by Eileen Wilks
Silly heart. It had speeded up. Arjenie beamed at him, feeling all fond and warm. He trusted her to know her limits—to push them sometimes, sure, but at the right time and place. Which this wasn’t. Her family, wonderful as they were, never seemed to think she might know more than they did about what her body could and couldn’t do.
“Sure,” she said. “Wouldn’t want that nice jacket to lie around in the dirt.”
“You need to go somewhere to change into a wolf?” Porter asked.
“I prefer privacy,” Benedict said.
Which wasn’t exactly a lie, Arjenie thought as she followed him to the far side of the pickup. But she suspected it was the knives he wanted to keep private, not the sight of him Changing. Just like it was his weapons he really wanted her to take charge of, though she’d keep his clothes for him, too. That’s why she’d brought a backpack.
That, and it was a handy way to carry three pounds of hamburger.
“Turn down your light,” Benedict told her as he shucked off his jacket. He paused. “Please. It interferes with my night vision.”
She grinned and dimmed the mage light to firefly level. Benedict was getting better, but he was used to telling instead of asking. She unzipped the backpack and took out the hamburger, which she unwrapped and set on the ground. “Sheriff Porter has the same problem you do. He defaults to orders, not requests. I thought you wanted to ask that deputy some questions? The one who knows something about bears, I mean.”
“I changed my mind.” He slipped out of his jacket and held it out.
She folded it, frowning. “Why?”
“Got a feeling. Partly it’s a smell . . . faint, nothing I can identify, not in this form. But my back-brain doesn’t like it.” He unbuckled his belt. “You can get the knives after I’ve Changed, but I want you to wear my gun.”
Arjenie made a face as she stuffed the jacket in the backpack. Until a couple months ago, she’d never shot a gun. Benedict had changed that, and she agreed that with a war on, however secret it might be, she needed to be able to shoot. The problem—and this was annoyingly girly of her—was that she flinched. Not every time, but sometimes when she squeezed the trigger, she’d flinch and the shot would be off. She’d stopped squeezing her eyes shut when she squeezed the trigger, but so far the flinch still happened about one-fourth of the time, which made her unreliable.
On the upside, when she didn’t flinch she was a decent shot. “I’m wishing I’d let you talk me into bringing my SIG ,” she said, accepting his holstered weapon. Benedict’s .357 was too large for her hand, but she did know how to shoot it. “I flinch less when I use it.”
He touched her cheek. “Is that almost the same as saying I was right?”
She grinned. “Almost. Benedict . . .” In the darkness she could feel the heat from his body. He was so warm. So powerful and alive.
“Yeah?”
“I remembered something else about grizzlies. They have a bite force of twelve hundred pounds per inch.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“A wolf’s bite force is only four hundred pounds per inch. That’s not really an ‘only,’ but compared to a grizzly—”
“I’ll be very careful.” He cupped her face in both hands. “You will be, too.”
“I can make it not see me or smell me.” Smell being especially important, since grizzlies were thought by some experts to have the best nose of all the mammals. Arjenie wasn’t entirely persuaded by the methodology used, but there was no doubt a grizzly’s sense of smell was extremely acute. “You can’t. Plus you’ll be trying to protect everyone.” Because that was what he did. He couldn’t help himself.
“I’ll have help with that. The sheriff’s made sure his people have rifles. My weapon has good stopping power for a handgun, but with a bear, a rifle is better. That reminds me. If you do end up shooting, empty the clip.”
With that romantic utterance, he dipped his head and kissed her.
His taste flowed into her in a sweet rush—musk and man and wild, that pheromic hint of otherness her tongue surely wasn’t clever enough to detect. Yet it did, or she did, or something. He kissed her with the controlled intensity he brought to every task, with a calm focus that announced there was nothing in the world more important than her mouth. Nothing more important than her.
When he lifted his head, she smiled, feeling twice as settled as she had a moment ago. He really was calm. That wasn’t an act to reassure her. Meeting her family might have scared him, but a grizzly bear—that, he knew what to do about.
