A flash of realization—of recognition—filled him. An opportunity seized, a decision made. Not his own, but so intertwined that he understood instantly and it didn’t matter that he said, “No, oh, no, Meghan, don’t—”
Pain and terror and dread and—
He twitched as she twisted her body away from the man, straining against the invisible bonds that held Meghan’s wrists, not his. And he cried protest as she reversed herself, flinging her body toward the one who hurt her, wrenching every muscle to unbalance the narrow cot, to tip it over onto Fabron Gausto.
Sharp metal bit deep, deeper…she fell on the substantial knife, every bit of energy she had focused on that blade, on the strangely painless passage through her midriff and down into her body, down to the pulse of the massive vessel traveling down from her heart.
He felt that wrongness. Strength gushed away from him; he crumpled to his side, gasping for air that didn’t seem to be enough. His breathing turned harsh, rapid…a vicarious last-ditch effort to live. For her to live.
Pain and terror and sudden peace and complete awareness and faint tendrils of love reaching out to wrap themselves around her—
And the ward abruptly faded away.
Chapter 21
Dolan still breathed. On a deep level, he didn’t believe it; each breath came as a surprise.
Her death clung to him, spiraled around him…absorbed him.
Her death, her choice. She’d taken that power from Gausto, reclaimed it. A sacrifice in the face of the inevitable, to keep the book from the Core and return control of it to the Sentinels.
Dolan pushed himself off the ground, heedless of pale clinging dirt and pebbles. He scrubbed his face, wiping away tears and sweat, and he stared bleakly at the catalog in the outhouse. Margery’s wards still cocooned it, the illusion and protection as fine as ever.
But no trace remained of Meghan’s outer wards.
The Liber Nex. Power beyond imagining in that book. It would take so little to sweep through the finesse of Margery’s wards and reach that illicit power. To reach out with that power, destroying Fabron Gausto and his sickened clan—those who had already crossed the line with their blood power.
Pulling his feet beneath him, Dolan took a few crouching steps toward the book—not quite ready to stand up yet, but unable to be still. To resist the lure of that power.
That revenge.
That’s what it had always been about, wasn’t it? The revenge? Revenge he’d once gotten with the death of Tiberon Gausto, and yet somehow it hadn’t changed a thing. It hadn’t changed a thing, and yet Dolan had soldiered on, pretending it was just always about doing the job in the first place. Pretending not to notice that the hollow spot inside hadn’t gone away. And now…Meghan…
But revenge on a large scale…putting a stop to the Core once and for all…
Even through its illusion, the book called to him. He’d touched it once. He’d opened that connection between them and now it reached straight to him. Inching closer without even realizing, he responded to its reflection of his inner landscape—the anger and hatred and a grief so unbearable he couldn’t yet even completely feel it. Just the shock of it, the waves of it lapping his soul, were already too much. Gausto needed to pay.
And with a startled blink, Dolan absorbed the book’s knowledge of how to wipe out those who had taken Meghan, those who had participated in her death. I can put a stop to this right now. And the only regret that accompanied that thought was the regret that he couldn’t reach out to the Core entire.
But if you can’t, said some entirely practical voice within him, then they’ll come back down on the Sentinels with no holds barred. The simmering underground conflict would be exposed to the world, just as if the Core had taken control of the book in the first place.
He slowly sank down to the ground, sitting back against his heels. The call of the book snapped away, leaving him bemused—caught up by the renewed clarity of the world around him. Stellar jays scolded him from high in the pines; the sharp scent of the pines warmed by the sun tickled his nose. The antiseptic Ruger had used lingered around him; the bandage itself, a transparent dressing that showed neat rows of butterfly bandages beneath, pulled at his skin.
Meghan had given of herself so the book wouldn’t fall into the wrong hands.
Meghan had given of herself. Dolan closed his eyes, felt the sting of tears and the true honest grief, unfettered by fantasies of revenge.
