A welcome invitation…

“My place?” she asked.

Sweet cinnamon bear, full of humor and fire and strength. “Any place you like,” he said, rumbling low.

She didn’t respond as she headed toward the parking lot, a ragged asphalt patch crammed full of cars in what had become true dusk. She looked over her shoulder, found him watching her and smiled—and she didn’t wait. Not playing games, just matter-of-fact check yes or no.

Ruger took a deep breath of the night air, found it scented with leftover heat and sage and creosote. It tasted like anticipation. The hair on his nape bristled, a tingle on his skin.

He followed her.

About the Author

DORANNA DURGIN spent her childhood filling notebooks first with stories and art, and then with novels. After obtaining a degree in wildlife illustration and environmental education, she spent a number of years deep in the Appalachian Mountains. When she emerged, it was as a writer who found herself irrevocably tied to the natural world and its creatures—and with a new touchstone to the rugged spirit that helped settle the area and which she instills in her characters.

Doranna’s first fantasy novel received the 1995 Compton Crook/Stephen Tall Award for best first book in the fantasy, science-fiction and horror genres; she now has fifteen novels of eclectic genres, including paranormal romance, on the shelves. When she’s not writing, Doranna builds webpages, enjoys photography and works with horses and dogs. You can find a complete list of her titles at www.doranna.net.

Sentinels: Kodiak Chained

Doranna Durgin

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is unquestionably dedicated not only to those people who were involved in making it happen, but to those special people who MADE it happen: the readers who let me know how much they wanted to see a book for Ruger.

Chapter 1

If a bear…

Like Ruger hadn’t heard all the jokes. Bear, woods, yeah, yeah, yeah.

But he wasn’t alone. From where he stood among a small patch of trees, he’d looked down on the unexpected plaids and bagpipes and sporrans and kneesocks, smelled the scents of whisky and wool in the cooling air, and heard a pipe-and-drum band squalling up into full sound over all.

And he’d looked down on this woman.

If a bear finds another bear in the park during a Celtic festival, does anyone notice?

He sure did. And so did she.

She stood outside the whisky-tasting tent with its miniscule cups of tasting whisky. If any of the humans standing near her had a clue, they would have treated her with more respect. They wouldn’t have casually bumped into her on the way to the open tent flap—or failed to see the strength in her short houri form, the beauty of nut-brown skin and black hair and smoky eyes.

She smiled faintly at Ruger and lifted her tiny plastic cup of honey-gold liquid in a quiet salute. Ruger lifted his chin in a subtle salute to the lady bear and eased back into the trees of the hill—not quite ready to give up his woods, thin as they might be.

If a bear…

Especially a Sentinel shifter bear looking for quiet the night before a field assignment in the continuing fight against the Atrum Core. One trying to pretend that he wasn’t quite himself, still recovering from what hadn’t killed him, but had maybe killed who he was and had always been.

Healer.

Never mind the Atrum Core ambush that had put Ruger out of action for months. The bite of Flagstaff’s night air, their team gathered in the hotel parking lot where the Atrum Core had been seen, Maks’ hand pushing against the hotel door, their tracker’s cry of warning—

The astonishing flash of stinking, corrupted Core energy blooming from the room to take the team down.

Ruger’s bruises had healed long before he’d woken from the induced coma. And theoretically, his singed senses were, in fact, recovered.

Theoretically. He could sit up here on the crest, thin, gritty soil beneath the seat of his jeans, and he could feel the accumulated ills and ails of the festivities below. He just couldn’t do anything about them.

A woman on chemotherapy, smiling brightly to a friend. And there, a middle-aged man whose lungs sat heavy in his chest, and on the far side of the festival, amidst children clustered at a game under the mercury lights, was a youngster with sickness lurking in his bones. Ruger couldn’t see him—even a Sentinel’s night vision had its limits—but he could feel it well enough.

On a normal night, he could ease the man’s breathing, offer the woman energy, and—

No, the child was what he was.

On a normal night…

Ruger closed his eyes, absorbing the taste and feel of the ailments and knowing—knowing—he could help. Knowing that if he channeled the healing energies that had once come so readily to him, he could…

Soothe…

Ease…

Mend…

He reached, and found nothing. He reached deeper, and found only a deeper nothing, a profound and echoing inner darkness.

Deeper—

The pain came on with the inexorable nature of a gripping vise, increasing to sharp retribution in an indefinable instant. Ruger grunted with the impact, momentarily stunned by it.

And then he was sitting up on the crest of the hill, startled by the sensation of warmth trickling from his nose and into his mustache.

Again.

He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped away the blood, sitting still in the dusk until he was sure the nosebleed had stopped.

Not so much the healer after all.

Well. He was still warrior. And he was still bear. And Nick Carter, Sentinel Southwest Brevis consul, still counted on that fact—counted on it enough that he’d pulled Ruger back into the field.

Not that he or Nick had much choice—not when mere weeks after the hotel ambush, the entirety of Southwest Brevis had been crippled in the aftermath of Core D’oíche. Ruger wasn’t the only one who didn’t know how much of himself he’d recover but who had things to do in the meantime. He could still offer his knowledge—and, unique among healers, he could damned well watch his own back.

And he needed to prove it. To his teammates, to himself.

Ruger got to his feet, shadowing through the woods quietly enough to startle those at the edges of it when he emerged. There, just down the hill… the lady bear still waited. Too much of a coincidence to believe, much too enticing to ignore. A bear in the swirling midst of the Celtic fair, tossing back what remained of her whisky, throat moving with her swallow.

She spotted him immediately and pitched the sample cup into the trash, moving away from the side of the tent to come his way—and scooping two more samples from the table beside the tent as she did. So many of the bear shifters were exceptionally tall, on the burly side—plenty of hair, rugged features. Ruger not as much as some, despite his Kodiak nature when he took his bear. Little black bear, he thought suddenly, and knew it true of her—the comfortable amble in her walk, her black hair glinting in the light, thick bangs cut to frame her face and her skin with enough tone so many would assign to South India what came from the bear. She was sturdy and rounded, her eyes large and dark and her nose just a little bit long, her mouth wide and chin gently notched below. Not plump, but plenty of hips and breast packed into a petite form.

Not a woman who would break easily.

She watched him watching her, making her way through the crowd as if the whisky tent rowdies weren’t there at all, and when she got there she said, quite matter-of-factly, “You took too long to come over.”

Not a shy creature, the bear.

“Just thinking about who you might be,” he said, looking down on her—accepting, without thinking, the sample cup she proffered him. It felt too small in his hand—but then, so many things did.

Maybe she wouldn’t.

He’d definitely been cooped up in brevis medical for too long.

She watched him, her large, dark eyes thoughtful, and he hoped his unbidden thought hadn’t shown on his face.

Or maybe, given the speculative light in her eye, he hoped it had.

Then she smiled, just a curve at the corner of that wide mouth. “I’m on loan from Colorado. I knew you were in this area… but so far at brevis it’s mainly been wolves and big cats.” She frowned in thought. “Though I’m pretty sure that one guy was a weasel.”

Ruger grinned, scratching his fingers through the beard beside his mouth. Full beard, short enough to be tidy, long enough to obscure the landscape of his lower face. “Pine marten,” he told her. “He prefers to be called pine marten.”

