by Eileen Wilks
“Not wolf tracks, I take it.”
“Not anything like a wolf’s tracks. One of my deputies hunts. I’ve done some hunting myself, but not like Matt. Lots of experience with all kinds of game. He was pretty sure about those tracks, but I had his uncle come have a look, too. K. J.’s a pro—he’s hunted pretty much everything you can hunt in North America, including bear. Made a couple trips to Alaska for that.”
“K. J. Miller?” Aunt Robin sounded dismayed.
“I guess you don’t much care for him,” Porter said, “but he knows his tracks and scat.”
“K. J. Miller is a misogynist,” Arjenie explained to Benedict. “He thinks the world came to an end when women got the vote, and the rest of us just haven’t noticed. He and Aunt Robin have butted heads a few times.”
“The tracks,” Benedict said. He was a tad impatient. “What about them?”
“Bear. One honking huge bear. Has to be a grizzly—black bears don’t get that big.”
Arjenie frowned. “There aren’t any grizzlies here. Nowhere near here. We must be . . .” She thought a moment. “Yellowstone and Grand Teton. Those would be the closest places where grizzlies have been seen, and they’re at least two thousand miles away.”
“That’s a problem, isn’t it?”
Chapter Seven
A grizzly could be a problem, all right, regardless of how it got here. Benedict considered what he knew about them. Not enough, he concluded, but enough to be sure he’d rather not tackle one without a half-dozen clanmates in wolf form to help . . . or the .30-06 he had back home. Or, hell, if he was wishing, might as well wish for his M16. That one would stop small to midsize demons, so it ought to work against a grizzly.
Didn’t do him much good now. “Arjenie. What can you tell me about grizzlies that might be pertinent?”
“The grizzly is a subspecies of brown bear—Ursus arctos horribilis. Adult males usually weigh between four hundred and eight hundred pounds. They’re mostly solitary, though they tolerate each other in some circumstances, such as when they’re fishing for salmon. They’re called grizzlies because of the grizzled look of their coats, which is the reason for their other name—silvertip bear. I’m thinking that orangey brown fur doesn’t sound like a grizzly. Other brown bears have more varied coats.”
Arjenie’s vacuum-cleaner memory came in handy at times. “What other types of brown bear are there?”
“On this continent, the other subspecies would be the coastal brown bear, which includes the Kodiak bear. They get even bigger than grizzlies, topping out at over a thousand pounds. I don’t remember exactly how much over a thousand.” She sounded apologetic for this failing. “But coastal brown bears live along the Alaskan coast and on some of the islands up there. They don’t go walkabout and end up in Virginia.”
“That’s one of the reasons I wanted Robin and Clay in on this,” Sheriff Porter said. “Maybe it’s a bear that got loose from a zoo. We’re checking on that, but so far no one says they’ve misplaced a grizzly. So maybe it’s not a normal bear. Or maybe it’s something else that shouldn’t be here.”
“I can tell you if it’s a bear,” Benedict said. “Not sure I’ll know if it’s a grizzly. Never smelled one.” But he could talk to someone who had. “I need to contact a couple people.”
“Who?” Porter gave him a sharp look as he slowed for a turn down a dirt lane. About a half mile ahead, Benedict saw headlights. Stationary, so maybe that was one of the deputies’ cars.
“My men, first, to let them know.”
“Put your phone up. I don’t want word getting out.”
“Understood. They won’t be talking to anyone. I’m going to see if I can find someone who knows something about fighting grizzlies. I’ve never fought one.” He was hoping he wouldn’t fight one now, either—not up close and personal—but he wanted as much information as possible. He didn’t think any Nokolai had had that experience, but he knew who had. Etorri’s territory was in Canada. A few years ago, two Etorri had been badly mauled and a third one killed by a grizzly. Benedict didn’t know how to reach those men directly, but he knew who could put him in touch with them.
“I told you to put the phone up.”
“You’ve forgotten what I said about asking.” Benedict had already sent a text to his men. Thinking it might be more diplomatic, being less obvious, he texted his brother instead of calling: Call me. Urgent. Rule would talk to the Etorri Lu Nuncio or Rho, who would have one of the surviving Etorri call him.
“It’s too damn late, isn’t it?”
“Yeah. But they won’t be gossiping, so there isn’t a problem.” Benedict put his phone up. “Has this deputy of yours hunted grizzlies?”
“No. His uncle has.”
“I’ll want to talk to him.”