He couldn’t let the wrong hands be his.
Dolan left the book behind. He glared at it, he accepted one more time that he couldn’t carry it as the jaguar, that to move it at all was only to draw attention to it…and he left it behind.
The sooner he reached the ranch and the phone there, the better. It didn’t matter that he was still reeling with loss, could barely move for the crush of it. What mattered was making that loss count.
Make it count.
Ruger had intended for him to rest for several more hours, to let the healing make significant progress before he took the jaguar and lost the bandages by default. So much for that. Dolan stretched into the waiting jaguar with a relief he hadn’t expected, testing strength and limb and finding Ruger’s work solid. Not full, rippling strength…not the jaguar who oozed personal power and a certain confidence he not only wouldn’t be stopped, but he couldn’t be stopped.
But he’d take it.
He cut across the trails, heading overland and down the mountain to Encontrados. For the sake of those who had already been so badly shaken up, he took his human self outside the ranch yard and, wary for anything out of place, stalked into the yard on two feet instead of four.
Jenny’s dog skittered across the yard in front of him, barking near to hysterical; he shied off into the shadows of the casita porch to bark from what he considered safety. By then Jenny had stuck her head out the door and Anica came out of the barn, running to him with such speed that she couldn’t quite stop as she reached him. He caught her up and settled her back on her feet, earning a wary response…and a surprised one. She apparently hadn’t expected the consideration—or the gentle strength behind it.
“What’s going on?” she demanded. “What was that all about? We played nice, we told the coroner we thought Larry had had a heart attack, we sent everyone else home, we didn’t call the cops when your people showed up. But now I damned well want answers! And where’s Meg—” She stopped, gaze searching his face, even as Jenny approached.
But Jenny knew. Jenny, who read the horses so well, had no trouble with Dolan’s grief and anger, simmering so close to the surface. “No,” she whispered, stopping just out of reach. “What…what happened?” And to Dolan’s utter astonishment, she then flung herself at him. He drew himself back, ready to fend her off—but she only threw her arms around his neck and wailed.
And by that, Anica knew. Her face paled; she bit her lip, hard, and looked away, mouth working anyway, tears spilling down her cheeks. Dolan surprised himself then, lifting an arm in invitation so then there were three of them.
Only for a moment. Then Anica drew Jenny away, patting her back in a soothing, mindless gesture while her own bright eyes pinned Dolan. “When Luka came back without her…” She stopped, took a breath and retreated into the anger that seemed to serve her as well as it did Dolan. “They came for her because of you, didn’t they? That man this morning…he hated you. He wanted you. You brought them here. This is—” And she bit her lip again, heedless of the bright smear of blood she’d already created there.
Dolan opened his mouth to respond—and nothing came out. No words could make it past the tight band of pain in his chest and throat—pain that had somehow eased slightly when the three of them had been huddled together. This was what Meghan had been so desperate to protect. This was what he’d been missing for so many years he’d forgotten what it was like.
So he wasn’t about to lie to them. He worked his jaw, hunting composure, and said, “Yes. I underestimated him. He came becau
se of me. He found Meghan because of me. He took her on the trail, and I couldn’t get there in time.”
“So you just let them go?” Anica cried. It wasn’t fair, the look on her face said she knew it wasn’t fair, but she lashed out anyway. Hurting. He understood that.
“The man who was here…Gausto. He was using forbidden techniques…even the Core doesn’t allow them. Or didn’t. I’m not sure which it is right now—he’s capable of defying the Core and thinking he’ll get away way it.” Dangerously close to babbling. He drew his thoughts back together. “I wasn’t ready for that kind of power. He…”
“He hurt you,” Jenny said, stepping back from Anica, her fair complexion splotched, her nose pinked.
Dolan hesitated, then nodded. “I tried—I tried—” And found he had to jerk himself away from them, unable to even say the words, and unable to face their grief and accusations, no matter how fair. Make it count. He stalked into the house and straight to the phone, dialing the number Carter had given him.
