Ursa Unearthed (Scourge Survivor Series Book 2)

by JL Madore

  "You look like hell," I said, my voice thin.

  He tilted his face to his shoulder and wiped blood and sweaty filth from his eyes before raising my trembling hands to the warmth of his mouth. After kissing both, he blew on them and held them against his heaving chest. "Are you hurt?"

  I shook my head. "You?"

  He rubbed his shoulder then winced when his fingers ran down his side. "Swiss-cheesed a bit, but I should live."

  I looked at a gun lying on the cement and my head spun. Closing my eyes, I leaned my back against my driver's door. "Good, because I might kill you myself. What the hell did you drag me into? And if you tell me it's complicated, I swear I'll lose it."

  His voice was close and deep. "I told you. You just don't believe me."

  Bruin traced the bear tattoo on my palm. "We've got a mess to clean up and probably cops on the way. We need to get our asses in gear and clear out."

  "What do you mean? We killed three people. The police will want statements and photograph of the scene. We'll probably get taken in and—"

  Bruin flashed a tired smile and straightened. "Not an option. Is your tailgate locked? I need to take out the trash."

  I shook my head. "I don't know what's happening here but in my world, we catch bad guys and the police take them away. We don't slit throats or snap necks. And we certainly don't shove dead people into the back of my truck."

  His stare was dispassionate. "They're not people. Stop feeling guilty."

  I cringed. How could I have made such an intimate connection with someone so callous? "Not anymore, but an hour ago they had lives and families and a future. Doesn't that bother you even a little?"

  Bruin rounded on me, reached under my arms and marched me to the front of the truck. He set me down hard on my feet and pointed. "No. Like I said, they're not people . . . at least not like you know them."

  I looked down and gasped.

  In front of my truck lay two very dead, scraggly, Great Dane-sized dogs. I looked over to where I shot Hulk. Same thing, just a bigger heap of matted bloody fur. "Where did the dogs come from?"

  "Jackals. They are Weres. Like Werewolves except they're jackals," he said, watching my reaction. "Like I said . . . complicated."

  I couldn't breathe. I rubbed my temples, a screamer of a headache taking root in my skull. Sinking onto my bumper, I let my head hang forward. The garage spun and I didn't relish the idea of revisiting my bagel from lunch. "I'm having a nervous breakdown. Some kind of PTSD from the attack last night."

  "No. You're not."

  There was no other explanation. At least not a logical one. "I don't know who you are Bruin, but this is way too World of Warcraft for me."

  He chuckled.

  I failed to see an ounce of humor in the situation. Then it hit me. My head flipped up and I scuttled back along the bumper until I ass-planted on the concrete. "You're one of them . . . those animal-people."

  "Weres," Bruin corrected, righting me against the truck before stepping back.

  "You're a jackal-man?"

  Bruin's his face twisted in disgust. "If I were born a jackal, I would have slit my own throat at birth. Jackals are vile, stupid cowards. Honorless mercenaries. Their loyalties lie with whoever pays the highest price for their services. Even then they turn tail. I'm no fucking jackal."

  "Then what are you?"

  He bit his bottom lip and his stare seared me. Scanning the pavement, he toed a mangled scrap of what used to be his cell phone. "Look, I'll answer all your questions as soon as we're somewhere secure. Right now, we need to make tracks. Give me your cell."

  "It's dead."

  "Of course it is." His hand grazed his blood drenched hip and he hissed. He leaned against the hood of the Humvee and stared into the darkened sky. "Once you're safe and I'm back on my feet, I'll call for backup."

  "Back on your feet? You need help now? Can't you call your Were-people to—"

  He growled low in his throat and stiffened. "Neither of us has a phone. Besides, Weres don't tolerate weakness. My animal will rage at being vulnerable if another Were sees me like this. It's too dangerous . . . for everyone. What we need is a place away from the city where we can hunker down for a bit. A natural place where other Weres won't pick up your scent."

  "My scent?"

  "Technically it's my scent, but you're throwing it off in waves." The quick glance he shot my way was heated and possessive.

  Uh huh. I swallowed and reminded myself to avoid eye-contact. "How remote are we talking and why?"

