“Sara!” Blue yelled, but she stepped into the doorway.
Madness ruled in the hall. Tragg’a were flinging themselves at the gigantic bear that was hurling them against the walls with great sweeps of its paws. Thunder rumbled in the beast’s chest. Its fur was clotted with blood—both its own and that of its foes. It was holding its own, but would finally give way under the press of the tragg’a’s numbers.
As Sara stepped into the hall, some of the tragg’a turned to face her. Lifting her hands, she drew up her taw, a nerve jumping in her temple as she concentrated. Small sparks continued to flicker about her hands. Then the first of the tragg’a reached her and swept her aside with a glancing blow of its paw. She bounced against a wall and skittered down the hall where she landed in a heap, half stunned.
“Jesus Christ!” Tucker bellowed.
He lifted his .38 and opened fire. The first tragg’a went down, but two more filled the doorway. He got another, but the third was in the room and lunged for Blue who was retrieving his rifle. As the creature launched itself at the biker, Sally drew bead and fired. The big gun kicked in her hand, throwing off her aim. She missed, gritted her teeth and fired again. The bullet caught the tragg’a high in the shoulder and spun it around. Blue, his rifle in hand, twisted out of the creature’s way and smashed the butt of the Weatherby into its face.
“The door!” Tucker cried. “Somebody help me with the door!”
Maggie and Sam ran to put their shoulders against it and shove. Tucker stood by the open door, firing until he emptied his gun. He saw the bear go down in the hall as he turned to help them.
“Tucker!” Blue yelled. “Sara’s still out there!”
Sara? Tucker hesitated for a moment and the tragg’a burst in again, flinging the door wide. Sam and Maggie stumbled, as Tucker grabbed the monster, locking his hands on its wrists, and tried to throw it to the floor. A second beast charged in. Blue’s Weatherby boomed in the confined space and the creature was flung back into the hall.
Before Blue had a chance to work the bolt on the rifle, another was inside, howling, talons flashing. It tore off half of Sam’s face with a sweep of its paw, flung him aside and moved for Maggie. Sally fired, drilling the tragg’a high in its chest, then turned to help Tucker. She couldn’t find a clear target. The tragg’a and Tucker rolled over and over, moving too much for her to risk a shot. She heard the boom of Blue’s rifle again and her gaze flicked to the door.
Maggie shot the next creature as it entered—firing three times with the .22 until it dropped. Behind the felled monster, Sally could see the tragg’a tearing at the fallen bear. The bear seemed to shimmer before her eyes, changing shapes. It was a wolf, a bird, a small man, a wildcat, a bear again. Its struggles grew weaker.
Blue charged the door, swinging his rifle like a club. It cracked against the skull of one tragg’a, leaped for another. This creature tore the rifle from his hands, flung it aside and closed in.
The tragg’a Tucker was fighting gained an advantage, rolled on top of the Inspector. He held it back, muscles straining with the effort of keeping its jaws from his throat. As it began to overpower him, Sally blinked the sweat from her eyes, aimed and fired.
Throughout the assault, Jamie had sat on the couch, staring blankly into nothing. The beating he’d undergone at Gannon’s hands, the shock of the tragg’a’s renewed attack, not even Sara’s reappearance could intrude on the sudden understanding he’d gained of Tamson House.
It was more than wood and stone, towers, roofs and rooms, cellars and gardens, miles of corridors. It sheltered more than an ordinary dwelling did, protected on more levels than might mundane walls and doors. It housed the soul of his grandfather and his father. The House’s soul was theirs.
Hunched on the couch, withdrawn into himself, Jamie shared its deepening pain, offered what strength he had to the House’s soul to overcome the evil that stalked through it like a spreading cancer. There was no time to try to understand how such a thing could be—that his father and grandfather should still live on in the wood and stone of the House. There was only the struggle to survive, to repel the cancer that had entered, to make of the House a haven once more. There was only the evil to exorcise. Nothing else mattered.
“Let’s try here,” Kieran said as they came up to the west side of the House. He drew back his spear to break the glass, but Ur’wen’ta stopped him.