The phone barely rung before Carter barked a response. “What?”
“Meghan is dead.” Dolan said it coldly, the only way to get the words out at all. Anica and Jenny entered the house, coming up to wait behind him—to listen. What the hell? They deserved to know whatever came of this call.
Carter muttered an expletive, moved the phone from his mouth just enough to tell the rest of the team before returning to demand, “You’re sure?”
Dolan laughed, no humor whatsoever, and let it stand as an answer. “I want them. Have you got a location?”
Carter should have said, It’s not about what you want. But he didn’t. He hesitated, and he said, “Gausto tangled the trail. Lyn is just about through it.” A rustle of material as he shifted; Dolan got the impression he was checking on Lyn’s progress. “I don’t think anyone else would have had a chance of getting through.”
Right. Carter being careful to cover his ass now that they’d lost a civilian—and one of their own, at that, long abandoned. Dolan said, “I want in on it. I want to recover her.”
“What makes you think—”
“You’re still going to go after evidence of what Gausto is doing,” Dolan interrupted. “You’re probably going to play nice about Gausto, because you don’t want to rock the cold war into a hot war.” As almost happened when Tiberon Gausto died at my teeth. “But you’re going in, and I want to be there.”
“Treviño—” This time Carter cut himself off, obviously hunting words. Dolan already knew what they’d be—hedge words about Dolan’s track record of working with a group, shuffle-footing over his less-than-optimal physical status. All true enough.
Dolan just didn’t care.
Make it count.
“I found the book,” he said, and left the threat unsaid. I’ll tell you where it is after I’m in on this raid.
Carter said, “Son of a bitch—!”
“Where are you?”
“Son of a—”
Dolan exploded into a shout. “Where?”
Tense, taut silence followed, and then the murmur of commentary in the background. A gust of a breeze blew across the phone, followed by Carter’s breath. “Just picked up Casa Arroyo.” Barely a pause, and then he came back again, just as demanding as Dolan. “And Treviño, if you screw this up—”
Dolan laughed. “It’s already screwed up, Carter. Didn’t you notice? It was screwed up the moment you didn’t back me up. The only unexpected thing is that I’m still alive to hold you to it.” And he hung up.
“Dolan—” Anica started.
He didn’t trust himself to turn around and he didn’t let her finish. Hand still on the phone, closed around it with white-knuckle tension, he said, “I need a vehicle. And a shirt. That one I was wearing before.”
“You want one of our cars?” Anica said flatly.
“And a shirt.” He drew a deep breath, finally turned to face them. Jenny was still blotchy and pale, but she watched him with an avid interest, with some faint hope—unlike Anica’s hard, lingering judgment. He told them, “I’m going to get her. And to stop them, as much as can be done.”
Anica watched him for a moment, her face unreadable, her gaze flicking from his expression to his exposed wounds and then finally to Jenny…who gave the slightest of nods. Anica looked back to him, no less judgment in her eyes and maybe a little bit more of warning. “I hope you can drive a stick.”
This can’t be right.
Even the presence of that dim, confused thought wasn’t right. The presence of any thought.
“Yes, yes.” An impatient voice prodded her. “Not what you expected, is it?”
That self-satisfied comment brought the world back in a rush, and brought awareness along with it. Meghan’s eyes flew open; she sat up. She sat up on the same damned cot in the same damned basement, with the same damned man sitting beside her, that same cruel expression on his face.
Along with something else. Smugness, definitely. But he seemed pale as well…and as though he sat because possibly he couldn’t stand.
And then she realized she wasn’t restrained any longer. She realized that her leg only throbbed lightly, and that the damp spot of blood on her snug tank top was cold. She stuck her finger through the hole the big knife had left in the ribbed material, stretched it out to discover no corresponding hole in her skin. She couldn’t believe it; she drew the shirt up to expose the flat, toned abdomen beneath, finding nothing but faint, dried blood smears. Nothing where he’d cut her, nothing where she’d thrown herself on his knife.