  "Remote. An animal scent in the city is out of place, easy to detect. An animal scent in the wilderness—"

  "—could be just another wild animal."

  "Exactly." He paced around the three bodies dragging them until they lay side-by side. "Gods, I can't even think. You can't know . . . me . . . a mate . . . it changes everything."

  Mate? "Look, Bruin, regardless of what you think, I'm not your mate. That's ridiculous."

  He glared, the two of us lost in a whole lotta silence. After a moment, he seemed to lock himself down and nodded. "Fine. I'll take care of this, answer your questions, then you can walk away and get yourself killed."

  He hauled back and hoofed the dead dog-man and then grabbed it by the scruff. "But FYI, now that you carry my scent they won't stop until you're dead or their prisoner. They think I’ve got something they want and have been waiting for something to hold over me."

  He hefted the mass of fur and blood into the back of my Humvee with a whump that bounced the shocks and then held his palm up. "I'm last man standing. The Fates offer one mating opportunity to a Were. One. If you're dead, my line dies with me." He wiped his tattooed palm against his jeans and turned away. "Plain and not-so-simple."

  Bruin grabbed the next dead jackal by the tail and the third by the hind leg and dragged them to the tailgate of my truck. He tossed them in with a huff and then twisted back to glare at me some more. After gathering my Taser, the remaining guns and some ripped pieces of clothing off the concrete he tossed them in the back seat and grabbed his side.

  The growl that tore from his chest had me taking a good look at him. He wiped his scarlet hand against the thigh of his jeans and listed against the truck.

  "Shit Bruin, you're really bleeding."

  "What else is new?"

  I rushed to open the passenger's door. "You need a hospital. Get in."

  Bruin belly laughed and cast me a droll stare. "And what will you say when they type my blood and it's not human, or I pass out and return to my base form? They'll call the lab-coats and I'll be a freak in an experiment for the rest of my life. No thanks, I'd rather bleed out."

  As I scooped my stuff back into my purse I got an idea. Punching the console open, I pulled out a roll of duct tape and a Swiss Army knife. From the inside pocket of my purse I snagged three square, yellow packages and unfolded the plastic wrapping. I pointed to the passenger's seat. "Sit."

  He tensed at my command, but eased himself up into the seat and I went to work cutting off his sopping shirt. Shit, what a mess. Swiss cheese my ass. He was mulch. With all that blood, it was hard to know what to address first.

  When I pressed the maxi-pads against the front and back of the biggest hole in his side, he growled low and deep. "You're fucking kidding me, right?"

  "Don't give me any macho crap. It's a good idea. Hold here." I bit off two long pieces of tape and secured the makeshift dressing to his skin and unfortunately the hairs on his chest. When his side was covered I repeated the process for his shoulder and then got into the truck.

  Sirens. There were sirens in the distant streets.

  "Try not to move," I said, turning the keys. The engine rumbled to life and accelerated in a low growl out onto Granville and toward the highway.

  Bruin looked down, his chest vibrating with a steady growl. "Un-fucking-believable."

  "Hey. You said no hospital, so shelve the hostility. Do I look like Florence Nightingale? No. But here I am, helping you, regardless o
f the fact that you've totally screwed my life."

  "I've screwed your life?" he snorted, flipping his bangs and pegging me with a glare. "That's a two-way street, baby. My life was fan-fucking-tastic until we collided: respected warrior, friends I'd die for, a home-life you could never imagine, and enough free time to have fun with the ladies. Now I'm shot, can't access my magic, I'm stuck in the Modern Realm and I'll be lucky to live out the week. Oh, but even if I do, I can forget about the one chance I have for cubs or a family because the woman the Fates bonded me to is human and wants nothing to do with me."

  I focused on the road, my mind stumbling on his words. Cubs?

  When I finally opened my mouth to reply, he held up a bloody palm and let his head drop back. "You're right. Not your problem. Don't even worry about it. I feel like shit. I'll most likely drop dead and you'll be free to resume your life."

  "I don't want that, Bruin." Glancing sideways I froze. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow and his colour was sallow. "I don't want you dead . . . but you're a grouchy bastard when you're hurt, and I happen to have my own life too. One I enjoy very much."