“Mr. Turner.” Porter was angry. Benedict could hear the tension in his jaw when he spoke. “You seem to be under the impression you’re in charge here. You aren’t.”
Turner was his father’s surname, not his, but Benedict let that pass. “I’m in charge of what I do. I’m not in charge of you or your men—or your deputy’s uncle, for that matter. I’m not challenging your authority,” he added, thinking he needed to put it bluntly. Humans had different rules. He wasn’t used to operating under those rules and might be sending signals he didn’t intend to.
“But you don’t consider yourself under my authority.”
“No.” How could he be? Two people had the right to give Benedict an order—his Rho and his Lu Nuncio. No one else. Though he would probably obey if his Rhej told him to do something, that was a matter of service, not authority.
Arjenie spoke from the back seat. “Sheriff, when you say ‘authority,’ Benedict hears ‘submit.’ There’s a whole language of submission for lupi, so it gets complicated, but I don’t think he can submit to you. It might violate his duty to his Rho. He will, however, cooperate with you.”
Well, he could accord the sheriff the leadership of the hunt . . . but he didn’t think a human would understand what that meant. Besides, he didn’t know if the man was good enough to take lead. “Allies,” Benedict said suddenly. “That term means the same to you it does to me.” At least he thought it did. “We’re allies in this matter, but I’m in your territory, so I’ll defer to your wishes as much as possible.”
“Defer to my wishes.” Porter shook his head and slowed.
They’d nearly reached those headlights, which did, as Benedict had suspected, belong to another sheriff’s department car. A deputy stood beside it holding a rifle pointed at the ground. Good choice of weapon. He was talking to a man in civilian clothes—fifty or so, stringy hair, dark beard, also holding a rifle. There was a second vehicle parked on the shoulder—an old truck. “Is that your hunter?” he asked. “The misogynist?”
“That’s him. You can talk to him later, I suppose.” Porter sighed. “Robin, what have you gotten me into?”
So Benedict’s inclusion was Robin’s idea? Satisfaction flickered, deep down. Arjenie’s aunt must trust him more than he’d thought. “I’ll be useful,” he assured the sheriff. “You’ll be glad you brought me in.”
The body had been found near the portion of Moss Creek that ran through Foggy Draw. That surprised Arjenie—she hadn’t thought anyone lived near the draw. It was rough country. Also a lot closer to Delacroix land that it would seem from the time it took to get there. They’d had to go roundabout, to the far end of the draw where there was a bridge, then back again.
The deputy’s car marked the place where they had to turn off the county road onto a pair of ruts that didn’t really deserve the designation of road. Robin was telling Arjenie what they’d do as they headed down that tree-lined track. “First we’ll cast for traces of magic. We want to know if this is a normal bear or something else. Once we know that, I’ll try a Find, using that bit of fur they found as a focus. I may need to draw on the circle, depending on how close the creature is.”
Arjenie nodded. One reason Wicca had s
urvived when magic grew so thin after the Purge was the way Wiccan circles could pool their power so the high priest or priestess could use it. “You’ll scry for magic first?”
“Yes. I’ll do it in circle so we’ll be ready to move to the defining spell if I find any traces of magic.”
Though a circle always helped, it wasn’t necessary to scry for magic. But the defining spell did take a circle, and the courts would only accept findings from a defining spell. It revealed the presence and type of magic to the entire circle, not just the principle caster, and having multiple witnesses testify to the same findings was supposed to eliminate individual bias or error. “If you’re needed to Find the creature, I can handle the defining spell.”
“If I’m not in the circle, the numbers are off.”
“Benedict could participate.”
Her eyebrows rose. “He can take part in a Wiccan circle?”
“I don’t see why not. He can’t cast spells, but he’s got plenty of power.”
Porter spoke. “This is as far as we go in the car.”
The dirt tracks ended in a make-do sort of turnaround where cars had come often enough to keep grass and weeds down. Directly ahead a dark wall of trees and foliage marked the edge of the draw; their headlights picked out a bright yellow strip of crime scene tape tied between a small tree and a bush. Arjenie figured that marked the path they’d take down into the draw.
They parked next to another sheriff’s department car. The deputy belonging to this one was female and stood outside her vehicle, holding a rifle. “Keep your weapon in the holster,” Porter told Benedict, then clicked something that unlocked the back doors. Arjenie climbed out, the backpack she’d borrowed from Sammy in one hand.
