Human Error

by Eileen Wilks

  That shot, her memory informed her, had come from up there. Up above the draw, where the cars were. Where a single female deputy guarded the path with a rifle.

  Maybe she’d fired by mistake? At a deer or raccoon or something, Arjenie thought as she got to her feet, and not at half a ton of bear. Or maybe the shot had hit the bear or scared it off and Benedict wouldn’t think he had to fight it even though—

  “Civilians, get down,” Sheriff Porter ordered. “Get down and stay down. Don’t run. Rick—”

  A woman’s voice called out from the top of the draw. “It was a cow. A damn cow. Stupid beast ran straight at me. Sorry, Sheriff.”

  Arjenie heard something. She must have, though the sound didn’t really register in the busy din of her brain. But that barely heard sound sent fear flooding through her, made her spin around—and cast up one hand, fingers spread, and concentrate with all her might.

  A half-dozen balls of mage light sprang into being. The sudden brilliance gave her a great view of the monstrous bear charging them like a freight train.

  And the black wolf leaping off the rocks above it to land on its back.

  A gun went off. She wanted to hit whoever did that—couldn’t they see that they might hit Benedict? But the wolf had already bounced off, as if he’d used the bear’s back as a trampoline. Maybe he’d just wanted to get its attention.

  If so, it had worked. The bear turned to face its attacker, baring those horribly big teeth, and rose up. And up. And up. Kodiak, she thought numbly. That had to be nine feet of bear, and the only one that big was the Kodiak, which absolutely could not be down here in Virginia and—

  Another shot. Another, at a different timber, and she saw that one of the deputies was shooting his rifle and the sheriff had his handgun out and maybe she should drop the mage lights and get out Benedict’s .357, but oh God, they’d just made the bear mad because it dropped to all fours again and charged.

  She sent one of the mage lights winging straight at its face.

  It wouldn’t burn. Mage lights produced no heat at all, which wasn’t possible according to physics but seemed to be true. But bears were supposed to have poor sight. Having a light shining right in it eyes should blind it or at least confuse it.

  The bear skidded, batting at the light with one enormous paw—which of course did nothing. Mage lights had no physical substance.

  The wolf raced in—and latched on to the bear’s nose.

  It swiped at the wolf with that huge paw. The wolf went sailing—and a wall of fire sprang up in front of her. No, around her, all the way around her and Aunt Robin and Sammy. “Uncle Clay, Seri’s still out there! I can’t see! Drop your fire!”

  Uncle Clay’s strong arm gathered her close. “Hold tight.” He raised his voice. “It’s a thin ring of fire—you can get through if you hurry! Don’t worry about your clothes—I can douse fire as easily as I can start it. Don’t run, don’t attract the bear’s notice—but if you can get here without it seeing you, you can come through the fire!”

  “No, don’t say that! The bear can hear you!”

  “The bear?” That was Sammy, incredulous. “The bear doesn’t speak—”

  More shots rang out, a dizzying cascade of shots that hurt her ears. At first she thought her ears were ringing oddly, but after a couple seconds she knew that wasn’t it. She really did hear Havoc’s shrill, excited bark.

  “Havoc!” Robin cried. “Clay—”

  “No.” He said that in a final voice—no as in I will stop you. Do not think of leaving the safety of this ring of fire.

  If you could get in through the fire without getting hurt, you could get out that way, too. “I’m okay,” she told her uncle. Was Havoc’s bark fading, going away? “I—no, Sammy, don’t!”

  Even as her cousin turned an astonished face her way—he hadn’t done anything—Clay turned to look at him, his arm loosening just enough for Arjenie to pull free, suck in a lungful of air, and fling herself through the fire.

  She stopped a few feet outside it and stood, gasping and only slightly singed, in the trampled dirt and grass. At some point in all the chaos she’d lost focus, and all of the mage lights but the original were gone, but that first one still bobbed obediently over her head. Plus the fire gave out light as well as heat, so she saw pretty well.

  Sheriff Porter knelt beside one of his deputies. Rick, that was his name. The man lay on the ground. She couldn’t see how badly he was hurt—the sheriff’s body blocked most of her view. But she knew it was Rick because his skin was pale and the other deputy was black, and besides, when she looked around she saw that deputy running toward them from the other side of the cul-de-sac.

  It was what she didn’t see that held her mute and still. No bear. No Benedict. And no Havoc.

  Arjenie had learned that adventures tended to be ten percent frantic action and ninety percent waiting. The next hour and a half drew a big, red underline beneath the waiting part.

  Rick had still been alive when the ambulance pulled away. He’d been lucky in one respect. The bear had only gotten in one good swipe before taking off . . . and Sammy’s Gift was healing. He’d been unlucky in that the swipe had been to his gut. Those claws had ripped through flesh and muscle like it was toilet paper.

