“Bannion.” Just the one word from Harrison Bell sounded a warning, causing Bannion to shrug. “You wouldn’t deny the necessity, would you, Harrison?”
“No,” the older man said, “but there’s no need to push right now.”
For the first time, Bannion’s anger became apparent, leaking around his tight control. “No. And for that we can thank the guardian spirits there are no fatalities to report to weeping mothers tonight.”
Harrison’s next words sounded weaker when he replied, “Guardian spirits, yes. But I believe there’s some credit goes to Miss Lily Turnbow. If only we knew where she came from.”
“We’ll find out,” Bannion promised grimly. “Neila will have a look at her after she’s taken care of you. We need to be sure—” He broke off. “Nate, you look after her. I want her kept under observation at all times. Don’t leave her alone for a minute.”
Nate the laconic, as Lily had named him to herself, nodded. And nodded again when Bannion said he wanted a report on his scout as soon as possible.
Though she was having a hard time keeping up with what they were saying, Lily didn’t quite like the tone of this particular promise. But it didn’t stop her from fading into unconsciousness and falling off the log.
Chapter 10
Lily jerked awake as if zapped with an electric cattle prod. Muscles protested as she sat up, dizzy, her vision whirling.
In the few seconds it took her equilibrium to right itself, she stared around the room trying to make sense of these strange surroundings. Nothing struck her as familiar. Not the cot, layered in fresh linens, in which she lay. Not the wooden ceiling or log walls. Small and dimly lit by a single kerosene-type lamp, the chamber smelled medicinally of rubbing alcohol and sharp herbs, all overlaid by the scent of food. Her nose twitched. Her stomach growled with need.
“Where am I?” The old saw was true, she discovered. Bewildered people did ask themselves that question. More importantly, how had she gotten here?
She perceived the presence of someone else in the room. Quiet breathing drew her attention to a cot separated from her own by a curtaining sheet hung between them and a small nightstand. On her half of the stand sat a half-filled bowl of soup with a clean spoon at its side. A brown bottle closed by a glass stopper struck her as vaguely threatening. Gauze pads and bandages took up the little remaining table space.
Whole body aching, Lily leaned on her elbow and rolled until she could reach the curtain and pull it aside. The person in the other bed had his back to her, but she knew it was a man by the shape under the covers. Bandages swathed his upper body.
Okay. This must be a hospital of sorts. But where? What kind of facility put a man and a woman in the same room? She must’ve been airlifted to some rural facility short on space or personnel after the scrap last night, but she didn’t remember the flight. What she did remember were disturbing, yet realistic nightmares of three-eyed mutants, a black-and-white dog, and a man—no, two men—on horseback. One of the men had amber colored eyes. The other dark.
Oh, yeah. And hunger. But that was no figment of her imagination. Her stomach growled again, more forcefully this time.
Overwhelmed by the empty gnawing, Lily reached across the nightstand and snatched up the soup bowl in a shaking hand. The contents, still lukewarm and floating chunks of carrot and minced beef, only reached midway up the sides. Just as well since otherwise she would’ve spilled it over the patchwork quilt covering her. Which would be a pity as the soup was too good to waste. Using both hands, she tilted the bowl to her mouth and swallowed greedily, the salty taste feeding a deep need. Why did she feel so starved?
The why didn’t matter. Her stomach accepted the food with a grateful rumble and asked for more. She set the empty bowl back on the stand, the clink of pottery against wood joined by a whisper of movement hidden by the other bed. Ears pricked, a black-and-white dog peeped around the edge of the bed at her, the dog in her dreams. Lily almost strangled on her sharply indrawn breath.
“Sliver,” she said, as if from far away, and the dog’s ears moved forward and backward, acknowledging his name. Not a dream then, which meant the mutants and the men on horseback and everything else probably weren’t either. Despite herself, she groaned. Across from her, the man’s even breathing sounded a different note. Good. Someone around here damn well better be able to answer the questions cluttering her brain before she went crazy—if she wasn’t already.