“This lodge has a protecting spirit,” the rathe’wen’a explained. “I have seen it repel tragg’a with sorcerous blue fires.”
Kieran could hear the battle inside. There were guns firing, tragg’a howling. What sounded like the roar of a bear. He didn’t sense Tom’s spirit at the moment, but if the old man was in there, he needed help now. Not later.
“The protective spirit is hurt,” Ur’wen’ta said. “We must convince it that the small hurt we will bring it as we break in is meant for its good, not further harm, else it will attempt to slay us as well.”
Ur’wen’ta turned to the others. At his unspoken signal, the drumming picked up in tempo. Kieran felt the magics gather, the drumming deepen. He didn’t know what Ur’wen’ta meant by a protective spirit, but he could sense something stir as the old shaman sent forth a silent call.
Jamie sat up suddenly. His pulse pounded with a sound like drums and the drums seemed to speak.
We crave entrance, they said.
Together, the House’s spirit and Jamie’s searched for the source of the sound, found the rathe’wen’a. The drumming eased the pain of the tragg’a’s entrance, of the evils that strode their halls. It promised hope.
Enter, Jamie and the House said with the same voice.
The window in front of Kieran swung open by itself. He turned to Ur’wen’ta, received a nod and went in over the windowsill. The others followed. Kieran crossed the room, flung open the door to the hall and saw the tragg’a swarming at its far end. Ha’kan’ta’s wolves pushed at his legs and followed Kieran as he went limping into the hall, shouting at the tragg’a. He raised his spear as the first tragg’a turned. He threw, saw the spear plunge into the monster’s side, and then realized that he’d left himself defenseless. A second and third tragg’a turned to face the new attack. Lord dying Jesus! Kieran thought. Now what?
“Down!” a voice cried from behind him.
He dropped to the floor and an arc of power ionized the air above him, striking the first rank of tragg’a. The stench of burning flesh joined with the reek of the creatures, making him gag. As though the magical attack was a summons, the tragg’a turned from whatever their earlier target had been and charged the rathe’wen’a. Their howls filled the air.
They passed Kieran in a rush. One dropped on him and he gathered his taw, burning the creature when it touched him. Weaponless? Hardly. He pushed the charred creature aside, half expecting it to turn into a man, then met a renewed attack.
Two tragg’a leaped at him, the force of their momentum throwing them all through a door into an empty room. Power crackled from Kieran’s hands as he gripped the creatures. But his leg buckled under him and he fell. He took a blow on his shoulder that bit deeply into the flesh, another down his side, before he could finish the first of the monsters. The second fell under the attack of Ha’kan’ta’s wolves.
Staggering to his feet, he made for the door, then pitched headlong to the floor. The leg wouldn’t hold him anymore. The pain of his wounds made it hard to concentrate, to hold his taw firm, to raise the power. He saw Shak’syo, the Winter-Brother, lying still beside him, the silver fur matted with blood. May’asa, the Summer-Brother, hobbled to stand between Kieran and the open door, growling low in his chest. Kieran lifted his head to see the bulk of another tragg’a filling the door.
Tucker pushed the creature Sally had shot off his chest and clawed his way to his feet. He saw Blue closing in with a tragg’a, then the creature leaped from the biker as though burned. The Inspector’s gaze followed Blue’s to his belt where Ur’wen’ta’s totem stick was thru
st. They both realized the significance at the same moment.
A shout came from the hall. That came from a man’s throat, Blue thought, not a monster’s. Tugging the totem stick from his belt, he stepped into the hall, the stick held out in front of him. The tragg’a around the bear backed off, snarling. He saw Sara lying still against the wall, then heard another shout and turned.
At the far end of the hall he saw what looked like Indians. There were three of them—no, four. Others crowded behind them. The foremost held out their hands and by now Blue knew what to expect. He threw himself to the floor as the power blast surged down the hall, frying tragg’a.
Behind him in the room, he saw Tucker moving to the door. “Get back!” he called.
