A Feral Darkness

by Doranna Durgin

  Taken together, her features made people assume certain things of her. Because of her face, they thought her to be incessantly cheerful, and possibly just a little naive. Because she was tall and lean unto gawkiness, with big hands and bony shoulders and a body that, although it had decent dimensions, couldn't seem to assemble itself in gracefully, they somehow thought her to be unsophisticated in a charming way, perhaps even someone to be protected, as her father always had.

  But she wasn't. She could meet a challenge as well as anyone, and stand up for herself along the way. And that's what her smile said to Masera, a smile she'd startled herself with because she never bothered to use it on people who couldn't manage to perceive it, and here it was. Some part of her had realized the truth before her thinking brain…that he could see beyond her features, beyond her appearance.

  The hard smile surprised him briefly, much as she'd meant it to—but it didn't seem to put him off, also as she'd meant it to. There was something about him that intensified, leaping to meet that look; something in those hooded eyes.

  "Wait till you heal up from whoever kicked the tar out of you," she told him. "You don't want to have to call me in to lift a dog for you."

  "Like you did for Roger," Sammi said with a wicked little grin—right on cue, her eyes lighting at the thought. Like all the PePP volunteers, Sammi was grateful for the adoption days allowed by Pets!—but it didn't make her blind to the way Roger managed his people.

  "You see," Brenna said. "People hear about these things here. We watch out for one another."

  "We do," Sammi said, quite aware that she was playing a role in a larger conversation that she didn't understand, but willing to team with Brenna to do it.

  Again, amusement flickered across Gil's face, settling at one side of his mouth. The side with the split lip. "I'll keep that in mind," he said, and left the room—but somehow left some trace of his attitude behind.

  It kept Sammi silent and thoughtful. Brenna gave it an internal scowl and jumped up to prowl the offerings of the snack machine, thinking hard about chocolate. She was still prowling when Sammi spoke up. "Who was that? Why don't you like him?"

  "Because he doesn't like me," Brenna said, which was indeed what it basically boiled down to. Judging her and Elizabeth simply because of the way they might—or might not, given that he'd never seen them—handle dogs.

  "Something didn't like him," Sammi said. "Car accident?"

  "Fight, I'm betting," Brenna said, thinking of how similar Russell had looked and moved the time several high school rivals had teamed up to put some hurt on him. Not truly to damage him...just to make a point.

  A very hard point.

  Brenna sat on the corner of the table, struggling with the cellophane on the brownie she had just rescued from the depths of the machine. "Anyway, I am being careful about the dog pack. Not even going out at night. At least I don't have anyone leasing the barn right now...though I ought to try to get someone in there this spring." She broke off a piece of brownie, popped it into her mouth, and spoke around it. "Is it true? That no one's actually seen any of the dogs?"

  Sammi hesitated, long enough for Brenna to sift through her own recollection of news briefs on the radio, to and from work. Someone had found a mauled cat on the edge of their property and the wounds were determined to be dog-inflicted. Someone else had found a small mutt in the woods edging a farmer's field. But had anyone seen the pack? Had anyone seen even a single dog?

  Gil Masera knew something, that was for sure.

  Or he thought he knew something.

  "No," Sammi finally said, picking at the tab opener of her soda. She looked up at Brenna. "But plenty of people have seen what they've done. We've got PePP members out in your area right now—someone found another dead dog last night, a little Jack Russell mix. Some of us volunteered to look for signs of the pack. And Janean is at Lakeridge right now with a second dog—this one's alive. It's hurt, but alive. It'll go through quarantine, and if the owner hasn't shown up, we'll take it on till it heals and place it." She gave Brenna a dark look. "It used to be a real pretty little Sheltie mix. So don't tell me those dogs aren't out there somewhere. And don't you get careless about them."

  Brenna held up both hands. "Like I said, Sunny's crated." Never mind explaining Druid, who was crated right along with the hound but had disdained the bone Brenna had left him; his stare had bored into her back as she'd left the house, sending the certain message that he was supposed to be coming with her, regardless of where she was headed. "And I'm not going out after dark, at least not until this whole dog pack thing is sorted out or broken up or whatever."

  "Well, good," Sammi said, mollified. She took a swig of her soda while Brenna chewed the brownie—mostly cardboard, but her body seemed to think it was getting chocolate—and said, "Tell me again who that was?"

  It took Brenna a moment, since she hadn't said anything on the subject in the first place. "Gil Masera, you mean? Says he's a trainer. Looks like he's going to be working out of Pets!. For a while, anyway."

  Sammi waggled her eyebrows at Brenna, no part of subtle. "Bet he cleans up nice."

  Brenna laughed at her—Sammi was at all times an earthy delight—but her reply was sober and certain. "And I'm betting he won't be here long enough to find out. Guy with an attitude like that? Roger won't be able to hang on to him."

  But he knew something. And before he went, she wanted to know what.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  CHAPTER 6

  HAGALZ

  Disruption Born of Human Need

  Brenna set the rifle against the barn and pulled her target paper off the ancient hay bales she had stacked high, two deep and three wide behind the barn—a nice, broad buffer. Just in case. So far she'd been shooting with a surprising accuracy, considering how long it had been—but then, she'd always had a feel for this old .22.

