the Tarot deck, along with her books, on the tiny kitchen countertop beside medicinal supplies for the dog.
Then she set the metal case that held her Glock on the booth/couch and sat down beside it. Storing her gun already cleaned and unloaded was an old habit, but to make sure it was in optimum working order, she field-stripped it, racked the slide, reassembled it and snapped a full magazine of ammunition in place. Her movements were fast, sure and automatic. The gun was a familiar companion, as comforting as Jackson’s cigarette smoke. Tension eased from her neck and shoulders as she worked.
As a young woman just finishing college, she had watched with deep interest when the Pentagon came close to banning women from active combat in 1994. They had cited both physical and psychological concerns, but the outcry against such a decision had been so public, the Pentagon had been forced to abandon their stance.
None of the seven Elder Races demesnes had ever banned females from any part of their military or ruling structures, so it was viewed as reprehensible for human society in the US to even consider barring women from serving combat duty in the army. The public debate had actually piqued her interest in joining the army. Her abilities had solidified her career path in Special Forces. Two years ago she had retired a Major.
She lived the same story so many other soldiers did. She was haunted by the ghosts of those she had served with who had fallen, by the ghosts of the innocents harmed by war, by the ghosts of decisions she had made and not made, and now would have to live with for the rest of her life.
And there was something that slept deep inside of her that only came awake when she held a gun.
The sound of someone racking a gun slide yanked the dog awake. Adrenaline dumped toxic waste in his bloodstream. He was awash in pain and feral urges. He wanted to tear into flesh. He needed to hear bones break and somebody screaming. He hurt so bad, it almost made him vomit. He breathed shallowly because the binding on his broken ribs wouldn’t let him do anything else.
Quiet, warmth, golden light. They made no sense to him. As he worked to get his bearings, a sneakered foot shifted beside his head. The foot was attached to a long, trim, jeans-clad leg. He remembered steel-toed boots slamming into him, and his lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl. If he could have, he would have lunged forward to savage that leg.
That was when he caught scent of her. The woman.
He had been drowning in a dry, fiery ocean of agony, scoured by endless sand and scorched by the sun, when she’d appeared. She’d cradled his head in long, strong fingers, and bathed his parched mouth and throat with cool water.
When he had lost all reason to live, she’d whispered to him, “Don’t die.”
So he hadn’t.
Now they were together in this quiet, warm, golden place. Wherever this was. A knock sounded at the door. He tried to lunge to his feet to protect her, but his abused body wouldn’t obey him. He watched through slit eyes as she rose to her feet. She was a long, tall woman who moved with confident, lethal grace. His thirsty soul drank down the sight. Just before she answered the door, she tucked a gun into the waistband of her jeans at the small of her back, underneath her sweatshirt.
She was the one who had racked the slide. If he could have, he would have smiled.
Cold air sliced through the warmth. A worn voice said, “Settling in all right?”
“Yes, thanks,” the woman said. “It’s cozy in here.”
The voice was male. The dog growled. The sound he made was hoarse and broken. Fresh pain erupted in abused throat muscles. The woman turned to stare at him. She said, “Shush.”
The calm command in her voice startled him into shushing. But he kept his lips curled, and he showed the newcomer his teeth.
“He’s awake,” said the other male. “That’s a bit early.”
“Is it?” the woman said.
The male said, “Doesn’t mean anything conclusive. It’s just a bit early.”
“I understand.”
“I’m getting takeout from the diner. It’s not fancy but they’ve got good food. Want me to get supper for you?”
“That’d be great, thanks.” The woman dug into her jeans pocket, pulled something out and handed it to the male. “I’ll have whatever you’re having. Could you buy another meal that has lots of well-cooked beef and hopefully some gravy too? Tomorrow I’ll run to the store, but for now I’d like to have something on hand, just in case.”
“You got it,” the male said.
The blast of cold air cut off as she shut the door.
Now that the other male was gone, the dog’s gaze slid out of focus. He started to drift.
The woman came down on her hands and knees in front of his face. “Hey,” she said. Her voice was like the rest of her: strong, bright and clean. “My name is Claudia Hunter. Can you talk to me? I’d like you to tell me who you are, and who did this to you.”
He ignored her.
She said telepathically,
Cat got your tongue? Come on, say something. Let me know you understand me.
He closed his eyes.
“Don’t have anything to say? You were such a good boy earlier when you didn’t bite me. What a sweet, good boy, yes, you are.” She paused then crooned, “I think I’m going to name you Precious.”
His eyes flared open and shifted toward her in offended startlement.
The woman’s own gaze widened. Her eyes were gorgeous. She whispered, “Bloody hell. You
are
Wyr.”
So what do you do with a Wyr in his animal form, badly injured, who refuses to talk?
She didn’t have a clue. She was making it up as she went along. She turned on her laptop. It cost to have a laptop with satellite communication readiness, along with her sat cell phone, but she had decided the greater connectivity was worth the price in case of emergency. The choice had paid off when she was on the road.
Unfortunately, the weather had a great deal of influence on satellite connectivity. She tried to access the Internet but found she couldn’t. Then, without much hope, she tried her sat phone. Same story. And the Wyr wasn’t talking for a reason. Maybe that reason was trauma, or maybe it was something else. She decided not to push it for the time being and to give him a chance to tell his story in his own time.
The wind outside grew louder. Jackson returned in a half hour. The dog started his hoarse, broken growl a few moments before the knock came at the door. Claudia had pulled her gun, but she tucked it out of sight again and let Jackson in. A blast of sandy wind came in with him, and she shut the door again quickly. The vet carried a large brown paper sack and a six-pack of Heineken. The aroma of cooked food filled the trailer.
“Cable’s out already,” Jackson said. “Phones too. At this point we might get cell phone reception back before anything else. I’ve got a stash of movies in the house if you want something to watch.”
“Thanks,” she said. “And thanks for picking up supper.”
“You’re welcome. How’s our boy?”
“Quiet. Eat with us?”
“Sure, why not,” said Jackson.
They unlatched the dining table from the wall and lowered it. She gestured for Jackson to slide around the L-shaped couch to sit. Then she took the end, so she could get out easily if needed. The suppers were typical diner fare and substantial, two fried chicken dinners with mashed potatoes and corn, and a pot roast stew with potatoes and vegetables. Dinner rolls filled a separate bag. She popped open two bottles of beer and set one in front of Jackson, the other at her place.
“Can he have more pain medication now?” Claudia asked.
Jackson checked his wristwatch. “If you can get him to take it. Wrap it in some of the bread and dunk it in a little gravy. If he won’t eat it, I can give him a shot.”
She stuffed a pill in a piece of bread and sopped it with rich, dark gravy. Then she held it to the dog’s nose. “Come on, Precious,” she murmured. “Eat the nums-nums, or Himself has to have a nasty old shot.”