“I could say you played into my hands,” Gausto told her, crossing his ankle atop his knee and leaning back to regard her, “but the truth is, I had hoped to play longer. For Treviño’s sake.”
Dolan. Instantly, Meghan reached for him. I’m here, she wanted to tell him, and what happened to the book? and are you all right? And she remembered with crystal clarity those last moments, the entanglement between them, his horrified understanding of what she’d done…
“You’re trying to reach him,” Gausto guessed, head slightly tipped as he watched her. “You won’t. I’ve taken that from you.”
She couldn’t quite comprehend it. She couldn’t comprehend any of it. She looked down at herself again, and then to Gausto. “I was dead.”
He nodded. “You were dead.” He eyed her with respect, if with lingering annoyance. “I didn’t think you’d have it in you. The Sentinels, after all, have had no chance to brainwash you.”
“Imagine that,” Meghan said. “Just little ol’ me, making my own decisions.” She smoothed her shirt, examining her uncovered leg. No longer grotesquely swollen, it still bore a rainbow of bruises…but none of the cuts Gausto had made when he’d first started in on her, wanting to see if she could feel such cuts beyond what the limb had already endured.
She could, of course.
“Unfortunately, the injury to your leg was too established to heal completely,” Gausto said, but he said it without compassion—he said it with the annoyance of a man who has not accomplished perfection. “But the cuts…the internal bleeding and the blood loss itself…all are resolved.”
She’d been dead. Now she wasn’t. “What did you do?”
“Not much gratitude in your tone, my lady.” He raised an eyebrow. “And you are mine, to bid as I wish. You can no longer contact your lover, you no longer have the least influence over your destiny.”
“I can damned well walk out of here,” Meghan said, lifting her stiff leg over the side of the cot and standing up, testing it—and walking for the exit with much more assertion than she felt, as if she had no worries that the leg might not hold her, that Gausto’s men weren’t on the other side of that arching doorway, waiting to stop her. But stiff as it was, the leg didn’t buckle, and no one appeared to stop her, and a spark of hope dared to bloom—
“In fact,” Gausto said, and sounded bored, “you can’t. I bid you stay.”
And she stopped. She didn’t think about it, she didn’
t see it coming—she just stopped. Halfway to freedom and she stood, feet planted, swaying slightly, trying to understand.
“Why don’t you sit back down?” Gausto said. “You don’t seem to be fully recovered yet.”
Without being the least bit sure if it was her own choice—or somehow his—Meghan returned to the cot. Slowly, careful of her leg, she sat at the edge of it, shifting backward slightly when it threatened to tip.
“Ah, yes, must secure that,” Gausto said. “It’s been inconvenient enough already.”
Meghan found she could barely speak, that her words came out hoarse and thick. “What did you do?”
“What I’d meant to do all along. You died, I brought you back. I made you mine in the process. You’ll do as I say…and won’t do those things I forbid. We’ll have a nice discussion about the situation with the Liber Nex—with the difference being that now, of course, you’re too valuable to damage. You’re the only one of your kind.”
The only one of what kind?
But Meghan didn’t ask it out loud. She didn’t want to know. She looked at her hands; she turned them over and clenched them. She closed her eyes, awash with the knowledge that Dolan thought her dead—make that still dead—and that he still grieved for her, still blamed himself for it.
A man’s murmur from the exit barely caught her attention—not at first. But as Gausto impatiently indicated the man should speak, the tone of the conversation brought her out of her internal floundering with the unimaginable.
“I’m telling you, the sept’s prince has figured out we’re using the sceleratus vis,” the man said. “He wants to talk to you…his people aren’t taking my excuses any longer.” He lowered his voice. “If we can’t put them off, and they come out here…one look at her…we’ve got to get rid of her!”
Sentinels: Jaguar Night Page 19