She shrugged. “He’ll have to watch where he puts his hands, then.”

Ruger’s hand closed around the tiny whisky sampler; his jaw tightened, ever so slightly. Not that she was his to care about, but…

She laughed, as if she’d understood perfectly well. “I took care of it.” She nodded out at the milling crowd. “Lay odds he’ll learn better tonight, too.”

Ruger cut his gaze out toward the whisky tent, and found the man in question readily enough. Mid-thirties, a wiry guy who probably thought that scruff at his chin counted as a beard, and who had buckled an ostentatiously large sporran over his jeans—most likely to hold the flask now in his hand. He looked bored with the fair, but not the least bit bored with the sight of Ruger’s new companion.

“It happens,” she told him, sipping the whisky. Her eyes widened appreciatively; Ruger could smell the peaty nature of the liquid from his own sample. She shrugged, still looking at the man who’d noticed her. “You know how it is. They can tell something’s different. They’re not sure just what… but they think they want it.” She cocked her head at him. “Or maybe you don’t know. You’ve got that forbidding thing going on.” She nodded at the thinning crowd.

He didn’t look; he’d already seen them. Ladies’ night out, three friends in their late twenties who’d struck the right note of agreeably Celtic and casual, ostensibly admiring the silver rings they’d each purchased. A decade younger than he was—none of the scars, none of the same realities.

They had no idea of the battle that had so recently raged across this region, or of his part in it.

He took the whisky, letting it sit on the back of his tongue a long moment before it warmed his throat, and when he lifted a shoulder in a shrug, she smiled, understanding.

He was already talking to the one person in this park who interested him.

She said, “I’m still finding my way around here. I hit the Making Tracks bar last night—I thought I’d see more of us there.”

“We’re spread thin right now,” he said. “If we weren’t, you wouldn’t be in this region at all.”

“To be honest,” she said, “I was hoping to find you there. Annorah from brevis communications suggested this place when I didn’t.”

Of course she’d known of him. There weren’t so many bear shifters around that it was hard to keep track. And one did keep track, when entering a new brevis. “Wouldn’t be here if I’d realized the Celtic fair was here. Those trees normally make for decent privacy.”

“Oh?” She raised her brow, her gaze back to his before it drifted across the breadth of his shoulders, lingered on his face… went briefly lower.

In an instant, every muscle in his body tightened. She smiled, just a little.

Bears. Not game players. Predators. Knew what they wanted, when they wanted it. “I’m heading out tomorrow,” she said, as if she could read his mind. Maybe she could—some blooded Sentinels did—but he thought not. It wasn’t a talent for bears.

Of course, neither was healing. Usually.

He nodded slowly, and agreed, “It’s that kind of night.”

“I figured I’d be on my own,” she said. “But I’d be happy if I wasn’t.”

He nodded again, this time with something of a smile. There were a number of teams heading out in the morning… and any number of Sentinels who didn’t want to be alone tonight. “Like I said. It’s that kind of night.”

She studied him, inhaling deeply—slowly. Taking the measure of his scent and closing her eyes briefly. “Bear,” she said, as if to herself, but when she opened her eyes she looked directly at him and smiled. “It’s been a long time.”

Hell, yeah.

And here he came, moving in from the crowd: Mr. Way-Over-His-Head, mid-thirties, wiry, and chin scruff. And—bonus!—plenty of hard alcohol on his breath. “Hey there,” he said to her. “Thought you might like to dance to some Wicked Tinkers with us.”

She cut a quick glance his way. “No, thank you,” she said, as politely as it could be done.

“Hey, if you don’t know how, don’t worry about it. We can teach you all the moves you need.” He mimed a quick Highland step, and it held way too much thrust.

She gave him another glance, more deliberate this time. “I’m not into it, thanks.” This time, there was meaning in her glance at Ruger. He read it easily enough, for all that he didn’t yet even know her name. I’ll deal, it said.

“C’mon, honey,” the guy said. “You’ll make me look bad in front of the guys. Besides, you’ll like it. You just met this guy; I been waiting for the right moment all night.”

“You missed it.”

“Just a dance or two,” he said, getting bolder, a little more reckless—more desperate, with a glance back at his smirking buddies. “That’s what you came here for, isn’t it?”

Ruger clamped down the rumble in his chest.

I’ll deal. Her look was a warning… and a request.

Ruger closed one hand into a fist and stood down.

She spoke quietly but clearly, glancing over to the trio of women-witnesses, at that. “I don’t know you. I don’t want to talk to you. Please leave me alone now.”

Maybe the guy didn’t hear her; maybe he didn’t care. He took her arm, and not gently.

Oh, the little bear could move. Ruger saw it, but he doubted the guy did. A twist, a shift, the flat of her palm with just the right force in just the right place… the guy blinked at her from the floor.

“Oh!” she said, with a certain suspicious clarity and lack of emotion. “I’m so sorry! I was so startled when you grabbed me!”

The women smirked.

The guy’s friends threw aside their whisky tasters, bristling en masse—taking a step forward.

Ruger shifted. That was all it usually took—the movement. The distinct moment when they realized that he filled more space than they’d expected, that he moved with the easy power of his kind.

In the instant they hesitated, the lady bear spread her hands in a mollifying gesture. “No big deal, fellas. He startled me. Wouldn’t want to turn it into something noticeable, right?” She sent a significant glance at the security guard most definitely headed their way, a man in kilt and hose and arms that no doubt stood him in good stead when it came time for the caber toss. “After all, there’s still whisky to be tasted.”

That did it. They hauled their friend to his feet, brushed him off and dragged him away. One of the women offered a thumbs-up and said, loud enough to be heard over the distance between them, “He’s always an asshole at these things.”

“Could have been worse,” Ruger said, but his eyes were on the lady bear, and the lurking humor in her eye. Not for a moment discomfited; not for a moment concerned. “Someone could have gotten broken.”

They laughed and moved on, not quite taking him seriously. The lady bear did, eyeing him for a long moment, a smile in the corners of her dark eyes. “Mariska Banks,” she told him, and the humor took on a certain gleam. Invitation.

“Ruger James,” he said, and did the little whisky a grave injustice by tossing it back. “But you knew that.”

“My place?” she asked.

Sweet cinnamon bear, full of humor and fire and strength. “Anyplace you like,” he said, rumbling low.

She didn’t respond as she headed toward the parking lot, a ragged asphalt patch crammed full of cars in what had become true dusk. She looked over her shoulder, found him watching her, and smiled—and she didn’t wait. Not playing games, just a matter-of-fact check yes or no.

Ruger took a deep breath of the night air, found it scented with leftover heat and sage and creosote. It tasted like anticipation. The hair of his nape bristled, a tingle on his skin.

He followed her.

Through the musicians, past the collection of Celtic dog breeds on display, past the sheep and even a few Highland cattle. By the time they reached the parking lot, he’d caught up; by the time they walked to the unlit far end where Ruger had parked, evening had found its way into nightfall.

The guy’s friends probably thought they couldn’t be seen in the dark, with their semicircle blocking the way to Ruger’s short-bed Hemi. Sentinel night vision tinged the men blue, but left them crystal clear—along with the crowbar, the baseball bat and the tire iron.

