Natural Evil

by Thea Harrison

  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.”

  The dog’s bitter-chocolate eyes narrowed on her in such disgust she had to grin.

  “That really how you talk to him?” Jackson bit into a chicken leg and said around a full mouth, “Can’t believe the dog hasn’t bitten you yet.”

  “I know,” she said. “Can’t believe it myself. Isn’t he great? Think I might have to get him a rhinestone collar. He’d look good in pink.” The Wyr snorted softly, but he made no move to take the morsel from her hand.

  Why wouldn’t he take the medicine? She tried to think of what she would do in his position. She said to him telepathically, It’s okay to take the meds. I’m Special Forces, retired, I’m armed and I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’re safe. You don’t have to be in pain, and you don’t need to stay alert tonight.

  Holding her gaze, he gently took the morsel from her fingers. He had to struggle to swallow it past bruised throat muscles, but he got it down.

  Inexplicably his act of trust hit her hard, and her eyes grew damp. She rubbed the corner of his ear and said in a husky voice, “Thank you.”

  When she slid into her seat, his head was near her feet. With a near-silent grunt, he shifted so that he could rest his chin on the toe of her shoe. When she felt that slight weight come down on her foot, she held herself so stiffly, her muscles started to ache in protest.

  She hated it when her eyes leaked. She would rather be shot than cry. She had been shot before, so she knew what she was talking about. And he had made her teary twice in one day.

  Goddamn dog.

  Chapter Three

  Law

  He knew he needed to make some decisions soon but he figured making one was enough for this shithole of a day. Deciding to let go, trust the woman, and take the pain medication was it. It wasn’t like he could actually do much until he healed more, and the woman had saved his life. And he didn’t think she was the type of grandstanding idiot to claim she’d been Special Forces if she hadn’t been. She owned a gun and she knew how to use it.

  Not many women became Green Berets. Of course, not many men did either. He liked what that said about her. Said she was strong, unusual.

  He liked her scent too. She didn’t wear any perfumes, and her clothes had been laundered with scent-free soap. He breathed in as deeply as he could. She had a clean, healthy fragrance that held a hint of gun oil.

  Actually, that was kinda hot. Although “hot” was a fairly hypothetical subject at the moment. Still, serious though his wounds might be, he was only hurt; he wasn’t dead.

  The medication kicked in. It didn’t take his pain away. It just put it at a distance and stuffed his head full of cotton so he didn’t care so much. He ran down a list of his injuries. His body was one big bruise, but soft tissue healed quicker than bone, and his raw, abraded skin would be closed over by morning. The deeper damage to his throat and the other muscles from the two bullet wounds would take a bit longer.

  He didn’t know about the broken ribs. Without access to high-end Powerful healing, he guessed they would knit in three or four days. Since he was recovering from so many injuries at once, the breaks might take longer. More like a week, maybe ten days.

  Normally a week wasn’t long. Normally that amount of time might seem miraculously quick, compared to the healing time needed by the much more fragile races, such as humans or faeries.

  But he didn’t have a week to recover. He had about as long as it took for word to get out that he hadn’t died. Not long at all.

  He tried to think through his options. Exhaustion and the stuffed cotton in his head kept interfering, plus the woman and the man started talking as they ate. He focused on their conversation. He liked the woman’s voice too. It was strong, clear and confident. It suited her. She seemed pure in a way that had nothing to do with all the puppies and flowers and shit that came with youthful innocence. Her purity was sharper, brighter, he thought. It had been forged in a tough fire and was tempered with experience.

  “Your ticket, driver’s license and registration are still sitting on my kitchen counter,” the male said.

  “Thanks. I’ll get them later.”

  He struggled to remember their names. Ah, that’s right, the vet was Jackson. The woman had told him her name was Claudia.

  Claudia. He loved that name. It suited her. There was no shortening it without turning it into something totally ridiculous and alien, yet it was feminine without being too frilly. It was strong, like the rest of her.

  “That’s fine,” Jackson said.

  What was fine? He wasn’t tracking too well. Damn cotton in his head. Shouldn’t have taken the meds. It messed with his thinking.

  Jackson was continuing. “
Was thinking about you and John when I went to pick up supper. What you said and didn’t say.”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Claudia. “I didn’t say anything to Rodriguez, or about him. All I said was I didn’t know him, or you.”