“Mr. Bell?” she said to the occupant of the other bed, her voice loud in the quiet room. “Is that you?” Lily swept the curtain back on jangling rings, removing the barrier. If the rest of what she remembered was real, then the man in the other bed could be no other than Harrison, the gleam of his snowy hair the deciding tip-off.
Turns out she was correct, not that being right did anything but puzzle her further.
Bell shifted in the bed, grunting a little as he rolled over and scooted himself higher on the pillows. “It’s me. About time you woke up, Lily Turnbow. The family’s been wanting to talk to you. I’ll call Neila.” A pull cord dangled above his bed. Despite her staying motion, he reached up and yanked. “That’ll bring her.”
Lily heard a mellow pealing in the distance; a few seconds later footsteps headed their way. Make that two sets of footsteps, one set a whisper, one set the clomp of boot heels. Memory flooded back. She bet she knew who the boot heels belonged to.
She won the bet, glimpsing the patrol leader or sheriff or whatever he called himself. Not the man who’d brought her in, the other one. They’d called him Bannion, she remembered. He hovered in the shadows behind the woman, riding shotgun. But it was the healer who garnered Lily’s attention. From everyone’s respect and implied awe she expected someone larger-than-life, but instead of stately, the rather hard-faced woman who entered the room mostly looked tired and worried.
“Lily Turnbow,” Harrison Bell said, “meet Neila Bell, our healer.” He struggled to sit upright.
Neila, a woman no more than ten years older than Lily, nodded civilly before motioning Bannion forward to help Bell. It allowed Lily a moment of observation. Neila, she saw, was about her own size. Sporting no discernible make-up, and her dark brown hair bound into a low ponytail with a strip of leather, she wore an apron with filled pockets tied around her trim waist. She had a pair of leather, fur-lined slippers on her feet, and carried a pitcher of water in one hand, a glass tumbler in the other.
Lily licked her dry lips, happy to see the water. She wasn’t so sure about the people.
Lifting the pitcher in a kind of salute, Neila said, “Thirsty, Lily? When we put you to bed, I noticed you’re considerably dehydrated.”
“I’m parched. Thank you.”
Unsmiling, Neila nodded.
Lily’s hands trembled as she took the glass of water Neila poured and guzzled it down in a few gulps. It had an artificial citrus tang, but in a moment she felt stronger.
Neila set down the pitcher and went to Harrison’s side, bending to pull back the bandage and sniff the wound.
“Better,” she pronounced. A brief smile flashed. “You’ll do, father-in-law. We thought we’d lost you, you know.”
Apparently Neila was related to the old man by marriage, her husband someone other than the patrol leader. Hopefully, Lily’s care of Mr. Bell the night before would weigh in her favor.
Bell nodded. “Told you I’d be fine. Lily Turnbow did good, getting that piece of spear out.”
It was credit Lily didn’t believe she deserved. Bannion may not have thought so either, for he stepped closer to her bed and stared down at her.
“You ready to have that discussion we talked about?” he asked. “I have a question or two.”
Her hold on the water glass tightened. If she disliked showing weakness in front of the healer, which she did, showing it to the sheriff tried her even more. He never took his eyes off her, as she’d disappear if not pinned by his gaze. She had a hunch he’d find some way to use any failings against her. Why?
“Sure,” she said. “Ask away. But I could use more water.”
“I’ll get it.” Neila lifted the pitcher. Water splashed.
“Thanks.” Going slower this time, she drank down the whole glass, making Bannion wait.
A flash in his dark eyes indicated impatience. “If you’re all comfy, how about telling us who you are and where you’re from? And what you’re doing here?”
“That’s three. Three questions,” Lily pointed out, her head growing lighter by the second.
A muscle in his jaw flexed.
“I’ve already answered the first,” she added. “I told you my name is Lily Turnbow. I’m a United States Border Patrol officer based out of Metaline. My team saw action last night when we got a tip about a plane flying in from Canada. The tip was good, because along about midnight a plane landed on the lake. Since we’d been warned of something big but non-specific, we were a mixed bunch, FBI, DEA, Border Patrol, County Sheriff’s office. We weren’t sure who we’d be dealing with, you see. Drug dealers or terrorists or what. But then everything went to hell. Got in the middle of a firefight.” She fell silent a moment, remembering, then continued. “We lost, I think. Had a collaborator in our bunch. I got in a hand-to-hand, then this guy wearing akafiyah stabbed me with his knife a few seconds before that big noise and the flash.”