“We thought about it,” one of them said as Ruger and Mariska stopped, backlit by the fair. “And we decided it was a big deal after all.”

Ruger exchanged a glance with Mariska. “This time,” he said, “we share.”

This time, someone got broken.

Mariska jammed her key in the lock of the small house, her brevis accommodations for this Tucson assignment. Like all Sentinel temp homes, it sat right where the city abruptly gave way to desert: a place where a bear—or wolf or javelina or big cat—could roam.

Ruger stood up close against her back, one arm reaching over her shoulder and propped against the stucco house, his breath stirring her hair and his presence stirring her body.

He’d fought with her. Beside her. He’d known her strength; he’d trusted her training. And he’d embraced it, not grown wary with it.

After a lifetime of feeling too bold, too strong, too much, Mariska quite suddenly didn’t quite feel alone anymore.

The brush of his body warmed her from the inside—a ruffled feeling that trilled down her nape and tickled along her skin, gathering heat low in her belly, tightening down along the backs of her thighs. Greedy and unabashed.

Because now she knew—it would end soon enough. She hadn’t intended it when she’d come here; she’d imagined herself needed—wanted—in the field beside him. She’d had only to meet him to understand how personally he’d take her presence—to sense the pride of him.

Maybe he’d understand. Maybe he’d see it had nothing to do with her respect for him—the famous Southwest healer of both brawn and compassion—and everything to do with what she wanted from life, and a little bit about what he deserved.

In any event, it hadn’t been hard this morning to convince Nick Carter to send her out as Ruger’s backup on the coming field op. He hadn’t been proven in the field since the Flagstaff ambush; they couldn’t risk him.

Not that they ever should have been asking so much of him in the first place.

And it was an opportunity—a chance she’d never been afforded on her home turf, where too many had seen her grow up and still thought of her as little Mariska.

The bear in her went after what it wanted.

What she wanted now was one night when it didn’t matter that she was strong and practical, exotic but not beautiful. Different. She was the one the men approached out of curiosity and not because of any true interest; she was the one who looked short and stumpy next to the sleek Sentinel women who shifted to big cat form, the one who embarrassed even Sentinel men with her strength, never mind her vigorous nature in intimacy.

No little wonder she’d come looking for this singular man—the man she’d watched and admired and come to know through reports. A man who would be her physical match, and whose underlying nature might just match hers. If nothing else… just for tonight.

Tomorrow, everything would change. He wouldn’t tolerate what she’d done for the sake of her place in this brevis. No bear would.

As soon as she twisted the doorknob, he pushed the door open—looming over her in a way that made her feel not threatened or crowded, but claimed. And when he moved forward, she pushed back—contact enough to strengthen the lure when she did move away.

She laughed when he growled an undertone of response. “Ruger,” she said, trying out the taste of his name, and tossed the house keys onto the low bowl shelf by the entry.

He pushed the door shut and took her shoulders from behind—an aggressive move not so different from that of the man at the festival. But for Ruger she turned easily, fluidly, enjoying the strength in his hands and the assumption in his touch. She drank in the sight of him, too-wiry sable hair just long enough to grip when the moment called for it, beard trimmed closely enough to guess the shape of his jaw, and no need to wonder about pale brown eyes or strong brow and cheek, the full shape of his mouth. No need to wonder about the breadth of his shoulders, well above hers, or that bit of hair peeking out at the unbuttoned neckline of his shirt.

She ran her hands across the rough nap of the material, absorbing the warmth beneath, the plane of muscle—the hint of nipple.

He inhaled sharply. “Whatever you want of this night, tell me—” he took a deep breath, let it out “—now,” he said. “Tell me now.” While I can still think. The unspoken sounded clearly enough.

She didn’t hesitate. “What I want is tonight. All of it.”

He looked at her long enough to make her doubt—to hold her breath as he searched her gaze. And then he brought his hands up to cup her jaw, tangling his fingers in her hair, tipping her head up to take her mouth in no uncertain terms. No shy attempt to get acquainted, no hesitant questions. He brought her into it strong and hard, holding her right where he wanted her as he slanted his head for a deeper connection.

It took her no time at all to grab him back, hands skimming his ribs, finding his flanks and kneading hard to pull him up against her. She was too short; he was too tall. It didn’t particularly seem to matter. She felt his response all the same, and she stood on her toes to reach his kiss, full of bursting internal exclamations and enthusiasm. When they broke apart to breathe, she tipped her head back and laughed for the pure exhilaration of it.

“Hell, yes,” she told him, and kicked off her leather walking flats, flipping the snap on her pants even as he came back for her, leaving barely enough room for her hands at his zipper, fingers on automatic as she drank up the scent, the touch, the very presence of him—kissing hard and strong and deep, her hair and her nerves already mussed beyond all redemption by his stroking hands.

She stepped out of her pants, right there in her foyer—no lights necessary, with her night vision showing perfect detail. She reached for the jeans now hanging low on his ass—and for the first time he startled her, both with the low and demanding noise in his throat and with his hands as they slid away from her hair, her shoulders, coming to rest at her waist—picking her right up off the floor with no effort at all to flip her around.

She found her balance with her hands braced against the half wall between the foyer and the great room, and she understood right away. Even in the thrill of it—the strength of him, the anticipation—she whirled back around. “No,” she protested. “I want to touch—”

Just like that, she was facing the wall again, his body pressing against her—but he leaned down, the side of his head against hers, the stiff brush of his beard against her jaw and her hair tangling between them. “Next time,” he said, and quivered up against her, restraint in the hands that tightened at her hips and the sudden gust of breath in her ear. And then he waited, no more than a heartbeat—a space for protest.

Next time.

“Hell, yes,” she said, bracing her arms against that wall.

“Protected?” he asked. Sentinels were, as a matter of course—those who couldn’t ward themselves had it done for them.

His hands ran over her belly, up to her breasts, learning them, kneading them—lightly at first, until she arched into his hand and said, “Hell, yes.”

His arm crossed her chest—supporting her, continuing to play her breast; the other dropped back to her belly—splayed there a moment, pressing them together while Mariska tipped her head back and hummed, a low and uninhibited sound. A bear sound. Her legs parted and he took full advantage, cupping her; she cried out in surprise at the sudden rush of pleasure and heat, and again as his fingers pressed into her.

“Ready?” he asked, and this time his voice came strangled, the tremble of him surrounding her.

“Hell—” she breathed, and got no further, for he lifted her hips and found his way home, his exclamation of surprised pleasure in her ear, his legs stiffening until he found his balance again.

“—yes,” she whispered, wanting so badly to touch him in return—but her arms knew better, absorbing the increased weight while she held her breath in expectation, waiting to feel the fullness and size of him in motion.

Except he just stayed there—holding her, fingers tightening around her body, his breath a convulsive gasp in her ear—while she finally realized he was grasping for control.

Who the hell wanted control?

She squirmed.

He growled, holding her tightly—so tightly, his head pressed to hers and his hips suddenly plunged against her.

