“I can talk and drive, but you go have your discussion. I’ll let Isen know what’s going on. Call or text me when the situation changes.”
“I will.” She disconnected and frowned out at nothing in particular. In the last hour and a half she’d given an official statement, done some thinking, called Benedict’s men, called Uncle Hershey—she’d volunteered for that, since Aunt Robin and Uncle Clay were busy—and called a friend she worked with in Research. Foolishly, she’d left her computer back at the house, and while she could surf the net on her phone, she couldn’t access some of the databases she needed with it. But Susan had promised to do some digging and get back to her.
She’d also called Cullen, who basically agreed with her theory. Or at least he agreed it was a possibility, but neither of them knew enough about that end of things, so she needed to talk to Nettie. And now she’d let Rule know, and he would let their Rho know and see that Nettie called Arjenie. The question lingering in her mind was whether she should call Ruben Brooks in his capacity as head of the FBI’s Unit Twelve. That’s who would investigate an incident involving death magic.
Not that the presence of death magic had been confirmed officially, of course, but Ruben didn’t have to wait on that if he didn’t want to. The Unit had wide latitude to investigate where it wanted.
It was also spread really thin these days. She’d wait and see if the sheriff had contacted the FBI himself, she decided. Sheriff Porter would take the federal intrusion better if it was his idea.
Having done what she could, she opened the car door and got out. More waiting, coming right up.
Several miles away, a wolf lay on his stomach in a shallow depression in the earth tucked between the roots of a large oak. A small short-haired dog curled up next to him, panting softly, her eyes closed. The wolf’s head was up, his eyes alert. He was as still as stone.
His stomach growled.
The little dog’s eyes popped open. He gave the wolf an accusing look. You’re supposed to have such great control.
Benedict had had some experience with mental speech, having conversed with a dragon a few times. It was harder to do in this form. Words were always more work when he was wolf. I’m hungry, yet I haven’t eaten you. That’s control.
The little dog sneezed.
Benedict sighed. You can’t find him, can you?
I haven’t found him yet, the other corrected him testily. That is not the same thing as can’t.
Benedict stood. I’m going to hunt.
Of course you are. Maybe once you’ve filled your belly we can get back to saving your woman’s family and however many others he wants to kill.
Benedict looked at him coldly. The little one whose body you’re using needs fuel. She lacks my size and my coat, and she’s exhausted. Without food, she’ll be unable to keep going much longer. If the weather continues to grow worse, the cold and exertion could kill her.
A pause, then: You’re right. I dislike that.
Stay in the hollow I dug, out of the wind.
The mental voice was very dry. I might have thought of that myself.
Had he been in his other form, Benedict might have flushed. Embarrassing to be giving such a one advice. However annoying he might be, he was a Power . . . or some portion of one.
He started to turn away. Paused. Could you check again . . .
On your Arjenie? The terrier cocked her head. She’s fine. At least, her cousin isn’t worried about her.
Benedict turned and tried putting some weight on his right rear leg. It hurt like blazes, but the wound had closed and he could use it if he had to.
You’re sure about what she’ll do? the other asked.
Yes. There was no doubt in his mind about that. She wouldn’t be sensible and safe. She’d come to him, and she’d bring help. Arjenie didn’t know what they were up against, but she would have seen that bullets didn’t stop the bear, so she’d bring his men with her, not the sheriff. He didn’t know how long it would take her, or if her aunt and uncle would accompany her as well. He hoped not. They were in grave danger. But with or without them, she would come.
Once he’d checked the function of his leg he switched to a three-legged lope. Using the leg would slow the healing. Fortunately, he didn’t have to go on a real hunt. They’d passed a farmhouse shortly before stopping to rest, and Benedict’s nose had told him that family kept chickens. They had a dog, too, which was less than ideal. He didn’t want to hurt the poor beast. But perhaps they’d have brought the dog inside, out of the weather.
He resented the delay, but it couldn’t be helped. He resented much more being drafted into another’s service . . . even if it was by Coyote. Maybe especially because it was Coyote.
He’d had a suspicion. Nothing he’d put words to, but he’d wondered about the little terrier’s ability to hitch a ride without anyone noticing. He’d thought she smelled different, too, but the difference was so slight he couldn’t be sure. Then she’d gotten out of that truck—and the window hadn’t been rolled down far; she shouldn’t have been able to wriggle out—and charged a Kodiak bear.
Even a Jack Russell wouldn’t do that. So when he heard the mental voice commanding him to follow, he’d been startled as hell yet not all that surprised. He’d followed. He’d done so automatically, and now he wondered if Coyote had laced that command with a hint of compulsion. But maybe not. Coyote had used his secret name, the one given him on his vision quest over forty years ago, the one he’d never spoken aloud. The one that, truth be told, he’d all but forgotten about.
Yet when he heard it, he followed.
Benedict had been the first to lose the trail. No blame to him for that; he’d been slowed by having to run on three legs, which let the bear pull ahead. Not that little Havoc could have kept up if Benedict had been running full out, but he might have been able to hold the bear in one place until the terrier caught up. But the scent had ended at an asphalt road. Even a bloodhound couldn’t follow one particular vehicle’s scent.
Coyote had taken the lead then, using some arcane means of tracking he hadn’t explained . . . until suddenly he’d lost his trail, too. Benedict had wanted to go back, rejoin the others. Make sure Arjenie was okay. Coyote had assured him she was, which was when Benedict learned that the Power currently sharing space with a Jack Russell terrier had a link with Sammy. Coyote couldn’t mindspeak the boy. He was only able to mindspeak Benedict because of that long-ago spirit quest. But when Sammy had called on Coyote, he’d formed a tie that Coyote could use for a limited sort of eavesdropping.
Not that Sammy had meant to call Coyote or that his reason for calling him had anything to do with why he’d chosen to show up. But the link was there. Sammy couldn’t “hear” Coyote, but Coyote could eavesdrop on the boy.
At the farmhouse, Benedict’s luck was in. The dog wasn’t inside as he’d hoped, but it was a Lab. She submitted instantly, cringing until he licked her muzzle. After that, they were great buddies. The chickens made plenty of noise to make up for their guardian’s silence, but he expected that, and the coop was easy to get into. He killed two—as many as he could carry readily in his mouth—and got out fast.
He loped back on three legs. Havoc or Coyote was right where he’d left her. Or him. Them. He deposited one hen on the ground and ate the other. The feathers were a nuisance, but fresh-killed chicken was delicious.