As Tucker backed off, Blue began to inch his way to where Sara lay. What the hell had gotten into her? She could’ve gotten them all killed. Then he remembered she’d been saying something about a friend. Had she meant the Indians, or. . . . He glanced at the bear, but it was a bear no longer. As he watched, it changed into an eagle, wings twisted at awkward angles, to a lynx with its life dying in its eyes, to a small weird-looking man with a face meant for laughing that was now twisted in pain. The small being was bleeding from dozens of wounds.
Most of the tragg’a were now involved in attacking the strangers down the hall. The few that remained kept their distance from him because of the totem stick. Blue looked to Tucker in the doorway but, before he could ask the Inspector to give him a hand, he sensed movement from where Sara lay. He turned to find her struggling up, her face pressed against the wall. She looked at him, her eyes blank for a moment. Then she saw the little man and a moan came from her throat.
Clutching her head with one hand, she crawled to where Blue lay, passed him to press her face against the small being’s cheek. Tears streamed from her eyes. She tore at her leggings, got one free and tried to staunch the worst of the little man’s wounds with it.
“Let me give you a hand,” Blue said, keeping a wary eye on the nearest tragg’a. “We’ll move him into the room.”
Sara nodded numbly.
Pukwudji stared at her. His breathing was ragged and uneven. “We . . . we showed them . . . hey?”
Sara blinked back tears. “We did, Pukwudji. Don’t try to move. We’re going to . . . to . . .”
“Redhair . . . I was his . . . friend. . . .”
“Don’t talk,” Sara murmured to Pukwudji. She gathered his head onto her lap, looked pleadingly at Blue, then back at the little man as he spoke again.
“I see him . . . in the . . . the Thunder. . . . He stretches his . . . hand. . . .”
“Easy does it,” Blue said. He lifted the little man gently, wondering how someone who could become a bear could weigh so little.
“Careful,” Sara said, standing up with Blue, her eyes never leaving Pukwudji’s face. “He . . . he . . .”
Until we meet again . . . hey . . . ? Pukwudji mindspoke.
She felt his soul slip away first, then saw the light die in his eyes. “No,” she said, touching the little man’s cheek. “No. No!”
Something snapped inside her. The power she’d reached for as she’d stepped out into the hall, the power that had eluded her and allowed the tragg’a to strike her down, surged through her now. It flamed in her eyes, crackled at her fingertips, blossomed in the palms of her hands.
Blue threw himself against the wall as Sara loosed her power down the hall at the remaining tragg’a. Caught between two fires, hers and that of the rathe’wen’a, they finally broke. Not until the last of the creatures was dead or had fled did she stumble to her knees, the magefire fading from her hands.
“Jesus!” Tucker said, stepping into the hall, “I wish she’d give a little warning when she’s going to pull that kind of—”
“Ease up,” Blue said sharply. He laid his frail bundle on the floor and went to Sara, helping her to her feet.
“He always wanted to . . . to help me,” she said through her tears.
Blue didn’t know what to say. He looked at the body of the little man and blinked. The corpse shivered, grew transparent, then was gone. All that remained where it had lain was a small medicine pouch. He picked it up, hefted its weight. Its contents jingled.
“Sara,” he began.
Her shoulders heaved with her sobbing and she didn’t hear him. He put the pouch in the pocket of her dress and drew her close, wishing there was some way he could comfort her. Someone had a lot to answer for. He looked down the hall. They might have managed to pull through another skirmish, but the war was still on.
Kieran tried to lift himself from the floor. May’asa growled low in his chest. The tragg’a, half in, half out of the room, grinned. It began to make its move when it was pulled out of the room, its matted fur aflame with magefire. As its howl died in its throat, it tumbled to the floor. A sudden silence fell, broken only by the sound of weeping.
Gritting his teeth, Kieran hobbled to the door. He looked to the right to see two men. One was standing, the other was comforting a woman that he recognized with a shock. Sara! He understood her grief when he saw Pukwudji’s body, drew in a quick breath as the body faded where it lay and disappeared. Kieran didn’t know either of the men, but the one standing with a revolver in his hand seemed to recognize him. Didn’t matter. What was important now was . . .