Except he somehow had the wherewithal to grab back control—he played with her, little thrusting increments of sensation. She gasped in outrage and then at the spiraling, clawing sensation, drawing on the nerves from her spine to her tightly curled toes. And she gasped in delight—at the understanding that she was claimed, that she was in the hands of the strength and power she craved.

With a cry, she pushed back at him, squirming inside and out. And yes, he made a harsh, startled noise, a fierce noise—a sound of wrenching pleasure as he lost control again and pounded into her without restraint. Her own delighted whimper rose in volume as her feet came right off the floor and hooked around his legs and—

Oh, hell, YES—

He caught her as she stiffened and trembled—and then he shouted as if the moment took him completely by surprise. His knees gave way, and there they were on the floor while she sat back in his lap, clinging weakly to the half wall.

As the aftershocks of hellaciously superb sex faded away and Mariska’s stunned fog of pleasure eased, a short laugh snorted its way out. She clapped a hand over her mouth, sagging precariously close to the wall, but couldn’t help it; she did it again. And of course he felt it—the clench of her internal movement around him, her slipping position.

He pulled her upright, finger-combing the hair away from her face as he tucked his mouth in beside her ear again, and this time his voice was a growl. “What?”

“Just—” she said, and waved her hand at them, at the wall, at the foyer littered with her clothes and her shirt somehow hanging open and her breasts free. “Just—” she tried again, and gave it up and laughed right out loud.

She felt him relax slightly. “Lady bear,” he said, and nipped at her ear.

“Does that make you a gentleman bear?” she asked, twisting to look back at him, his face so close to hers.

He offered a wry smile from within that beard. “Not for a long, long time.”

“About tomorrow—” she said, not having planned it in the least.

But he shook his head. “Tonight,” he told her, “is always. No matter what happens tomorrow.”

Her heart clenched, much as her body had clenched only moments earlier. “An always night,” she whispered. No matter tomorrow.

Eventually they got past the foyer. Not before Ruger spread his shirt on the rough textured paint of the half wall, set her on it, and provided what she’d clearly wanted the first time—the chance to fondle and stroke.

He’d meant for things to go slower, then—a chance to admire the sturdy bones of her, to marvel that he hadn’t worried about crushing her or frightening her, and the certainty that she’d been able to brace herself against that wall no matter how he pounded into her. A chance to run his hands over full hips and full breasts and her curvy, flat and tight waist, and to marvel at her perfect proportions. Not tall, not long and lean and slender, not any of the things that so many men ogled.

But all the things that Ruger ogled.

And it didn’t go slow at all.

So eventually they made it past the foyer… but only as far as the sprawling couch, where they finally fell asleep. She, sated and lightly snoring… he, completely smitten.

But when he woke in the morning, covered only by a soft cotton blanket that had slipped down far enough to threaten modesty, the light streamed in the windows of the airy Southwest home and Mariska the lady bear was gone.

Chapter 2

That she’d left didn’t surprise Ruger. She was on assignment today; she’d only ever asked for the night. She, like all of his kind, was clearly wont to an independent nature, not needy on the morning after.

Besides, she’d left him out some tea makings and a protein shake.

Ruger didn’t bother to head for home—a tidy little trailer in the foothills of the Catalinas. He dug out the little overnighter kit from his truck’s half-cab storage, brushed his teeth, and helped himself to a quick shower, relieved at the neutral scents of her soap and shampoo.

But the shower did nothing to clear his head; his senses reeled in the aftermath of Mariska—and in the surreal but inescapable fact that he was about to report for field duty without his healing skills. He stared at the lightly fogged mirror and felt as though he saw someone who had been, not someone who was. Strong in body once more, a man more big than beefy or hulking, a man with strength in arms and torso and defined muscle all the way down to the towel that draped his hips.

But still only part of what he’d been.

He tugged on his shirt, stepped into his pants, grabbed the protein shake, and headed out to the truck with the heat of the early morning soaking into his shoulders. Thinking changes and forward as he started up the truck. Maybe that was why he pulled into the barbershop when he saw it. When he stepped out, his hair was only a smidge more crisp around the edges—but his bared cheeks sensed the slightest breeze, and that untanned skin tingled in the sun.

As if facing the world without a beard for the first time in his adult life would distract him from things still missing.

He still had his knowledge. His herbs and creams and brews. But those would no longer be infused with the healing energies—and they hadn’t ever been the reason for his demand in the field.

Not to mention that brevis liked a healer who could look after himself. Counted on Ruger to do so, instead of using their depleted manpower. Until Flagstaff, when he’d walked into that Atrum Core ambush just like the rest of his team. Then when Core D’oíche had hit not so long afterward, he hadn’t been there to help the wounded.

So damned many wounded.

But he shouldn’t be thinking about that now. Now was about forward. First stop, Brevis HQ, where he’d join the briefing on his new assignment in Arizona’s high timber region, following up on whatever Maks Altán had uncovered.

Brevis itself hid in a deceptive handful of stories on the edge of Old Town Tucson, where the building foundation dug down deep into caliche to hide invisible subterranean floors below. Apartments and offices and meeting rooms above; medical, the amulet lab and so much of their archived history below. A complete and tidy headquarters for a race of earth-bound sentinels unknown to the world at large.

Ruger parked the pickup in his assigned slot and headed for the high conference room outside Nick Carter’s corner office—a room draped with local plantings and replete with the astringent scents of the desert. Ruger pretty much knew what he’d find there—the vast window, the carpet thick underneath and the conference table holding a bottomless pot of herbal tea. Businesslike and still welcoming.

He’d find Carter and possibly Jet, the wolf who’d discovered her human side through Atrum Core experiments, as well as the other members of his team—all new to him, he suspected. He was ready for that.

He wasn’t ready to open the big wood door and find Mariska sitting at that table, her expression more of a wince than a welcome, her eyes widening slightly at the sight of his newly shaved face.

He might not have known she’d be on his team, but…

She’d known. He could see it on her face. She’d known, and she hadn’t said anything. And he couldn’t think of any reason why not.

At least, not any good reason.

He gave her a wary nod, yanking out a chair at the end of the table—the one he always took, not because of any stupid alpha game, but because in a room of men made big by their Sentinel nature, Ruger stood the largest… and took the most leg room while he was at it.

Nick sat at his desk, two computer monitors in play and a stack of folders threatening to slide over the edge. Annorah leaned over to scoop them up and deposit them in the middle of the table, shoving one in Mariska’s direction and another at Ian Scott, the amulet specialist who’d briefly worked with Maks in Pine Bluff. One to Ruger, and one to a woman Ruger didn’t know—a wards or shielding specialist, most likely.

Ian flipped his folder open and began an immediate doodle in the margin—impatient with such meetings as ever. Sardonic in nature, his snow leopard showing strongly in his pale hair, striking eyes, and the flow of his movement—at least, when he wasn’t acting like an overcaffeinated cat. “If we’re all up to speed on this,” he said, “let’s skip to the good part.”

Ruger made a subliminal grumbling noise that the others nonetheless perceived very well, his normally amiable nature tangled by his reaction not to Mariska’s presence, but to her guarded expression.

“Not everyone comes at this from the inside,” Nick said mildly, ignoring Ruger’s mood and responding to Ian. As alpha as they came, that Nick Carter—full of wolf and full of innate pack understanding. But an alpha didn’t need to posture or dominate… an alpha just was. That mild voice meant plenty.