Clay and the twins were right behind them in the weathered Ford truck Robin used in her veterinary practice. He stopped the truck a few yards back of the sheriff’s car. There wasn’t much room.
“All quiet?” Porter asked his deputy. The woman nodded and said she hadn’t seen or heard anything but a raccoon.
The wind was stronger than ever, making Arjenie glad she’d brought her heavy jacket. Night had firmly fallen while they were on the way here, and while she had pretty good night vision, the sky was seriously overcast. She couldn’t see well at all.
A few feet away, Benedict had his head up, looking around. Or maybe smelling around. Clay and the twins climbed out of the truck with a dual slamming of doors.
Arjenie had a flashlight in her backpack, but she couldn’t resist showing off a little. “Shazzam,” she whispered—and a ball of light sprang into being a couple feet above her head.
The word was a trigger, not the spell itself—which she’d learned from Cynna, who’d gotten it from Cullen, who picked it up when the two of them were in Edge. It was an almost purely spoken spell—those were rare—but everyone who wasn’t a sorcerer like Cullen had to add one physical component: a drop of their own blood to link it to them. Once cast, though, the spell could be held in abeyance for days. Arjenie usually recast the spell once a week so she’d have it ready if she needed it.
“Nice!” Uncle Clay said, hands on hips as he studied the mage light.
“What the hell?” The sheriff was dumfounded.
“Arjenie! Is that mage light?” Seri’s question sounded more like an accusation. “You know how to make mage light and you didn’t—”
“Can’t be mage light,” her twin informed her. “No one knows how to make mage light. The secret to it has been lost since the Purge. It’s a trick—but a pretty cool one.”
Arjenie chuckled, enjoying herself. “Guess what? The secret isn’t lost anymore.”
Aunt Robin came closer, studying the ball of light appraisingly. “Excellent. Can you make it brighter or dimmer?”
She had told her aunt and uncle about the spell, intending to teach it to them over the holiday, so they weren’t as delightfully flummoxed as the twins. “Dimmer is easy, but you can’t make a single ball of mage light any brighter than this. You have to add more mage lights, and that takes a lot more focus. This one”—with a thought, she made it bob—“I can carry without paying it any attention, and the power drain is really small, but if I add more I have to focus, and I lose power faster. I carried three once, but I was very distracted. Cullen—I told you about him—has carried six and was still able to hold a conversation.”
“I’d like to meet him sometime.”
“When you come out to visit, you will.”
“That’s the damnedest thing I’ve seen in a long time,” Porter said, “but we aren’t here to enjoy this, uh, mage light thing of Arjenie’s. Robin, you said you’d need to set your circle near where the body was found. That’s down in the draw. We’ve swept the immediate area, but don’t—Turner. Where are you going?”
Benedict had started for the truck. “Hitchhiker.”
He didn’t get a step farther before Havoc launched herself up out of the truck’s bed, landed with her mouth in gear, and raced to Robin, her tail waving madly.
“How in the world—!” Robin snatched up the little terrier, who wriggled and tried to lick her face. “I could have sworn she was in the house. I guess she snuck out.”
Seri grinned. “And hitched a ride in the back of the truck. That’s a new trick, isn’t it?”
“And not one I want to encourage. Into the cab with you, young lady.” Robin carried the terrier back to the truck, where she opened one door, put the window down a few inches, and locked Havoc safely inside. “Sorry for the interruption,” she said to Porter.
“Glad you caught her. Like I was saying, stick to the path and don’t wander once you’re down there. I’ve got two deputies keeping an eye on things.”
“Might be best if I go ahead and Change,” Benedict said.
Sammy had wandered over to the crime scene tape. He had a flashlight and aimed it down that path, which seemed to drop off pretty steeply. “Looks rough,” he said. “Arjenie, did you bring your cane?”
“I won’t need it.”
Porter frowned. “I didn’t think about that. You’ve got a bit of a hitch in your gallop. Should be okay once you get down, but the path’s not easy.”
“She’ll let us know if she needs help,” Benedict said absently. His attention seemed to be on Havoc, a small frown between his eyebrows.
“Arjenie?” Sammy hooted. “Drag her up a mountain and she won’t admit she needs help, even when she’s tumbling off of it.”
That brought Benedict’s focus to her obnoxious cousin. “You’re wrong. She’s stubborn, not stupid. She wouldn’t jeopardize the rest of us or the mission through misplaced pride.” Now he looked at her. “I’m going to Change before we head down. Come with me and take charge of my clothes?”
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 hamburge
r, 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—”