Bannion and Neila exchanged a wary glance as Lily rattled on.
“What was it? Do you know? No?” She frowned. “I thought I was a goner. Anyway, I guess I was unconscious until I woke up this morning sick as hell.” She paused, thinking. “No. Make that I woke up yesterday morning.”
“What’s she saying?” Neila asked before Bannion held up a warning finger and silenced her.
Talk about running off at the mouth. Short of stuffing it full of blanket, Lily couldn’t seem to stem the flow of words. It was as if she’d been injected with a truth serum. Even as the thought occurred that the admirable Neila had slipped a drug into the water, her mouth kept right on flapping.
“That’s when I staggered out of the mausoleum and found everything was different from the night before.” She peered up at Bannion. Weak, totally uncharacteristic tears flooded her eyes. She dashed them away. “I couldn’t…can’t figure out what happened! How can everything change like that overnight, huh? Answer me that.”
No one stepped forward to speak, so she rambled on. “Then I had to kill that miserable creature in the bushes. Then the dog stole my pheasant so I followed him—do you know his name is Sliver? Isn’t that a strange name for a dog? I followed him, trying to get my bird back. After the longest time I came to a cave where I met Mr. Bell and Jacob Felix, and we all got into another fight with those awful creatures and here I am.” She took a breath. “Where am I?”
Bannion flicked a glance toward Bell. “I thought you said she didn’t talk much.”
Bell chuckled and shook his head. “What did you put in the water, Neila?”
“Oh, a little herbal something. Nothing harmful, I assure you. I’ve never seen it affect anyone like this. It’s a relaxant, is all.”
“I’m probably super sensitive because my stomach is empty,” Lily announced, her words slurring. “It’s like I haven’t eaten or drank in a lifetime. I’d better warn you folks that you could be in trouble. I didn’t give permission to treat me with any quack drugs. I happen to have an idiosyncrasy to several things. They sometimes have bizarre side effects.” She thought she sounded quite calm considering her brain was chattering like a fear-crazed monkey.
“Now what’s she saying?” Neila asked again, whereupon Lily threw back the quilt, and stood up, swaying. She was clad in her bra and panties. Well, thank God for that. Better than bare skin, anyway.
“I’ve got to pee,” she announced. “Right now.”
“Damn it, Neila.” The sheriff, his lip curling as though the sight of her disgusted him, turned away after a brief look. “You gave her too much juice. Send somebody for me when it wears off.”
On his way out, the man’s boot heels pounded the wooden floor loud enough to make Lily’s ears ring.
***
Leaving the hospital, Bannion crossed the compound, silent and still at this hour, on his way to headquarters to confer with his cousin Selkirk. Yellow light shone through the windows of the big barn as he passed. A quick arpeggio of song spilled from the open door. Someone, probably his cousin Mallie’s husband, tuning his fiddle in preparation of sawing out dance music at the party later on tonight.
On top of the victory this morning, clan folk had a homecoming to celebrate. He planned on joining them a little later, but first he needed a word with the clan leader. Selkirk had left the matter of the stranger to him and the interrogation hadn’t gone all that smoothly.
“You’re in charge of clan safety. Do whatever seems right,” Selkirk had told him a few hours ago as the last of the camp wagons rolled into the ranch yard and drew to a stop. Being the head honcho, Selkirk’s immediate concerns centered on settling his people. That meant every one of the home place buildings was open and aired, fires lit and the kitchens up and running. Next came turning the livestock out to pasture, and arbitrating any quarrels arising from who got what rooms for the winter.
Bannion grimaced as he walked, glad the responsibility didn’t lie on his shoulders. But disposing of the bodies scattered in the woods and across the big meadow, that chore did land squarely on him.
“You,” he instructed a few men taking their ease listening to the youngsters talk about their first battle, “lug those Mag’s bodies out to the pit yonder and set them on fire while the wind is right. I don’t want them raising a stink later.”