Ian sighed and flipped his pencil against the table a few times. “Okay, sure,” he said, sitting back. “What’ve we got, then?”

“Mariska, I am Jet.” The whisky voice belonged to the woman with whisky eyes, Nick’s fiercely beloved Jet. As usual, she hovered by the window, restless and graceful. As usual, she tended the social necessities first. More wolf than any of them, Nick included—wolf born and human made, escaped from the Core, bereft of her pack, and now forever with Nick. “I’ll be scouting wide.”

Ian raised his hand. “Ian Scott. Amulet hotshot.” He tapped the folder a few unnecessary times. “I’ll be supervising amulet recovery in the installation Maks has found.”

Annorah crossed her arms. “Annorah. Communications central, here at brevis.” If she looked defiant, Ruger suspected it was only because she wanted to be out in the field again. It wasn’t likely to happen anytime soon; she’d lost that privilege in Flagstaff when her inexperience-driven fear had nearly sabotaged the mission.

Nick leaned back in his office chair. “Nick Carter,” he said, pale green eyes astute as he watched them all. “Boss.”

Mariska hesitated, her troubled gaze flicking from Nick to Ruger. She cleared her throat. “Mariska Banks, on assignment from Western Brevis. I’m personal security.”

Ruger’s subliminal growl went loud, as all the implications of the situation hit him at once—and then combined with her guilty expression to make sense.

She was there to look after him.

And she’d known about it while he hadn’t. Hell, she’s bear. She’d likely made it happen in the first place. He looked past her to Nick. “That’s not the plan.”

“It’s not,” Nick said easily. “But early yesterday, Mariska came to me with some compelling points. This rogue has been too active—too unpredictable. We need to catch him as soon as possible, and to do that we need to understand him as soon as possible—the contents of this bunker will allow us critical insight. So it would be best if you aren’t distracted by security issues while you’re tapping your healer’s perceptions at the new bunker.”

Hell, yes, she’d made this happen. She’d insinuated herself into this field op… she’d supplanted the one thing he could still offer to brevis. He couldn’t help his utterly flat voice, or the way it did nothing to disguise his anger. Betrayal. “I can take care of myself.”

“Whoa,” Ian said. “So can I, but I’m thinking this is a conversation I don’t need to be part of.”

“There is no conversation,” Nick said. He eyed Ruger, and if his gaze was still easy, it was also implacable. The decision had been made.

Ruger clamped down on his growl, but it didn’t stop him from sending a dark look at Nick. Personal security. It was the last thing he wanted or needed—especially when it was coming from a woman he suddenly no longer trusted. Not because she’d had the idea, or because she’d gone to Nick with it. But because she’d understood better than any of them—bear to bear—what it meant to him, and she’d never said anything.

She’d been fierce and gorgeous and astonishingly joyful and giving with her body… and he’d given the same back. And yet—

You should have said something, Mariska.

The final member of the team cleared her throat, a little more loudly than necessary. “Allesandra,” she said, and even in his ire, Ruger saw the coyote in her buff blond hair and amber eyes. “Call me Sandy. Given what happened to Ian the last time he was in Pine Bluff, I’ll be working wards on our hotel. You’ll all be responsible for personal shields.” She gave Nick a wry look. “Normally I’d be working with my partner to make sure we could cover both, but we all know how it is these days.”

“That’s all of you,” Nick said. “Now listen up—if you take anything from this briefing, let it be caution. Don’t underestimate the man behind the installation you’ll be studying. His name is Eduard Forakkes, and he’s likely still in the area. We’re almost certain he was Fabron Gausto’s amulet tech—and the Core’s recent advances with silent amulets are most likely his doing. Physically, he’s unassuming—but he’s as treacherous as Gausto ever was.”

“Trust me on that one,” Ian said—as dryly as ever, and likely without any awareness of the pain that tightened his face.

Sandy pushed at her folder. “What evidence do you have that he’s still there?” she asked. “Maks found this bunker abandoned, aside from the leftover animals.”

“Because he isn’t anywhere else,” Nick said. “Because the Core, as much as they’ll embrace him if he comes up with something they can use, has branded him rogue. Because this bunker may not be a primary installation, but it was clearly in active use at the time of its discovery. And because—”

“Maks said so,” Jet said, an atypical insertion from her spot near the window, one uttered with complete confidence in the Siberian tiger who had helped free her from Gausto six months earlier.

“If anyone knows Forakkes, it’s Maks,” Nick finished, a flash of fury rising to the surface so quickly that Ruger blinked—only to find it gone again. A little reminder of what lay beneath their consul’s calm exterior.

It wasn’t enough to deter Ruger from the pending argument between them—but it was enough to keep him quiet for now. Especially since he understood Nick’s wrath all too well—he’d read the material in this folder from front to back already; he knew Forakkes had been active in the Core for a startling number of years.

A decade and more ago, he’d been trying to breed Sentinels for his own purposes. Young Maks had survived escape from that situation. His mother had not.

Yes, Maks knew Forakkes. But Maks was still sorting himself out up there in the White Mountains with Katie Rae Maddox. He would no doubt join Ruger there, but only briefly.

Sandy accepted the assurances matter-of-factly. “Okay, then,” she said. “He’s still there. Then we’ll find him.”

“And don’t forget Katie’s visions,” Ian said. “I know they’re vague, but her sense of foreboding goes far deeper than the local situation.”

“Second that,” Annorah said. “She’s got a reputation as a lightweight. Don’t you believe it. If you took the form of a little deer, would you want to attract the attention of the rest of us?”

“Exactly so,” Nick agreed. “She fooled me for years. We’ll let you know if anything else comes through for her, but until then, keep her report in mind—and don’t get cocky.”

“Cool,” Ian said, hitting a quick beat with his pencil. “Well, this has been uplifting, but I’ve got a silent amulet to secure before we go. And oh—by the way, watch out for those, too. If you’re used to sensing the stink of the things, the new silent ones will take you by surprise.”

Mariska frowned at her folder, quiet as she absorbed the nuances of the team. She hadn’t truly understood the significance of this situation, that was clear enough. And that—there on her face, the faint frown of her brow and the worry in her eyes—that was doubt. Self-doubt.

It pissed Ruger off that he could read her so well.

“That’s it,” Nick said, as if he didn’t see it. “Head down below and get geared up; I want you in Pine Bluff by midafternoon.”

“Halfway there,” Ian said, on his feet and reaching for the door handle while the rest of them still shifted in their chairs—Sandy reached for a last swallow of her tea, Annorah stretched, and Ruger…

Ruger just glowered.

Mariska gathered her folder and stood, tucked together in a tidy button-down blouse with the wood buttons and natural material that meant it was Sentinel kosher—it would follow her if she took the bear, absorbed by the earth magic until she needed it again. Her slacks held the wrinkle of natural cotton; Ruger would bet she wore the moccasins he’d seen the previous night. Mariska Bear came prepared.

And she’d known what she was doing when she pried her way onto this team. She’d known what she was doing to him.

She’d taken away the one thing he truly had left to give them.

