Deep River Reckoning_The Reckoners

by Doranna Durgin

  Deep River Reckoning

  Copyright ©2010 by Doranna Durgin

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination, or, if real, used fictitiously—and any resemblance to actual persons, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

  License Notes:

  This efiction is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This efiction may not be re-sold or given to others. If you would like to share, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this efiction and it was not purchased for your use, then you should purchase your own copy. Thank you for helping the e-reading community to grow!

  The Author Note:

  Although this story falls later in the series, at the time of this story's release—the summer of '10—the Reckoners are in that peculiar limbo between Book 1 and Book 2, and are heading from San Jose, CA to Sedona, AZ. Garrie and Trevarr are pretty busy having adventures away from Garrie's Albuquerque home.

  But we soldier on with this particular vision—because eventually, I have faith, they'll be in the same place at the same time and not in the middle of...

  Well.

  Things.

  ~~~~

  Acknowledgments

  This story developed thanks to Kathy Collupy—who graciously allowed the use of her name and certain ghostly details—and is set along the Albuquerque Rio Grande bosque. And while that bike path is very real and most wonderful, there are certain details that...

  Why, yes. I made them up.

  This story is in e-form thanks to the encouragement of Lorna Barrett/L.L. Bartlett (The Booktown Mysteries/The Jeff Resnick Mysteries). W00t-out to L.B.!

  I hope you enjoy!

  ~Doranna

  http://doranna.net

  Finding the Other ~ Facing the Other

  Loving the Other

  The Reckoners (Tor, February '10)

  Storm of Reckoning (Tor, February '11)

  Deep River Reckoning

  A Reckoners Story

  1.

  Lisa McGarrity walked the narrow asphalt path running along the Albuquerque Rio Grande levee and breathed deeply of the day. Birdies singing, bunnies scooting across the path to alfalfa fields in the middle of the city, and cottonwood fluff everywhere.

  A farking Bambi cartoon come to life, and what was Garrie doing?

  Looking for dead things.

  Dead things stalking joggers, dead things spooking bikers...dead things owning the Paseo del Bosque.

  Twisted cottonwood trees lined the landward side of the path, shading it; Trevarr stalked the path beside her, duster flapping around his legs in disregard for the heat, substantial boots treading the path's crumbling asphalt edge as he gave the water-filled levee a wary eye.

  "I told you," Garrie said absently, most of her attention on the subtle inner sensations that served as ghost radar, "nothing bigger than fish in there. And no ghosties lurking at the moment."

  "Fish," he repeated, flatly skeptical.

  "Rainbow trout. Trust me. Not a killing sort of fish."

  Sklayne butted into the conversation from whatever form he'd taken and wherever he'd gone, his mind voice full of purr. ::Tasteee.:: No doubt he wore his Abyssinian cat form—or a lynx-like version of same—although he was also perfectly happy to look like nothing at all.

  As long as he had something to snack on.

  "Just tell me you caught the fish yourself," she said, not bothering to look for him, "and didn't steal it from some clueless fisherman."

  ::Caught it myself,:: Sklayne said promptly. Trevarr gave Garrie a sidelong glance, eyebrow minutely raised behind the sunglasses that protected light-sensitive pewter eyes.

  Garrie cleared her throat. "That was not convincing."

  Sklayne offered a thoughtful pause, then tried a more earnest tone. ::Caught it myself!::

  "Gahhh," she said.

  Trevarr's hand touched her shoulder, drifted away. Amusement, affection...and reminder. Sklayne was what he was.

  Amusement, affection, reminder...and promise. For there was always promise in Trevarr's touch.

  Garrie shrugged off a little shiver, knowing it. She let it settle into a tiny, private smile—and went back to thinking about dead things.

  "Left!" Loud and warning, that voice behind them. A swish of tire, a flash of garish biking clothes, an insect-like helmet—and the biker cruised past, never the wiser that Trevarr's hand had moved for the preternaturally sharp blade named Lukkas.

  Garrie saw the arrested motion well enough. "Uh-huh," she said.

  Trevarr made a disgruntled noise.