  He turned his shoulders away from me and groaned low and deep against the window. "Drop it. I haven't got the strength to fight."

  I leaned over the steering wheel and tilted my face to the nasty grey sky. The mist from earlier had transformed into droplets and now the droplets were dollops. I turned on the wipers and realized where I was headed. I trusted only one person with life's madness. I pressed harder on the accelerator, turned onto Highway 1 and headed north toward the 97.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Dusk had relented to dark by the time I blew along the streets of the reserve and arrived at the two-bedroom box-house I grew up in. Despite everything, I smiled as I pulled in. Even the silvery light of the moon could not mask Grandfather’s idea of 'vintage' sitting in the driveway—crappy old beater was more like it.

  The laneway spit out pea-gravel as my tires skidded to a crunching halt.

  Bruin hadn't moved for—I looked at the clock on the dash—shit, too long. Way too long. The only way I knew he remained conscious was because he was still beautifully human. Well, he looked human. I flexed my tattooed palm, but the burning didn’t ease.

  I cast a sideways glance. "You with me, big guy?"

  Nothing. "Okay. I'll be two minutes and then another quick hop and we'll be back-roading into the caverns. Hang in there." I wasn't sure he heard, but he might have stirred a little. I raced inside, my boots clicking out my panic as I burst from room to room searching for Grandfather.

  What if he was with the Chief and Council tonight or visiting someone off the reserve? I didn't have time for this. "Dammit!"

  "Cursing in my home, Rabbit?" I spun toward the stairs and my breath caught, never so glad to see the man who raised me in all our years. His voice was full of censure, but his faded brown eyes held nothing but love. He eased himself down the last of the steps, his gnarled fingers curled around the newel post of the swaying rail.

  "Grandfather," I gasped. Taking his hand, I helped him to the old willow chair, blinked hard and reined myself in. "Forgive me. I have a friend in my truck who is badly hurt. I need you to come help me tend to his wounds."

  "Why come all this way, child?"

  "You'd never believe me if I told you."

  Grandfather squeezed my hand and I realized how badly they trembled. He paused until I looked at him. His silver hair, parted in two thick braids, framed his weathered face as he waited for my attention. "I always hear the truth in your words, Mika."

  True. But this? He waited.

  "Well, Bruin is . . . he's a . . . well, he isn't exactly human. I know it sounds crazy, but I've seen it. Three men attacked us. When Bruin killed them they turned into jackals. Big, huge, dead dogs."

  Violent images from the parking garage flooded my mind. I pinched my eyes shut. "No, he only killed two. I killed the third one. Oh god. I killed someone. It was horrible. I was so scared . . . but he shot Bruin . . . twice. He would've killed him. I didn't know what to do—"

  Grandfather stilled my flailing hands and his energy eased me. "Focus, Mika. Tell me of your friend's injuries."

  "He's been shot. He says he's part animal too. Like a werewolf or something. He needs help, but can't go to a hospital. I did what I could, but I need you."

  Grandfather pointed toward his study. "Very well, let us see what we can do to help ease his suffering."

  I hurried down the hall and unhooked the worn medicine bundle from its place just inside door. Then I went into his study to gather his pipe and feather and slipped them inside the hide pouch as well. "Bruin said we need to hide somewhere natural and remote."

  I kept one hand under Grandfather's elbow as we crossed the driveway. He grunted as he climbed into the back seat of the Humvee and righted himself. After eyeing the heaped corpses behind his seat, he rolled down his window, closed his eyes and lifted his face to the rising moon. With my hands tight on the steering wheel, I stared into the rear-view mirror and waited for him to tell me the Great Spirit's guidance.

  Finally, he nodded. "Take us to frog-mouth cave, Rabbit."

  I shifted into drive and headed toward the caverns near the back boundary of the reserve. As we drove through the darkness, I told him everything I could about Bruin and the tattoos appearing on our palms and the men who came after us in the parking garage. "I'm sorry to involve you in this. I didn't know where else to turn."

  The wrinkles around his eyes deepened as he smiled. He leaned forward and squeezed my shoulder. "You turned in exactly the right direction. Now let us get him inside."