She met his current glower with uncertain honesty—with a note of pleading. “Ruger—”

He wanted to growl. He didn’t. He leaned back in the chair, one arm hooked over the back of it, his legs sprawling into the space left by Ian’s departure.

“Ruger—” Mariska said again, dismay in those big dark eyes and on that wide mouth.

Ruger only shook his head. “Just one night,” he said softly—knowing the others would hear, and not caring.

Mariska cared. The woodsy brown tones of her skin went a shade paler. She pulled her folder off the table and left, moving with a stiffness that hadn’t been the least bit apparent any of the times they’d made love the night before.

Just one night.

But it would never be enough.

“Ruger. You wanted to talk to me?”

Of course Nick knew what was coming. And Jet, too; she gave them a glance over her as she headed out the door, leaving Ruger alone in the room with Nick.

So Ruger didn’t mince words. “No,” he said. “I don’t need any damned babysitter. Especially not one I can’t trust.”

“I trust her,” Nick pointed out.

Ruger stood, going from sprawled to upright and tense, his anger hitting the surface faster than he’d ever expected. “This isn’t about whether I need help—I damned well don’t. This is her bid for something bigger than Western Brevis has given her. That’s not the right reason!”

“Doesn’t mean she can’t do the job.” Nick didn’t react as Ruger reached the desk, looming tall; he rocked back in his pricey office chair, still relaxed—except Ruger knew him well enough to see the wolf bloom to life behind those pale green eyes.

“It does if I won’t work with her,” Ruger said. “She lied to me. She used me.”

“Is that what this is about?” Nick said, and now his voice was soft enough for Ruger to take notice. “Your pride?”

A rumble of anger pushed at his chest; Ruger ground his teeth, fighting to keep it to himself. “It’s about,” he said distinctly, “the fact that I don’t trust her.”

“Then you have a problem,” Nick said. Oh, yeah. Far too relaxed in that desk chair, the desk between them and the dual monitors off to the side, the rest of the surface populated with neat paperwork. But even as Ruger struggled with anger, Nick sighed. “If I didn’t think you could take care of yourself, you wouldn’t be going at all. But she made some good points when she came to me yesterday morning. You need to be able to concentrate on what you’re doing—to go deeper than is possible if you’re watching your own back, and to work faster. There’s too much at stake for us to take chances—we’ve lost too much already.”

Exactly. They were shorthanded; they were licking their wounds. They needed every active field agent they could get—and that meant not wasting extra manpower on an assignment with which Ruger didn’t need help—didn’t want help.

Didn’t want the help of a woman who had already thrown away the heart he’d so rarely offered.

“I don’t need her there,” he growled at Nick. “I don’t want her there. And no good will come of having her there.”

Nick inclined his head. “She’s yours,” he said. “Make the best of it.”

Once, Ciobaka had been a dog—immersed in the now of being canine, his world full of scents and natural cinders crunching under feral paws.

Now he was dog, and yet more. He saw more, heard more, comprehended more… but understood nothing.

He sat in the cage that had once easily held him, but now required lock and key. The cage sat in a vast and unnatural underground space, the ceiling arching overhead and sly sky tubes bringing in enhanced sunlight to turn darkness into an illuminated artificial cave. At night there were fake lights, driven by a thing called solar power.

Human things surrounded him—a stack of crates and cages, a dissection table, a long wall full of things electrical and whirring. To the far end, the men slept in cots; beside that section, Ehwoord had his own den. There was a tiny place where the humans snatched food, and a tiny toilet closet. Crammed beside this stood a black, molded chest with a lid and drawers and foam, and it held shiny metal weapons that stunk of oil and acrid powder, and none of the men touched it at all.

Ehwoord’s places were brightly lit at all times. No one would guess at the man’s importance otherwise. He was of advanced years and weakened body, although it seemed to Ciobaka that Ehwoord grew strangely straighter with the passing days, his sparse hair thickening, his lines softening, his voice growing sharper even as his temper grew more erratic.

Ehwoord fussed endlessly with metal disks and leather thongs, and he captured and caged many small creatures with thin crunchy bones and juicy meat. He didn’t eat them, as only made sense; he changed them—and changed them again.

“Ehwoooor,” Ciobaka said, as much as lips and tongue would allow. “Wahwaaaah.”

One of Ehwoord’s subordinates—Tarras—smacked the metal bars of Ciobaka’s enclosure with a baton. Ciobaka snarled horribly; the man flinched.

“Tarras,” Ehwoord said, his voice tight as he barely glanced aside from his current scratching notations, “don’t annoy Ciobaka. Ciobaka, don’t frighten my people. And the phrase you’re looking for is want to. Not wanna and certainly not wahwah.”

Ciobaka pushed breath up toward his nasal passages. “Wahnaaa.”

“Freak,” Tarras muttered, and went back to the task of cleaning small animal cages. Like Ehwoord’s other subordinates, he had swarthy skin tones, dark hair pulled back into a short club at his nape, and shining silver pieces at his ears and neck.

“An improvement,” Ehwoord said of Ciobaka’s enunciation. “But you nonetheless may not have this gopher. He and his little friends are doing me a great service with their deaths.”

“Toopit,” Ciobaka said with some disgust. He flattened his dingo-like ears, his lips pulled back at the corners in canine disapproval.

Ehwoord gave him a sharp glance. “You will not think so if my success with them spares you.”

Tarras reached for the prey food pellets. He picked up the pellet scoop and said, “I liked the thought of surprising those Sentinel bastards with your workings to change our forms. This, I don’t get.”

Ehwoord’s voice grew very tight for that moment. “Finalizing that working under these crude conditions has proven impossible. At this moment, what we need is redemption in the eyes of the Septs Prince—he who holds sway over all our regional drozhars.” He smiled gently, an expression Ciobaka found even more frightening. “Once he’s captivated by our success, our positions will be secure. And I’m sure he’ll agree—if we can’t have Sentinel powers, then neither will they.”

Chapter 3

I don’t need her there. I don’t want her there.

Mariska shouldn’t have lingered at Nick’s office, reorienting to the elevator and the quietly classy earth tones of the hallway. No, she shouldn’t have lingered at all. Not when her hearing was as acute as any Sentinel’s.

Apparently, she’d somehow fooled herself into hoping that Ruger would understand.

Silly bear that she was.

It had all made sense when she’d spoken to Nick about the assignment, twelve hours before she’d even gotten close to Ruger. No doubt she should have said something when she’d found him at the park… but the moment had been so perfect, the opportunity so rare, the man so engaging…

Well, so be it. She’d take the elevator down to the gear room to augment her own minimalist duffel—a couple of high-power stun guns, a collapsible baton, a blackjack… everything it took to manage Atrum Core goons without leaving bodies behind.

When it came time to leave bodies, she had only to call on her bear.

Not that the Core played fair. They carried guns and they carried amulets, and they pretended they were only protecting the world from Sentinels run amok with their own prowess—the connection to the earth that had given their druid ancestors the ability to shift form, and then further specialties besides. Healers, like Ruger. Trackers and warding specialists and earth power wranglers.

Mariska had none of that. She was strong and able, a powerhouse packed into a curvy little body. And she continued in the tradition that had started two thousand years earlier, when that first shape-shifting druid had faced his fratricidal half-Roman brother—a man who had then founded his Atrum Core clan, so intent on stealing power and influence that they’d only helped shape the Sentinels into what they were today—strong, confident protectors.