She rested one hand on his chest. The other still gripped the holstered .357, she was glad to notice. It wasn’t a good idea to drop a loaded gun. “I sometimes wonder if, years ago, you determined the exact amount of fear that would keep you on your toes without being a distraction, and that’s how much you allow yourself to feel.”
“Fear can be useful,” he agreed. “You want me to fasten the holster for you?”
“No, I’ll get it.” She’d worn a belt today, which was lucky, because she usually didn’t, so she undid it and pulled it out of the belt loops. While she did that, he Changed.
In the darkness she couldn’t see the Change, but even if she’d been staring straight at Benedict in bright daylight she wouldn’t have seen much. She’d talked to several of the women at Nokolai Clanhome, asking what they saw when lupi Changed. Their answers were notable for how little they agreed and included things like “a swirling darkness,” and “They sort of fold up and unfold at the same time,” and “They flicker in and out.” A few said they didn’t see anything—one moment there was a man, the next a wolf. Or vice versa. Whatever happened in between, they either didn’t see it or didn’t remember what they’d seen.
The sheer variety of answers supported Arjenie’s theory that the human brain wasn’t set up to process what happened during the Change, so it made things up. Sadly, cameras weren’t set up to process it, either. Digital or film, static or video, all they recorded was a spot of visual static.
Whatever the process, Arjenie knew it involved a great deal of pain, but the pain never lingered beyond the transformation. The faster a lupus could Change, the better, and some places made the Change easier than others. She wished she could ask the enormous wolf now gulping down three pounds of raw hamburger how this spot measured up—compared, maybe, to Changing on Delacroix land—but she had to stick to yes-or-no questions when Benedict was wolf.
He’d finished eating by the time she gathered his clothes and shoes—and not two, but three knives, and where had he hidden that wickedly slim blade?—and got them stashed in the backpack. Then they went back to the others.
“Took a while,” Porter said. He was staring at the wolf beside her.
“Did it?” Arjenie looked around. “Where’s—oh, there he is.” Sammy was on the ground, folding himself into slow, careful knots. Yoga was great for focus, and Arjenie always thought she should do it more often but never followed through. But Sammy had taken to yoga like a seal to water—as if he’d found his second element.
Benedict had trotted over to the crime scene tape that marked the entrance to the path. He sniffed around at the grass there, then looked over his shoulder at her. “Do you smell bear?” she asked.
He shook his head but kept looking at her expectantly.
“You want to go first?”
He nodded.
“He really does understand,” Porter said.
The sheriff had a funny expression on his face—not exactly scared but not exactly not-scared, either. Amazement was part of it. “He told you he would.”
“It’s different, seeing it.” He seemed to shrug off his reaction, turning brisk. “Okay. I’ve got two deputies waiting by the creek, and while you were busy I checked with them. Nothing happening down there. Let’s go. Arjenie, you will let us know if you need help.”
She agreed that she would and they set off.
Chapter Eight
Benedict ducked under the crime sc
ene tape and started down.
As he had told the sheriff, some kinds of thinking didn’t come easily for him when he was wolf. But this puzzle would need both sides of him, so he made the effort to hold on to words and concepts he knew mattered. It helped that this Change, unlike the one earlier, had been intentional.
He did not like relying on humans for backup. They were scent-blind all the time and literally blind on a dark night. Which this was. The moon might be nearly full, but most of her light was trapped by the low-hanging clouds. But you worked with what you had, and so far the only scents he was picking up on the path were human, with faint traces of other animals—raccoon, rabbit, mice, fox. The wind was from the southeast and steady, blocked somewhat by the brush and trees, but what reached him brought no warnings.
It was an easy descent on four feet. The two-legged ones following him were slow, but he was in no hurry. Their slowness was good for Arjenie, who was in the middle of the pack. The sheriff had arranged it that way, which earned the man some points with Benedict. Clay Delacroix brought up the rear.