  Bruin rallied enough to hold some of his weight as we shuffled him into the back of the frog-mouth cave. Carrying him would have been impossible. He was built like he'd been carved out of marble. Adonis, on leave from some exotic museum.

  I lit two camping lanterns and laid out the blanket from the back of my truck. It wouldn't make it comfortable, but Bruin was in no shape to care either way. Once we got him horizontal, we stripped off his clothes to assess his injuries. I grabbed a half-empty water bottle that had been rolling around in my back seat and tried to get him to drink.

  Grandfather touched my wrist and shook his head. "Breathe, Mika. Take a moment and think about what you offer."

  I looked at the plastic bottle of stale water and exhaled. "I'll be back."

  Back in my truck, I rooted through the gift bags from last night at the pub. The burl mug Liane had given me was solid cherry and hand carved. I snatched it from the bag and ran to the edge of the stream. After I said a prayer and made my offering, I dipped the mug into the running current of the stream.

  By the time I returned to the cave, Grandfather had removed my makeshift bandages and begun rewrapping the wounds in linen strips. I lifted Bruin’s head into my lap and gave him some water, watching Grandfather smear a pasty poultice over the strips. With the bandaging complete, he began to chant and smudge.

  Sage and sweetgrass smoldered in a large shell in the palm of his hand. Like I'd watched him do a thousand times, he drew his eagle feather through the smoke and over Bruin's heart and head, clearing away the negative energies and drawing in the positive.

  I knelt beside them and tried to find calm, remembering the times I sat on Grandmother's lap as a child. She loved watching him tend to the sick of our community, so proud of her husband.

  After Grandfather finished with Bruin, he smudged me and nodded at the half-empty mug of water in my hand. I took a small sip, the scent of the smudging and Grandfather's chant comforting me like nothing else. I sank cross-legged on the cave floor and absorbed the rhythmic cadences straight into my bones.

  What a mess. Blood covered everything. Bruin was minced with bullet holes, gouges, and tears in his flesh that went bone deep in a couple of places. It was like a gory scene in a horror film except that it wasn't a movie. That was real life that had leaked out of him and pooled black into the dirt.

  His eyes
fluttered and my insides twisted. The vibrant glow of turquoise was gone, replaced by a dull grey.

  Forcing a smile, I tipped the edge of the mug to his swollen lip and let another trickle slide into his mouth. "You're in good hands, Bruin. My grandfather knows about healing with nature."

  Bruin managed to swallow once before his head lolled to the side. I fit his marked palm to my own and laced our fingers together. The tattoos lined up perfectly, just as they had in the parking lot, and the instant they connected my palm stopped burning. In truth, size difference aside, our hands fit together like the pieces of a puzzle.

  Leaning close to his ear, I repeated the words he'd spoken to me last night in the tub. "Just relax. I've got you."

  He squeezed our palms together and smiled. The contact was insanely comforting, like the sensation of slipping into the soaker-tub after the tension of my attack. Bruin half-opened his eyes and his gaze drifted to our hands.

  "Don't worry, big guy. Get well. We'll figure out what to do about all this, okay?"

  Bruin's eyes fell shut again.

  "He has a powerful energy, though his injuries are grave. I removed the bullet from his shoulder. The one on his side traveled straight through. There are many deep wounds which worry me, though, more so because I have no knowledge of how his people heal."

  Grandfather's curled fingers tightened the lid on a small jar of citrus liniment he pulled from his satchel. "My ointments will help, but we need the aid of the spirits for him to heal fully."

  "Thank you, Grandfather. I'll pray for—"

  A surge of energy snapped through Bruin's hand to mine. I released my hold and shuffled back. Bruin's muscular form shimmered. His hulking frame stretched and broadened. It seemed to double in size and then again in mass. An instant later, instead of a man on the cave floor there was a mass of silver-tipped, chestnut fur.

  I staggered back.

  Part of me wanted to scream, while the other part of me was held transfixed. Though he'd told me he was a Were, part of me hadn't believed it possible until I was staring at his animal form. "A bear. Bruin is a bear."