What did you expect from me? The thought held a bitterness she’d felt more and more often in recent days. Take a bear shifter, train her in that tradition, keep her just a little bit bored and a whole lot eager, and then turn her loose in front of opportunity?

“What did you expect?” she muttered, out loud this time, as she gave the elevator call button an unnecessarily savage punch. The little plastic cover made a faint cracking noise. Well, hell. She needed the activity, anyway. She’d take the stairs.

“You smell like Ruger.” The voice came so close, so unexpected, that Mariska startled away from the elevator.

Jet. Of course. Only wolf-borne Jet could take a Sentinel unaware. Not that Mariska had been at her best, so full of introspection and unexpected emotions. She put on her calmest face, casting Jet a glance. “Is that polite?”

Jet paused to think about it, wild whisky eyes beneath black hair, feral features unbothered by the implied criticism. “Is it not polite?”

A little off balance all over again, Mariska said, “It’s private.”

“Private is a thing that others can’t perceive,” Jet pointed out. “The scent of Ruger is an obvious thing.”

“You’re supposed to pretend,” Mariska muttered, taking a step for the stairs, uncertain how this woman fit into the hierarchy of Southwest Brevis—other than being more wolf than anyone, other than providing invaluable insight to the Core… other than being Nick’s chosen.

“Pretend what?” Jet tilted her head slightly; her posture changed, ever so subtly, and Mariska froze, seeing the threat behind it.

Mariska knew the rules about taking her bear here in the hallways of brevis. She wasn’t so sure about Jet.

“Pretend you weren’t lovers?” Jet asked, with no apparent self-consciousness at all. “Pretend you didn’t share that part of yourself with him, before you came in here this morning to hurt him so?”

“I’m doing what I think is best,” Mariska said, irritation rising. She hadn’t understood, until she’d seen that look in Ruger’s eyes, that her presence would do more than annoy him. That it would undermine him—and it would do so in front of his team. But her reasons for doing it? Still sound. Still important. “For both brevis and Ruger.”

“And for you.”

Mariska felt her eyes narrow. “You were right at the head of the line when they handed out blunt, weren’t you?”

“I don’t know what that means,” Jet said. “And I don’t think it matters. The thing that matters is how Ruger looked when he saw you in Nick’s office.”

“Don’t tell me you think he should be working this without protection.” Righteous indignation lent a snap to her voice. “Maks just barely survived what he fought up there—Maks, your own best bodyguard. Ruger is a healer. Just because he’s a bear doesn’t mean he should go up there alone.”

“Pack is best,” Jet said, agreeing so readily that it took Mariska by surprise. “But you didn’t have to hurt him to do this, and you did. How does that make you the best person to watch his back?”

“I—” Mariska’s certainty fled, leaving her floundering and frustrated. “I’m only doing my job.”

Jet looked at her with something akin to scorn. The sting of it tightened Mariska’s throat in a combination of familiar bitterness and old despair. “Pack,” Jet said, “is everything. Until you come from that place, you cannot do your job at all.”

“That’s not fair,” Mariska muttered—but she did it to Jet’s retreating back, seeing in her tall, lithe form everything that she wasn’t; seeing in her graceful movement everything she had wanted to be.

No, she told herself. What she wanted to be was seen for herself, accepted for herself, valued for herself… given the chance to prove herself.

She’d thought this was it. She’d thought Ruger might understand; she’d thought she could be of important value to this team.

But now she’d seen that look on Ruger’s face; she’d heard his fierce need to support his friends and his beleaguered brevis… she understood that she’d taken that chance from him.

And now she’d watched them discuss things she’d only before read about. Now she’d seen the grim expression in Ian Scott’s eyes when he spoke of the amulets, and the concern on Sandy’s face. She’d seen them all trying to be matter-of-fact about circumstances that were so obviously grave, and she’d seen them reacting to a seer’s visions that she’d so readily shrugged off after reading about Katie Maddox’s lightweight history.

Mariska looked at Jet’s retreating form, and for the second time that morning, swallowed back the fear that she’d been terribly, terribly wrong.

Ruger tossed his gear in the back of his assigned short-bed pickup truck, grateful that brevis motor pool hadn’t tried to cram him into the hybrid BMW SUV that had put that brief, slightly manic grin on Ian’s face.

Grateful, too, that after they’d dumped their gear into the pickup, his two amulet flunkies had trailed Ian over to that vehicle, along with Sandra and Jet. At least, he was grateful until he did the math, and jerked his head up to see Mariska hoisting her own gear into the back of the truck… with no seats left in the BMW.

“Yeahhh,” he said. And, “No. Trade out with Sandy.”

Mariska cast a meaningful glance over her shoulder to where Ian had already put the car in gear and peeled out—too quickly—into Tucson’s rising midday traffic. “I was hoping we could talk.”

“I was hoping we wouldn’t,” Ruger told her, yanking the door open and adjusting the driver’s seat back as far as it would go without even trying to get in first.

“Don’t you think we should?” She stood solidly in the other doorway, the sun glinting so brightly off her dark hair as to be painful, nothing even hinting of hesitance in her manner. Lady bear, and everything about her was still just what he wanted. His body knew it, his brain knew it, his heart knew it, and damn, it made him mad. So close…

“Look,” he said. “I get it. You went for what you wanted with brevis. You went for what you wanted last night. It turns out to be different from what I wanted, but I don’t guess that’s your fault. But it also turns out I don’t trust you because of how you went about it, and that would be your fault. Don’t expect me to feel any differently about it. And don’t expect me to play nice so you can pretend it’s all fine. You wanted to ride with me? Let me know how that works out for you.” He climbed into the truck and slammed the door closed, making final adjustments to the seat.

When he reached for the seat belt, she was right there beside him already, tucking her small personal backpack off to the side, flipping the air vents the way she wanted them. “It’s not like that.”

He snorted, with no effort to make it kind. “It’s exactly like that.” The motor started smoothly, and he reached for the radio.

She turned it off.

“Ah, hell,” Ruger said in disgust, and put the truck into gear. “Awkward silence it is.”

“Look,” she said, and she sounded exasperated. Exasperated, but trying to moderate it. “I did what I did, and it’s done. But I didn’t mean to mess with you.”

He snorted again. “What did you mean, then?”

“I just wanted—”

“I got that part,” he said. “You wanted.”

“So did you!” she said, temper rising in a sudden spurt—her nostrils flared, the color rising on the angle of her cheek, coming through the tone of her skin. “You wanted several times, as I recall, and it seemed to me you were happy enough with what you got!”

Ruger sat in silence a moment, his foot on the brake, his body twisting to check behind the truck before he backed up. He regarded her steadily, his heart beating stupidly hard, his chest tightened up with equally stupid hurt. He said, “I did. And I was. And I somehow managed not to sacrifice you along the way.”

Her eyes widened; her mouth flattened, and he suspected she bit the inside of her lip. After a long moment, she said quietly, “None of that means I’m not right for this job.”

“It means I don’t trust you.” He pulled out into traffic a lot more steadily than Ian had, heading for Route 77 northwest out of Tucson. “And that means you can’t do the job.”