Being human, the ones behind him needed flashlights, mage light, and words to make their way down the side of the draw. Most of their speech was to the point—Watch out for that branch or There’s a big step down here. Twice Porter asked Arjenie how she was doing, which must have annoyed her. She’d said she’d let them know if she needed help. Was the man unable to take her at her word because she was female, or did he treat everyone with a physical impairment like a child?
The path leveled as abruptly as it had begun. Ahead was flat, gravelly ground tufted with grass—a cul-de-sac, he saw as he stepped forward. Rocky outcroppings that had refused to erode at the same rate as their brethren flanked either side of the flat, sandy area where the body had been found, spinning the creek in a wide curve around them. The water of that creek was smooth, dark, and almost silent.
The two men standing near that water were silent, too. And armed. And wearing uniforms. One of them aimed a flashlight at him, blinding him—but not totally. He saw it when the other man raised his rifle.
“Dammit, Rick,” the first man said, “don’t shoot him. That’s the lupus the sheriff told us was coming.”
If he knew that, why was he still shining that damn light in Benedict’s eyes?
“Yeah, but—”
Benedict decided they weren’t going to shoot and moved out of that annoying flashlight beam. And stopped, his lip lifting in a snarl and his hackles lifting—not at the men. At the stink—faint but unmistakable. He lifted his nose to be sure of the direction, then approached the bad-smelling place.
Blood, yes. But that was the least important of what he smelled.
“What’s he doing?”
“How the hell do I know?”
“Turner.” Porter, who’d been behind him on the path, was still misnaming him. “What have you—hell, I can’t ask him that, can I? Lower your damn rifle, Rick. I told you what to expect.”
“Is that where the body was found?” Robin asked. “I imagine he smells the blood.”
Porter shook his head. “Rick, Jimmy—it would be nice if someone kept an eye out for that bear. Fan out and face out.”
Seri said, “If he starts licking the grass, I’m going to hurl.”
“Shut up, Seri.” That was Arjenie, coming closer as she continued, “Benedict, do you smell bear?”
He took one last, deep sniff and lifted his head. What he needed to tell them could not fit into a yes-and-no set of questions. Sometimes this form was limited, but . . . he trotted down toward the creek. The ground was damp here and bare of grass. Good. He looked over his shoulder at Arjenie and waited.
She hurried to him. “You want me to see something?”
He nodded once, then used his paw, holding it at an angle so one claw only dragged through the damp dirt. It was awkward and would win no penmanship awards, but it worked. She her mage light lower so she could follow as he scratched out: D-E-A-T-H M-A . . .
“Death magic?” Arjenie exclaimed. “Is that what you smell?”
He nodded and kept writing: B-E-A . . .
“Death magic and bear?”
This time when he nodded he sat to let her know that was the full message.
“What in the world does that mean?” Clay had moved closer. “Can he really smell death magic?”
“I’m told it has a distinctive and highly unpleasant smell,” Arjenie said. “Nothing we can detect, of course, and I don’t know if magically null animals smell it. But lupi definitely can.”
“If there’s enough death magic present, I’ll be able to detect it with the scrying spell,” Robin said. “If not, we’ll need the defining spell.” She looked at Benedict. “Would you say there’s a lot of death magic there?”
He shook his head. If the scent hadn’t been so distinctive—and so distinctly unpleasant—the reek of bear and blood would have covered it up.
“What could death magic possibly have to do with a bear?” Porter asked.
Arjenie answered. “I guess we’ll have to figure that out, but I can think of all sorts of possibilities. Maybe someone laid a compulsion on a bear using death magic. Or it might not be a real bear but some kind of phantasm summoned through death magic. Or someone used a bear somehow in a death magic ritual, then had him eat the body. Or it’s something we’ve never heard of that involves death magic and a bear—maybe something Native American? Because—”
“Pretty fanciful.” Aunt Robin gave her A Look.