  On the other hand, she'd never pointed it at a moving target. Or a living one, for that matter. And she fervently hoped she would never have to.

  She stuck the shredded target between two bales and decided against shooting another round; a glance at her watch—five-thirty—told her she had only forty-five minutes until the sun went down, and she still wanted to take Druid on a walk around the pastures.

  Pastures, hell. She wanted to take him to the spring. To match his footprints against those that appeared from nowhere. And...some part of her wanted to see how he reacted to being there at all, although the rest of her didn't want to admit it, simply because it all didn't quite make enough sense.

  She reloaded the rifle, double-checking that she hadn't accidentally chambered a round, and then left the chamber open and the rifle on the porch. Inside the dog room, Sunny beat her tail against the side of the crate in greeting; Druid merely gave Brenna a dignified and offended look at having been left behind. Brenna shrugged her vest on over her black hooded sweatshirt, made sure Sunny saw her fill her pockets with broken biscuits, and then turned the Redbone loose as she leashed Druid. Sunny wasn't reliable on come, but as long as Brenna had biscuits, she wouldn't go far.

  On the porch, Brenna hesitated, then reached for the rifle. Never in her life had she walked the pastures with a firearm for self-protection. It felt distinctly different—strange—from when she walked out for target shooting. "Better safe than sorry," she told Druid in melodramatic solemnity.

  Druid was unimpressed, and much more interested in the prospect of a walk. He capered before her, never quite pulling on the lead—a gentleman, he was—but as happily carefree as she'd yet seen him, this silly dog who often whined while chewing his bones, all the important thoughts slipping out. Sunny slid under the gate that Druid navigated without so much as ducking, and they both waited impatiently for Brenna to use the boring human method of open-and-close.

  Once out in the pasture, Sunny ran giant circles around them, so pleased with her freedom that Brenna began to doubt the decision to let her stretch her legs. But when Brenna patted her pockets Sunny came chargin
g to her side, so she relaxed. Chill spring, early evening, and she was out of the grooming room and here in her own little corner of the world. Druid settled to a steady trot beside her, his short legs flashing to keep up with her naturally long stride; together they went down the steep, short bank and then followed the creek to the spring.

  The cigarette butt caught her eye first thing.

  It lay directly down the hill from the spring; shocked, she stared at it in dismay. Not only had someone been here in this place that meant so much to her, he'd flung his trash down and left it, a harsh visual curse for her to trip over. And so stung was she by its presence and all it implied that she didn't attend Druid's sudden worried whine, the series of small jerks against the lead—he who had capered at the end of it in careful compliance and respect of its length.

  Sudden memory hit her; the spring she had found the gravesite scattered, the spring defiled. She sprinted up the hill to it, Druid hanging back, protesting—

  Druid, no!

  Brenna stopped short. Someone else's voice, someone else's fear. And the strange sensation struck her again, the feel of her world folding in on itself. Druid, no! Fear and grief and desperation and a great flash of light, and then Druid screamed and threw himself back on the leash, flopping and fighting and pulling Brenna back to the cool air against her cheek, the diffuse light of a clear, crystal-edged spring night reclaiming her vision.

  "Druid!" she snapped, having had quite enough of the little fits and everything that came with them. "Druid, that's enough!" She put her foot on the leash close to his collar, restricting his fit, and it didn't slow him in the least. Nor did it slow him or even seem to reach him when she crouched close, her foot still on the leash, and said in the most matter-of-fact tone she could manage, "Druid, no. No. No."

  When he did stop, his eyes wild and foamy spit on his lips, it was only because he was exhausted; there was no intelligence in his eyes, no response to her quiet words. As soon as something moved, as soon as he got his wind back, he'd start again—she had no doubt. So with coordination that surprised even herself, she set the rifle down, pulled her foot from the leash, grabbed him up, and bounded to the bottom of the hill, where she placed him on the ground.

  He stood in disheveled shock, panting, but his eyes no longer wild. After a moment he shook himself off, put his bottom on the ground, and looked up at her as if to say, "Well! Wasn't that something!" Brenna took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh of relief. Straightening, she fished for the flopping end of her braid and stuck it in her pocket.

  A throat cleared. A masculine sound.

  Brenna jerked her attention to the creek, to the other side of it. He stood there, looking back at her, meeting her startled gaze evenly. "Interesting dog you've got there."

  "Looks that way," Brenna said shortly, thinking with sinking stomach of the rifle out of her reach. But the creek was between them, running cold between two steep banks, and loud enough to discourage casual conversation. "The fence is there for a reason. This is private property."

  He shrugged, not the least affected by the news, and rolled an unlit cigarette between his fingers. No doubt it matched the stubby filter she'd spotted upon arrival. Otherwise, he was not so different from her—dressed in jeans and a vest over a light jacket, hiking boots on his feet. And not a big man, no bigger than she, though with more meat on his bones. His hair, a bright blond, matched a neat but full mustache with glints of gold in it; both were clean and trimmed. Nothing about him to make her wary, aside from her initial resentment of both his presence and his littering.