  Adjustments. On his world, no being dared to brush so close—not to him, not to those he loved.

  Then again, on his world, he was now exile.

  A sudden acrid scent trailed across the back of Garrie's throat...a gurgle of resentment through her mind. She cast around for the source of it, instantly dropping into reckoner mode. An oily splash, her eyes stinging—

  She blinked hard, realized she was still walking—heading right off the edge of the path with the steep bank directly before her and Trevarr's hand on her shoulder, stopping her.

  She snorted dark amusement, tugging at the spiky-short hair behind her ear. "And that would be why I don't like to do these things alone."

  Trevarr smoothed the hair back down, a touch as sure as that which had reached for sheathed steel only moments earlier, and said nothing.

  Not an uncommon thing, the quiet.

  "They're not happy," she said. "Whoever, whatever...it's still vague." Nausea flittered through her with an invading ethereal breeze; she pulled up a minor set of shielding breezes, molding them around herself with the quick efficiency of lifelong practice. "Let's head on. The bike club said it was worst down by the Rio Bravo access to the river. And since they're footing the bill..."

  Lucia had already done a drive-by across the Rio Bravo bridge, and then declined to get any closer. No dummy, that Lucia, protecting herself. Not when she soaked up wisps of lingering emotion like a big human Bounty better-picker-upper.

  But in this case, the empathic drive-by hadn't told them much. Something yucky this way comes.

  Quinn hadn't done much better, in spite of his Google-fu, research mojo, and scary stacks of reference material. "It's new," he'd told her, calling from Robin's place and clearly distracted. "Nothing in the archives, nothing on-line."

  Yet.

  She came back from her thoughts to see a family of four approaching—Biker Dad pulling a baby pod, Biker Mom watching over a wobbling youngster, both giving Trevarr the eye. Trevarr, pushing six-four, nothing but strength and lean muscle and the thinnest veneer of civilization over a prowl of menace and intensity and promise.

  Biker Mom and Dad pulled tightly to their side of the narrow path, little Biker Junior tucked away on the inside and happily playing with his bike gadgets.

  "I got a bell!" he announced to Garrie as he looked up.

  "You have a bell!" she agreed, ignoring Biker Mom's attempts to redirect the boy's waving as they rode past.

  Trevarr made another disgruntled noise.

  "Oh, please," Garrie told him, cheerfully waving back until the boy turned away. "They're not stupid. Besides, you know it's mostly the duster. And the glasses. Too many people have seen Terminator, you know? You could have left it behind."

  As if that was going to happen, when it was the duster that held the sword—and just about anything else. Everything else. At least, when it came to certain pockets and their unexpected dimensional properties.

  Garrie tried very hard to keep from
putting her hand in those pockets.

  But it was more than the duster. It was them. Offworld, mostly human bounty hunter and local stealth reckoner. Put the two of them together and—

  Burning bright energy, winds torn asunder, pain ripped from within and the howl of a bereft soul dark stifling fingers of fog and spice the gasp of death's touch and the bright slash of respite, all caught in the thunderous slap of wing and power, the wash of ash smoke and fire and—

  ::Sah,:: Sklayne told her, his voice gentler than its acerbic wont, pulling her out of the sudden flash of what had been. ::Be the now.::

  "Atreya." Trevarr's voice came close in her ear, the sunglasses missing from his face. "With me, now."

  She took a deep, settling breath; found herself trembling. Gave him a wry smile.

  "Every now and then," she told him—and knew, when he looked away, that he understood exactly what she meant. Maybe all too well.

  Maybe all too well.

  Especially since he'd come here. Been with her.

  Definitely not worth thinking about. So she took a deeper breath, grounding herself firmly at the side of the levee, birds and floating cottonwood fluff and bunnies. "But yeah...back to this particular now. Nothing more here than a harassment of ghosts spooking bikers and joggers—a few dirty tricks and flat tires." She grinned at him. "I just made that up. Did you like it?"

  "A harassment of ghosts," he repeated, dry as ever.