They got the job done with only a little grumbling. Not too many argued with a warrior of Bannion’s mettle, a matter of some pride to him. He snorted. Couldn’t count his Cousin Nate Quick in that group of non-arguers. Nate feared no one and did what he wanted, when he wanted, consistently ignoring Bannion’s orders unless they agreed with his agenda. Funny he turned up just in time to save the woman today.
Nate spent most of his time off somewhere scouting or exploring. And he was damn good—no, the best ever in O’Quinn legend—at both those things. Selkirk’s forte was making sure his people worked together for the good of everyone. He left defense and espionage problems to Bannion and the patrollers, quipping that he was glad to do so.
Feeling the weight of his cousin’s trust, Bannion ended up outside Selkirk’s headquarters. He cut across the side yard to the rear of the house. Before knocking lightly and slipping through the back door, he took a moment to survey the yard. All quiet, praise be. Herd dogs patrolled the hills tonight, and at this moment everything was peaceful. He figured the victory over the Mags today should keep the mutants quiet until spring, except, perhaps, for the occasional stray.
Bannion found Selkirk in the act of sitting down at the kitchen table to a hot, though delayed dinner of elk steak and fresh bread rolls.
“Fetch a plate,” his cousin said, waving him in. “There’s plenty over there on the stove.”
Bannion sniffed the aromatic air. “Who cooked? Not Neila, for sure. She’s been busy. Besides, nothing is burned.” They had a standing joke that it always took Neila a full week to relearn the art of cooking on a wood-burning kitchen range instead of over a campfire with her trusty Dutch ovens.
Grinning, Selkirk stabbed a slice of roast and dragged it through the rich, brown gravy. “Auntie Doris cooked. These rolls are so light they practically float.”
Bannion needed no more encouragement, finding himself a thick crockery plate and piling it with meat, assorted fresh vegetables and four of the rolls. “Been a long time,” he said, sitting in a chair as if wary it might collapse. But the height eased his knees. Some different than finding a convenient stump to sit on, he thought.
“I haven’t been in a house since spring,” Selkirk said. “You?”
“Once. A farmer invited me in.” Bannion savored a forkful of steak.
&nb
sp; “You oughta go with Nate sometime. Farmers regularly ask him in to eat with them.”
Bannion nodded. “He’s a good ambassador. Good at taking care of any wandering Mags might be hanging around the farms, too.”
“He is. And they show their appreciation.” Replete, Selkirk sat back and sipped his tea. “Harrison’s female have anything to say for herself?”
“Oh, yeah. Plenty to say.”
“And?”
“I don’t know what to make of her, Selk.” Bannion crammed half a roll in his mouth. Chewing gave him a moment to compose his thoughts. He didn’t want his cousin thinking he was weak, but the woman’s dark haunted eyes and worried demeanor struck a chord in him. She seemed as bewildered about her place here as he. Where had she come from? Her wild words earlier came back to him. Eerie.
All she had going for her was Bell’s and Felix’s championship, and in the scope of the clan’s survival, that didn’t count for much.
“The kids in the fight, they’re telling me things about her that don’t hardly seem likely,” Selkirk said. “Surprised you haven’t mentioned anything.”
Bannion smeared the rest of his roll with wild strawberry preserves. “You’re talking about the fireballs.”
“Of course I’m talking about the fireballs. What else? So what are they? How did she pull off that ruse?”
“I don’t know. Neila took her clothes, all but some damn skimpy underwear, and we went through them together. We found some peculiar things, all right, but nothing that accounts for the fireballs. The woman says they were just there when she needed them. We didn’t see anything that makes her a liar.”
“You mean any trick fire lighters or the like.” Selkirk took a careful sip of steaming tea. “Came when she needed them, eh? I guess we know what that means? She’s magic, like Felix is saying. Another damn Cross-up after all this time. What’s it been since the last one, fifty years?”
“Damned if I know.” Bannion poked a bite of meat in his mouth and chewed with enthusiasm. “But I saw some of those fireballs with my own eyes. They were real, Selk.”
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