  Gut wounds were bad. She knew way too many statistics about them. Sammy had kept Rick going, had started the healing—but he’d emptied himself doing it. He’d drawn from Uncle Clay, too. Uncle Clay didn’t have half the spellcraft that Aunt Robin did—it wasn’t a big interest of his—but he had what might be a secondary Gift, or at least an ability that had been passed down in his family. He could share power with another Delacroix without a circle.

  He and Aunt Robin were still down in the draw with the swarm of officers. They couldn’t make a proper circle with Sammy depleted, but Aunt Robin could scry for magic and try to find the bear.

  Arjenie was up at the top of the draw, sitting in the sheriff’s car. Seri and Sammy were up here, too, perched on the trunk of the deputy’s car. They were playing one of those phone games where you can invite someone to play against you—not with their usual high-spirited rivalry but quietly. As if they needed to think of something else, anything else, other than what had happened.

  Arjenie was using a phone, too. Not hers. Benedict’s. His brother had called him on it and Arjenie had answered. “Surgery,” she repeated. “Well, obviously Nettie can’t call me right away. But I really, really need to talk to her as soon as possible.”

  “I’m leaving for the hospital now,” Rule said.

  “Who is she operating on? Is it someone I know?”

  “Noah Stafford. He doesn’t live at Clanhome, so you may not have met him. We don’t know yet what happened, but he was in bad shape when they found him.”

  “Do you think it has something to do with the war?”

  “Possibly. His chances are good, since he’s lasted this long, but one of the injuries was to his jaw, so he won’t be able to speak for a while.” There was a pause, and what sounded like a car door slamming. “As soon as Nettie’s out of surgery, I’ll ask her to call you.”

  “That’s a lousy time to be hit with bad news. Or anxious news, rather, because it isn’t really bad. Benedict couldn’t have been hurt too much or he wouldn’t have taken off after the bear like he did.” Nettie was Benedict’s daughter. She was a shaman and a physician and she was fifty-four years old, which was why they didn’t advertise the relationship outside the clan. People weren’t supposed to know that lupi lived a lot longer than humans . . . if they didn’t get eaten by a bear, that is. “It can be rough being so far away and worrying.”

  “She’ll be puzzled, as I am. It’s not like Benedict to take off in pursuit and leave you undefended.”

  “I’m ridiculously defended. If I were any more defended I couldn’t get anything done at all. But I need to find him. He’ll be expecting that.”

  “I think,” Rule said dryly, “he’d expect you to sit tight in the safest place pos
sible and wait for him.”

  “That’s what he’d want. It’s not what he’d expect.” Movement glimpsed out of the corner of her eye caught her attention. “Oh, the sheriff’s here with my aunt and uncle. I need to talk to them. And you probably need to get off the phone, anyway.”

  “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.

  Havoc/Coyote ate with enthusiasm. I don’t believe Havoc has had raw chicken before, Coyote commented. She likes it.

  Benedict made a mental note to apologize to Robin for exposing her dog to a taste treat she shouldn’t indulge in. Robin and Clay didn’t keep chickens, but some of their neighbors did.

  The terrier was hungry enough t
o eat all of the breast and the sweetmeats. Benedict finished off the legs when she—he—they were done, then led the way to a tiny creek. He lapped thirstily, as did the little dog beside him.

  How’s your leg? Coyote asked.

  Not bleeding. Not healed. Benedict took a moment to focus his thoughts. It’s time you answered some questions.

  I told you why I’m here.

  You told me what we hunt. You didn’t explain why you’re here instead of Raven. Why you’re riding around in Havoc instead of a body of your own. You haven’t even told me why you need me along.

  The terrier cocked her head. I’m sure you’ll prove useful somehow. You did bring me dinner . . . no, no, don’t raise your hackles at me. Sly amusement coated the next words like oil on water: You’ve never forgiven me for whatever I did when you came calling in the other world, have you?

  You’ve probably misdirected so many questers you can’t be expected to remember all your tricks.

  Silence, then, softly: Not so many. Not anymore. The new people don’t know us, and our people have forgotten so much . . . Even those few who still attempt a spirit quest seldom make it into the other world where we can guide them.

  For the first time, there were echoes and ghosts in that voice . . . shades and shadows and years upon years. For the first time, Benedict felt . . . a Presence. Not just power, but Presence.

  Coyote shook off the mood physically with a brisk shake of the little terrier’s body. Ah well, times change. As for your other questions—Raven was busy, and this is more my sort of job, anyway. I’m with Havoc because she offered to host me, and it’s devilishly hard to affect anything in your world without a body.

  You had a body when you were in the barn scaring the stallion.

  Do you have any idea how much power it takes to manifest physically? Especially when a bungling neophyte does the calling. Only a small part of me was able to slip through, not enough to maintain a body. Fortunately, little Havoc here was happy to share.