  "I like it," she decided. "Anyway, no big deal. I've got containment, and we'll find them. I need to do a sweep...I just wanted to get a sense of the place first and—oh. Babbling?"

  His carefully neutral expression left no doubt. The hint of amusement at the corner of his eyes, likewise—even if subtle enough so few others would likely see it at all.

  "Oh, fine," she muttered, but felt the tweak at the corner of her own mouth. Amusement, at that. She struck out down the bike path, determined strides through dappled shade and the rising heat of the desert valley spring. "Let's just check out that Rio Bravo river access, shall we?"

  Wisely, he said nothing, easily matching her pace in his trucked out boots—high over his calf, buckled and reinforced and scarred.

  Not to mention made with such leather and workmanship as would never be found on this world.

  Her phone chirped, the bright chitter of a Trek communicator. She dug it out of her thigh pocket, saw Quinn's name in the caller ID, and answered it deadpan. "Garrie here."

  "That might have been funny the first couple of times you did it," he said. "Now, not so much."

  "Oh, bah. It's still funny. You're being serious to impress Robin."

  "Being serious," he said, distinctly deadpan in his own right, "isn't what impresses Robin."

  "La la la!" Garrie said loudly, glancing at Trevarr—knowing his hearing could easily discern the conversation. "Too much information!"

  "Don't even try. You think I don't know what girls talk about? You, Robin, Lucia—"

  "La la LA!"

  "Wuss. But listen," and now his voice grew truly serious. "Maybe you want to do some remote work before you mess around in there—"

  She frowned, and interrupted. "We did the remote work. You did the research. I did an overview. It' s time to be on-site. And Quinn—there's nothing going on here. A few willies, but only if I go looking. We'll check out Rio Bravo, but honestly...whatever's here, isn't here." And then, because Quinn was all wrapped up in Robin right now and because he wouldn't have interrupted himself to play granny, she asked, "Why?"

  He snorted. "My turn now? Why is because I've just located two of the bike club river rats—the ones who habitually ditched the Paseo for that mess of made up paths along the river. One's in the hospital—a complete medical mystery. Systemic organ damage, and they haven't got a clue."

  "And the other?" She heard the unspoken in her own voice. Do I even want to know?

  "Yeah," he said. "In the morgue."

  No. I didn't want to know.

  2.

  Sklayne hunkered next to the sluggish river. No fish. And tasty fresh energy niggling at the edge of his awareness, as of yet unidentifiable—none of the Garrie's ghosties. Nothing of alarm. Yawn. Safe not-home world, waiting to be eaten.

  He pondered the potential taste of duck, of which there seemed to be plenty, all dabbling mildly within reach. Boring.

  Then he pondered being duck, all waddle and webbed toes and waggle rump, trying feathers from the inside out— Yes. No longer cat. He stretched out a wing, rustling and ruffling feathers. Interesting thing, duck. But no external ear pinnae. Boring smooth head. He added his cat ears, perked and furry.

  Much better.

  The other ducks muttered at his sudden presence—his sudden ears—and swung away from the shore. Sklayne gave an experimental quack and waddled out to tip off the shore and into the water.

  Where he sank like a stone.

  NOT DUCK!

  Abyssinian cat exploded out of the water and onto the shore, sneezing loud disgust. A vigorous shake, a quick whisker cleaning, and he did what he should have done first—poof into the essence of what he was, as big as all existence, spread as thin as thought—poof, back into cat.

  Dry cat.

  This duck thing might take practice.

  And, back as dry cat and still reflexively shaking off one fastidious paw, he suddenly froze. ::You,: he said out loud to Trevarr, and to the Garrie, suddenly understanding, the tight niggle of fizzy energy, spiraling tight, plucking at him. ::Again!::

  Because they'd figured it out, too—nothing happening here today. Boring. Time to be a duck, time to take a walk. A private walk. All that energy, suddenly familiar and building between them—oh, he understood, all right.

  ::All the time,:: he accused them, but knew they weren't listening.

  So he went to see.

  3.