  “It was more your attitude than anything else,” Jackson said. “Look at us. We’re perfect strangers. We still saved a dog’s life, we’re eating supper and drinking beer together, and you’re staying in my trailer tonight.”

  She burst out laughing.

  “All right, that sounded more suggestive than I meant it to.” Jackson sounded embarrassed. “My point is, you wouldn’t have done this with John. There was something about how you reacted to him.”

  The dog made an immense effort, raised his head and took hold of the hem of her jeans with his teeth.

  Claudia didn’t move. “I was annoyed. I knew he was still going to ticket me even though I was just trying to save the dog’s life.”

  He said, “Okay, that’s got to be true enough. But I think it’s more than that, because it wasn’t just you. It was John’s attitude too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jackson was silent a moment. Then he said, “You know, Nirvana’s like any other small town. There are a lot of personal soap operas, and half the folks who attend church go for the gossip. You know the kind of thing. Usually somebody done somebody else wrong. Or maybe they have something or someone that somebody else wants. At its heart, though, this is a simple place. This town is owned. It has one big employer, the Nirvana Silver Mining Company, and one owner of the company, Charles Bradshaw. His son, Scott Bradshaw, actually runs the mine.”

  “That’s a lot more than I knew a couple hours ago,” said Claudia. She leaned sideways to slip her hand under the table. She stroked the dog’s head, her fingers moving so gently over him, he sighed and let go of his hold on her jeans. The meds made her touch seem far away, just like the pain. He wished it were otherwise. Gods, he was tired. He put his chin on her shoe again.

  “As you can tell, the power structure around here is not complicated.”

  “Where are you going with this, Jackson?”

  “I don’t know.” He paused. “Yes, I do. See, John has to answer to the powers that be. And Scott Bradshaw is dumb and mean. John isn’t the only one affected by that, of course. Everybody in Nirvana has to bear that particular cross. Scott’s father is smart and mean, which is a whole lot worse, but at least Bradshaw Senior lives in Las Vegas and pretty much stays there. Scott, though—I could see him torturing a dog. He has a hellish temper.”

  “Does he, now.” Claudia sounded thoughtful.

  “Or maybe one of his cronies would abuse an animal,” Jackson said. “Scott’s got four or five buddies who aren’t any better than he is. So maybe one of them did this. Then John has a problem on his hands. Maybe he has to clean up other people’s shit or he’s the one that lands in trouble with Bradshaw Senior.”

  “Nobody’s forcing Rodriguez to be sheriff,” Claudia said. “Man’s got choices.”

  “I know he does.” Jackson sighed. “Hell, I don’t even know what I’m talking about, anyway. This is just where my imagination went when I was in the diner.”

  “The law is a funny thing,” Claudia said. “When it’s fair and impartial, and it’s on your side, it can be the backbone of society. But when I was in the army I saw a lot of corruption in various communities at the local level. Somebody taking the law and using it for his own ends? That never turns out well.”

  Shortly after that conversation, Jackson left, a gust of sand blowing in the door before he slammed it shut behind him. She cleared away the takeout containers.

  The wind had picked up until it sounded an unending, mournful howl. The trailer was warm but the floor seemed chilly to her, so she collected one of the old cotton blankets she had found and shook it out over the dog’s prone figure. She checked on the container that held the pot roast dinner. The meal had been too hot before, but it had since cooled to a comfortable level.

  The dog had been dozing, but his eyes opened when she sat down on the floor beside him with the container and a couple of dinner rolls. Her guess had been right, the floor was chilly. She tucked a corner of the blanket over her legs. She tore off a piece of the roll, soaked it in gravy, and held it out to him. He looked at the morsel of food but didn’t move.

  “It must be really painful for you to swallow right now,” she said. “But try a few pieces. Please. You’ll get your strength back more quickly if you can eat.”

  He took the food with obvious reluctance. She looked away from his struggle to swallow as she prepared a second bite. She added a sliver of meat to it.

  “I think we have something of a simple binary situation,” she said. “Either/or, yes or no. Only this time, it’s a matter of can’t or won’t.”

  She offered him the bite. He accepted it, watching her with wary, drug-glazed eyes.