He looked the other way and saw her coming to him, one arm hanging limp at her side, her dress torn and stained with blood. Mother Mary! Let the blood not be hers!
She came to him and they held each other awkwardly. Her eyes held unshed tears and not until she pressed her face against his unhurt shoulder did they fall. “They slew all but three,” she said in a voice tight with sorrow. “Ten of my kin lie dead, Kieran. How could I have asked so much of them?”
“We chose to come,” Ur’wen’ta said, coming up to them.
He was bleeding and leaned heavily on Kieran’s spear. Behind him came the other two survivors, neither of them unhurt. Ur’wen’ta touched Ha’kan’ta’s shoulder.
“Mal’ek’a still lives,” he said. “I can feel him. He is here. In this lodge. It has not ended yet.”
Ha’kan’ta shook her head. “This is how we fared against his tragg’a—how can we hope to prevail against him?”
“We must,” Ur’wen’ta said. “Or our drum-kin will have died in vain.”
“The tragg’a came at them from two sides,” Kieran said, telling Blue and the rest of them what Ur’wen’ta had told him. “They were facing you, concentrating their attack on the pack you folks were holding off, when a second pack came swarming up the other corridor. That’s when most . . . that’s when we took our losses.”
They were holed up on the second floor of the northwest tower, in Sara’s sitting room. The four rathe’wen’a sat silently behind Kieran, tending their wounds, following the flow of the conversation with their sen’fer’sa so that while the details remained obscure, they understood the intent. The herok’a—the hornless ones—were unable to receive thoughts, else they might have all spoken mind to mind.
Tucker sat by the door that opened onto the stairs leading down. His gun lay on his lap and he divided his attention between the stairs, what Kieran was saying, and cleaning an ugly gash on Maggie’s forearm. Blue and Sally sat side by side on a couch, holding hands, attentive. The biker glanced from time to time at Sara, who knelt beside a silver wolf, one hand on his back. He’d seen her start when the beast came up to her, but now they seemed like old friends. Maybe they’d both lost something today. There’d been two silver-furred wolves in the House. There was only one of them now.
Sam’s body had been left downstairs—he’d died before he even hit the ground, Tucker’d said. Jamie’d had to be half carried upstairs. They’d put him in a big easy chair and there he sat now, incommunicado. Blue glanced back at Sara. “What do we do now?” he asked aloud. “We’re not going to survive another attack.”
If we do not slay Mal’ek’a, Ur’wen’ta s
igned in fingerspeech, we will not live to see the coming dawn.
Blue nodded. Great. All they had to do was go down there and finish off this demon or whatever the hell it was, and off they could go. What could be simpler? Only half of them were dead or missing, and there just happened to be a House full of tragg’a as a complication. He wondered then about the fate of the others who hadn’t made it to the tower with them. He didn’t really care what had happened to Gannon and his goon; if the tragg’a’d got them it would just save him the trouble of having to deal with them. Old Tom Hengwr had gotten them into this, so he could get himself out before Blue was going to worry about him. It was Fred and Dr. Traupman that concerned him now. They were probably dead as well by now, but he couldn’t be sure. And if they were out there, cut off and alone. . . .
“Where is this Mal’ek’a?” Blue asked, using sign language as he spoke the words aloud.
Ur’wen’ta shrugged. He was about to reply when Jamie spoke up, startling them all. “He is in the east wing. We . . . I . . . don’t know what he’s doing.” Jamie’s brow furrowed as he concentrated. “It’s hard to see. It’s so dark there. . . .”
Tucker and Blue exchanged glances. The inspector lifted his eyebrows questioning, but Blue shrugged. “Jamie,” he said. “Can you see Fred? Or anybody else?”
“Gannon and Chevier are dead.” Jamie’s voice was hard as he spoke their names. “Tom is . . . we . . . I can’t see Tom. Dr. Traupman is dead. Fred is in the garden.”
“Alive?”
“Alive.”
“Okay,” Blue said. “This Mal’ek’a’s in the east wing. So do we wait, or do we go after him?”
Tucker cleared his throat. “Ah . . . Jamie,” he said. “Do you see any of the . . . wolfmen?”
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