  Down the bike path, into the gritty dirt and stone parking area, down through the trees and the official path...off that path toward the river and a flood plain cottonwood grove so persistent it looked plantation-made. Well out of sight, now, on this weekday morning when visitors were sparse.

  Whatever Garrie had sensed earlier, it was gone. Whatever it had done to those cyclists...

  "Maybe we'll go see the guy who's still alive," she said, out of the silence. They'd long since slipped out of danger mode and into that place where her spine tingled with ever-present awareness. "Otherwise..." She shrugged, closing her eyes—tipping her head back and stretching her arms up into the dappled shade. Just being. Pretending no one was dying, no one had already died, and it wasn't up to her to find out why anyway. "I know I felt something out on the path, but—"

  Hands closed around her waist from behind, stopping her; one slid around to rest on her stomach—possessive, and feather-light. "Sometimes," Trevarr said, resting his head beside hers, "you ask too much of me."

  Oh, I hope not.

  Even if that hadn't been what he'd meant at all. Or that she could blame him, or would blame him, if it were so.

  But she kept those thoughts to herself, resting her head back against his shoulder, silent, and sharing her just being with him—breathing of the leather duster, the faint wood smoke that inevitably lingered in his presence, aware of every finger pressed so lightly against her belly, every familiar line of restrained strength in the body behind her.

  Wicked, lazy impulse struck; she stirred the ethereal breezes between them—so very gently, knowing what it would do to him—and not surprised when his breath gusted in her ear, followed by a growl.

  "Sometimes," he repeated, barely audible.

  And no longer alone.

  "—Mmow!" Sklayne's cat voice came through loud and clear and probably in spite of himself. Garrie's reverie fled from it.

  But Sklayne wasn't the one who said, "Tsk. You should be paying better attention."

  Garrie sputtered an inarticulate fluster of words as she sprang away from Trevarr—or tried to. He held her close—but now coiled and ready, one
hand already reaching for the sword Lukkas.

  Because these days, so much of what they encountered came not as innocuous local spirits, but as spillover from the weakened transitions between worlds—semi-ethereal beings who held substance when they chose and wielded scathing breezes with abandon.

  But Sklayne gave an amused sneeze, and Garrie, still caught up in ready protection, found their ghostly visitor waiting beside a tree—arms crossed, expression forbearing. Garrie gathered her dignity. "Can I do something for you?"

  Not that many spirits had the ability to discuss their circumstances and needs clearly. But when they came as this one did—new enough so hair and clothes didn't look dated, features etched in fine clarity, colors saturated, and all the right parts in all the right places—then there was a good chance.

  Although Garrie fervently hoped never to find that shade of red on a living head.

  The ghost raised an eyebrow of that same color, bold and well-suited to a fire engine. "The appropriate question is, can I do something for you?"

  "One of yours?" Trevarr asked, still not taking it for granted.

  "So to speak," Garrie said. He relaxed—as much as he ever did—and let his hand trail away from her stomach, turning aside to watch the trail.

  "He's blind to this, isn't he?" The woman said, making it a statement. "Just as well."

  "Why's that?" Garrie's voice came out more faintly than usual. The second time in one day she asked herself if she really wanted to—

  "Because I intend to make blatant remarks about the view." She assessed Trevarr with an expert eye, head cocked. "It would be more convenient if he removed the coat, though. I suspect it hides a particularly fine posterior."

  Ghosties lusting after Trevarr. Right.

  No. Really didn't want to know.

  "Boun-dar-ees," Garrie said, sing-song—not quite under her breath. "Let me ask this a different way. Why are you here?"

  "You don't seem stupid enough to ask that question." For an instant, the ghost's visage flickered, its neatly groomed facade flipping to features and clothes covered with clotty gore. She frowned down at herself. "That happens sometimes. Ignore it." She waved a hand toward the south, where the Rio Bravo bridge hummed with traffic. "Car accident. Right over the bridge onto the river bank. Some idiot on a cell phone."