  “I’m not sure if you can’t or won’t shape-shift,” she said. “My guess is you can’t because you’re too hurt. I could see how you might pretend to be a mundane dog, except that pretending won’t get you anything. If word hasn’t gotten out already that you lived, it will. Rodriguez knows that you survived the trip to the vet, and your reaction earlier told me that’s not necessarily a good thing.”

  She offered him a piece of potato. He just looked at it. She dropped it back into the stew and held out a piece of meat. He took it carefully from her fingers and worked to swallow it.

  “I’m not surprised about Rodriguez,” she continued. “I could tell he was walking some kind of line earlier. He made each ethical decision as he came to it. Should he pull the gun and shoot you? How much did it matter that I was a witness? Could—or would—he really go so far as to kill me too? I don’t think it was a coincidence he pulled me over just after I found you. I think he was looking for you. Maybe he’s the one who tried to kill you. But that doesn’t feel right.” She didn’t think Rodriguez would have left the dog alive beside the highway. The sheriff looked like the kind of man who also knew the impact of a well-placed bullet.

  She sounded out another idea. “Maybe somebody was supposed to kill you and fucked up. Someone dumb and mean might be capable of that. Then Rodriguez was sent to make sure the job got done properly, only I found you first. That sounds plausible. But what are you doing in Nevada and why would somebody want to kill you? Logic won’t tell me those things. Only you can and you won’t talk. Won’t, not can’t, because you could tell me telepathically if you wanted to.”

  She held out another sliver of meat. He closed his eyes. He looked utterly exhausted, the skin around his eyes sunken. Emotion twisted in her gut. She closed the container and wiped her fingers on a napkin. “Okay,” she said gently. “You get a free pass tonight. I won’t push.”

  He was a dual-natured creature, one of the Elder Races. It was probably patronizing and even insulting to pet him as if he were a mundane dog. She struggled, but then gave in to the impulse and stroked his well-shaped head again. He responded with a deep sigh and seemed to relax a bit, as if her touch comforted him.

  She supposed he could always tell her to stop. That would be one way to force him into speech. She could pet him into talking. Stroking his soft ear, she looked across the floor, at her legs crossed at the ankles, and the long length of his body.

  “Precious, you are one big son of a bitch,” she said with a ghost of a chuckle. “I’m sorry you don’t feel like you can even tell me your name.”

  She was tired of hearing the sound of her own voice. It was a strain to talk so much after having been silent for days on the road. She fell quiet and listened to the wind.

  That was when the strange voice came into her head.

  Telepathy was a funny thing. Even though it was an entirely mental experience, the mind attributed different voices with the same kind of characteristics as it would physical ones.

  The voice Claudia heard was deep and male, with a touch of an
accent.

  My name is Luis.

  She paused in petting him, as she absorbed that. Hearing his name, even though she had already known he was Wyr, seemed to cause some kind of intangible but very important shift.

  “Thank you, Luis,” she said quietly. “You’re going to be all right. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

  Luis felt a deep resonance at the words. What she said was something he might say to someone else. But there was something wrong about those words being spoken to him, something somehow backward. The cotton in his head kept him from fully connecting to why that was, and he fell asleep trying to figure it out.

  Claudia felt restless and her mind kept churning over recent events. To give her hands something to do, she fetched the Tarot deck in the wooden box, along with the paperback she had bought that explained the Elder Races Tarot. She flipped through the paperback desultorily, but she had already read about the Major and Minor Arcana, and at the moment she wasn’t really interested in reading the rest.

  Instead, she opened the antique, painted box and pulled out the hand painted deck. As she did so, she thought back to the strange way she had acquired it.

  A couple months ago in January, while she was wintering in New York, a slender woman had stopped her in the street. The city was still recovering from a major blizzard in late December. The streets were heaped with great mounds of dirty snow, and leftover Christmas and Masque decorations dotted shop windows.

  She and the woman had been walking past each other, just two bundled-up pedestrians among hundreds of thousands in the frigid, snowbound city, when the woman turned suddenly and took hold of Claudia’s arm.

  She didn’t think the other woman realized how dangerous that was. Claudia spun but managed to check her instinct for violence. She got an impression of dark, gold-tipped corkscrew curls, a warm, brown complexion in a thin, intelligent face, and hazel eyes behind wire-rim glasses that widened at her fast reaction.