Arjenie interpreted that to mean she wasn’t to mention that the twins had been experimenting with calling on Native Powers. She could see the reasoning. Whatever they’d done, it hadn’t involved death magic, and mentioning it now would probably mean lots of long explanations. Better to get on with what they came here for. “We can’t eliminate the fanciful without more data.”
“True.” Uncle Clay was brisk. “Sheriff, it does look like we’ll be needed. We’ll get our circle set, but if there’s death magic involved, you’ll want to call in the FBI.”
“I’m aware of that.”
Robin had placed her tote on the ground and knelt there to unpack it. Spell stuff, Benedict assumed. His nose identified sage and rue and lilac. She had a small brazier, too. “Let’s get started.”
Arjenie moved near her aunt to help. Seri and Sammy—who’d been whispering to each other, perhaps forgetting what good ears he had—came to join them.
Those two were guilty of something. Most of their whispers had been twin-speak and he lacked a translator, but he was pretty sure they’d been assuring each other that what they’d done couldn’t possibly have caused this.
He checked on the two deputies. They’d fanned out and faced out, like Porter told them. That was something, but the man should have sent one of them up onto that southern outcrop of granite. Good vantage point. Good place for something to launch an attack, too.
But he couldn’t correct the sheriff’s failings without speech, and at least those rocks were upwind. His nose should tell him if anything used them to approach their group. Better get on with what he came here for.
Clay came toward him. “We’ll check that bit of fur the sheriff has, but I’d like some dirt from the place where you smelled death magic, too. Can you show me where to get it?”
Clay would get blood as well as dirt. The ground was saturated with it. Would digging there disturb the scene? Benedict looked at the sheriff, but the man was asking Robin something, not paying attention to Benedict. Well, Porter had said they’d already searched for evidence. If he didn’t want Clay digging, he could say so.
Benedict pointed out the edge of the worst-smelling spot to Clay, then put his nose to work another way—following the bear-plus-death-magic reek the creature had left on the ground.
Following a scent trail was not as simple as humans seemed to think. It was easy to tell the difference between fresh scent and that laid down hours ago, but the scent he needed to track was at least a day old, and the
bear had been all over this ground. That one spot smelled more strongly than the rest told Benedict the bear had lingered there with its kill for some time.
Yet it hadn’t eaten much. Benedict considered that as he moved around the edges of the open space, sniffing. Not only had the bear left much of its prey uneaten, it hadn’t bothered to cache the body for later. He didn’t know for sure if bears did that, but it was a common predator behavior. But this bear had gobbled up the treats—the liver and kidneys, maybe—and abandoned the rest.
Not a very hungry bear, was it?
He’d nearly finished his check of the perimeter when he found what was either one wide scent trail or two overlapping ones headed for the creek. A little more checking confirmed that it was the only scent trail out of here. Damn. He couldn’t track through water. Maybe he could pick up the trail on the other side of—
The sharp crack of a rifle split the air.
Benedict ran.
Chapter Nine
Arjenie knelt beside her aunt, who sat on the ground, hands linked with Uncle Clay. The two of them were meditating while the twins and Arjenie handled the prep work. Sammy was drawing the physical circle in the dirt with his rowan rod; he’d leave a “door” open for Seri, who was dipping water from the creek. Arjenie’s job was the kindling.
It was especially important to do all the prep with clear intent since they hadn’t had time to cleanse themselves ritually, so she gave her entire attention to each twig as she laid it in the brazier. Her Gift was allied with Air, so the fact of her laying the kindling brought that element into the mix, plus she’d place a feather on top to—
A single crack of thunder shocked her ears.
A speeding chunk of night sideswiped her.
She tumbled over on her side in the dirt. By the time she pushed up onto hands and knees, her mind had sorted those events into meaning. Someone had fired a gun. Benedict had knocked her down. And vanished.
Not literally. He’d moved too fast for her to see where he went, but being Benedict, he would be racing toward the gunfire, having told her the only way he could to get down while he ran off to fight or rescue someone—which, in his mind, were the same thing.