  He gave her that time to look him over and nodded at the .22, up on the hill. "Do you always carry a gun?"

  "It's a rifle," Brenna said. "I was target shooting."

  "Earlier. Yes, I heard."

  "I usually have it," she said, answering his first question—if not with the strict truth, but following sudden instinct.

  "I know I'm trespassing," he said suddenly, taking a step closer to the bank as he stuck the cigarette in his mouth and dug in his front pocket for what she presumed was a lighter.

  "Don't light it unless you plan on taking it with you," she said, with a pointed look back at the butt on the ground behind her.

  Startled, he stopped with the flickering lighter halfway to the end of the cigarette, and then let it go out. "I can wait," he said mildly. "I didn't have to come back when I saw you, you know. If I hadn't wanted you to know I'd been here."

  Again, she looked back at the cigarette butt.

  He grinned at that. "If I hadn't wanted you to know it was me."

  She shrugged, an acknowledgment of sorts. Behind him, the southwestern sky deepened, a cerulean warning of impending twilight.

  Parker said, "The place means something to me, is all. I was here with some friends, once. Last time I saw one of them before he died. And the other one...buried him a couple of months ago. So the place calls to me, I guess."

  Brenna hesitated. She didn't recognize him, which was odd enough; she didn't know all of the names of her most recent neighbors in the divvied-up farmland near Emily, but she knew their faces well enough. And yet he was charming enough. Not her type, but she had no doubt that smile got him plenty of attention. No reason, aside from the discomfiting circumstances of their meeting, to heap rudeness on him. "If I couldn't tell you'd been here," she said, careful with her words, "I might not care."

  "Thanks," he said, and bestowed his smile upon her.

  "Don't take it as an invitation," she said.

  "I'll take it for what it is," he told her, and ducked his head to light the cigarette, glancing up at her as he drew a deep draught of it. She thought it was his parting comment, but as he turned away he added, "Best get inside. I hear there's a pack of dogs running wild in the area."

  You don't look so worried. And he didn't, walking away through the winter-mashed grass with a distinct lack of purpose in his stride.

  But she tied Druid to a sapling on the bank and went up to retrieve the rifle, hesitating only long enough to check his footprints in the dimming light, the old against the fainter, newer imprints, mostly obscured by the disturbed turf from his little fit. Long enough to decide that they could have come from the same dog, not long enough—and not enough light—to say for sure.

  "Sunny!" she called, her best pasture-spanning bellow. "Suuun-ny!" She slapped her pocket a few times, making the biscuits rattle. Druid made an interested noise, in case she'd forgotten he was there and perfectly willing to relieve her of the burden of carrying all those terribly heavy biscuits. "In a minute," she told him, and switched to escalating tactics. "Co-ookies!"

  Sunny might never learn her name, but she knew cookies down cold. In moments she galloped up, a clump of last fall's burrs stuck to her neck, her tongue hanging long, and her expression eager. Brenna murmured, "Silly," and tossed her a biscuit, which the hound snatched out of midair. She tossed one to Druid, too, but it boinked off his forehead as he made no attempt either to catch it or to get out of its way. Once it hit the ground he snatched it up fast enough.

  "That," Brenna said, "is something you'll have to learn if you want to hang around with me."

  He's somebody else's dog.

  "Yeah, yeah," she muttered to her warning inner voice. Somebody else's strange dog. But he was here for now.

  Here in her life, along with strange black moods in the night, a stranger at her spring, dog packs roaming the rural woods and farmland, and one really annoying dog trainer.

  For now.

  ~~~

  After that, Brenna made daily visits to the spring area, checking for signs of trespass. But since the weather remained dry and the unwelcome visitor had been warned about his cigarette droppings, she couldn't be sure if he'd been there. There were signs of disturbance by the footbridge that crossed the creek a little way to the west—without question, the way he was getting from one side to the other—but raccoons and coyotes tended to hang out there, anyway.

  Well, there was a w
et weather system on its way in; she'd have a better indication after that.

  She caught glimpses of Gil Masera and his healing bruises at the store, and even saw the periphery of one of his rare afternoon classes—a beginners' class from the look of it, with young dogs sproinging off in all directions, owners looking exasperated, and Masera with a new and different expression, something softer than his habitual judgmental preoccupation. He was enjoying himself, she realized. He enjoyed the dogs being dogs, he didn't get uptight at the frustration of the owners. And to judge by his reputation—for she checked, in those days after he'd shoved his card at her—eventually those clownish and clueless wonders from his beginners' class would settle down into respectful canine companions.

  And in those days after the encounter at the spring, Druid stayed quiet and normal, and graduated to sleeping on her bed. She began to hope that his fits had been spurred by the trauma of his time spent lost and frightened; he even accompanied her to work several times without reaction.

  No one called for him. The vet's office couldn't match the rabies tag partial up with any of the Cardigans in their service. No one placed an ad in the paper. The days added up to a week since his arrival, then two...and even three.

  "I just can't imagine someone not looking for a dog like this," Brenna told Emily one Sunday evening over soda at the Brecken table, with Emily's husband Sam puttering happily in the basement and the girls watching a movie while they tickled, scratched, and otherwise adored Druid.