“Sure as hell is going to make it harder,” she muttered, crossing her arms over her seat belt, looking away. “Maybe you’re just a big dumb bear after all.”

He slanted a quick scowl at her, keeping his attention on the road. Even Sentinel reflexes were good for just so much in city traffic. “How exactly do you figure that?”

“I figure,” she said, “that it’s in your best interests to be a team player. I figure it’s in your best interests to work with me so I can watch your back.”

“That’s your mistake.” Ruger braked for a light, and took advantage of the moment to look over at her—catching her by surprise, and catching, too, the faint hint of misery on her face—right before her mouth firmed up and her eyes hardened, and she met his gaze straight on. He didn’t soften his tone in the least, letting the words come out distinctly, hitting each one and watching the impact of them in her expression. “Because I don’t need anyone to watch my back at all.”

This time, when he switched the radio on, she left it.

Mariska climbed out of the truck to take a deep breath of pine-scented air, looking out over the achingly clear skies of Arizona high country. Their accommodations—a cluster of seasonal tourist cabins twenty minutes out from the tiny town of Pine Bluff—sat nestled against a rugged hillside, and Sitgreaves National Forest spread out before them. Mariska’s bear stretched within her, eager to sink claws to earth.

The SUV had arrived some moments before, its occupants spilling out over a minimalist parking zone of hard dirt, natural cinders and pine needles spread everywhere. Sandy already stood to the south of the cabins, her posture too erect to be casual, her face lifted slightly to the sky, her eyes closed. Already setting the wards. Ian’s people had scattered across the grounds surrounding the two neighboring cabins, their expressions full of focus.

Not that there would likely be amulets seeded anywhere nearby when they’d only just arrived, but Mariska understood well enough that familiarizing themselves with the taste and energies of the area would make it possible to locate amulets should they be placed later—especially if they were of the new crop of silent amulets.

Ruger, too, disembarked from the truck, standing much as Mariska had—scenting the air, visibly longing to indulge in his bear. Yesterday she’d seen him as tall and burly; she’d loved the curl of his hair, so obviously only tamed by the cut, and she’d loved the rugged nature of his beard. It had been all too easy to imagine the vigorous nature of their bodies joining… and it was all too easy to remember it now.

But today she saw beyond the first impression, and realized how much of it was just that—an impression, driven by his very nature. Today she saw the masculine beauty of a body that was large and strong, but not overbuilt; today she saw that the beard had hidden the lean features of his face, long dimples carved into his cheeks, a jaw that was strong without going wide, and pale brown eyes shadowed by dark and expressive eyebrows.

She realized her palms had gone damp, and surreptitiously wiped them along her thighs.

Jet came out of the cabin in front of the truck, wearing nothing but a long T-shirt and a necklace of braided leather and gleaming metal. Her bare feet moved soundlessly over the ground, and she stopped before Mariska. “This is our cabin,” she said. “You, and me, and Ruger.” She glanced at the second cabin. “The others will stay together so they can talk amulet things.”

Mariska winced inwardly—but of course she’d be housed with the man she was here to guard. “Thanks,” she said. “Going out already?”

“To run,” Jet said with such longing that Mariska felt an immediate sympathy. It was one thing to keep her bear at bay when she’d grown up doing so, when she hadn’t even taken the bear until she was twelve. It was another to be born wolf and linger as human. Jet added, “And I want to check this land.”

“Are those—” Mariska stopped herself from reaching to touch the metal-thick, satin disks with chunky edges that looked like a gift, but also looked like “—dog tags?”

Jet laughed. “Wolf tags,” she said. “You can wear your special clothes and have them change with you. I run without.”

Ian joined them from the other cabin, looking satisfied with the housing and satisfied with the inspection. “So you play pet, if someone comes on you?”

“Not pet,” Jet said, and bared her teeth.

Ian laughed and held up a defensive hand. “We know that, darlin’,” he said. “But try not to scare the natives, okay?”

“They won’t see me,” she assured him, and headed for the woods.

“Ready to take a look around?” Ian asked Mariska. “We’re meeting Maks in half an hour.”

Mariska looked over the hood of the truck to Ruger, who had come out of his reverie to head for the back of the truck. “Go ahead,” he said, grabbing the first three bags and easily slinging them from the truck. “It’s more important for you to check the place out. I’ll do my own recon when I get the chance.”

She heard nothing in his voice but matter-of-fact practicality, but she winced a little inside anyway. And then, as Ruger’s shoulders filled the doorway, she wondered how they would both possibly fit into the same cabin, no matter how large it was.

Jet ran the woods. She ran as wolf, stretching her legs and lowering her head into the pure glory of it. Indulging in the hot, dry scent of the towering pines in the afternoon sun, the breeze ruffling her black fur… the silence in her head.

So full of talk, the humans. So full of thinking they knew what they wanted, and then not being happy when those things happened.

Her tongue lolled out in a ridiculous pant; she pulled herself down to a trot, scrambling up the loose scuff of a rocky outcrop to circle behind and above the cabins. No wise wolf wore herself out on indulgences when she needed to stay sharp against the enemy. Always in the form of man, that enemy—once because she had been wolf, and now because she called the Sentinels her pack.

It was to her relief that Ian had asked her to stay here at the cabins while they went off to meet Maks Altán at the place where he now lived and to follow him into the forest to Forakkes’ bunker. Not just to stay, but to learn the area in all its scents and sounds and lay of the land so she might be alert to any hint of incursion by the Atrum Core. “We’ll be working hard and fast,” he’d said. “When we come to ground, we’ll need to know it’s safe.”

She’d promised him that. And if later, they needed her to stand sentry at the bunker, she would do that, too. Wolf again.

She only regretted that she was not wolf again with Nick, whose uniquely hoarfrost hair fooled people into thinking he was prematurely gray. Foolish people. They had only to look, and they would see it wasn’t. They had only to look in his eyes to see the gray wolf lurking there.

She saw the bear in Ruger easily enough. She’d spotted Mariska’s smaller bear right away. And no matter that they’d showered… they smelled of one another, and of lingering lust.

Mariska, she didn’t know. But she had never seen that hurt in Ruger’s eye; she had never seen him closed and angry… and yet still obviously wanting. It was the wanting that was the problem. It meant Mariska could hurt him again, if she wanted. Or even if she didn’t want, but didn’t pay enough attention.

Blunt, Mariska had called her.

Jet’s teeth weren’t blunt. Not in the least. And if Mariska Banks wasn’t careful with Jet’s pack, she would learn just that.

Mariska stood behind Katie Maddox’s weathered log home and even more weathered old pole barn, looking out into the embracing forest—and even with the team and Maks Altán right there beside her, found herself so in the thrall of the place that she almost forgot why they were there.

Like Ruger, Maks was a big man—a Siberian tiger lurking visibly beneath, his eyes green and his hair white at the temples with darker streaks running through the deep chestnut. Like Jet, the wildness of his nature flaunted itself, running quiet but steady in every move he made. His uneven movement stood out in stark contrast—the hitch in his stride, the stiffness in his torso. Sentinels healed with astonishing swiftness—but only when it came to saving their lives. Beyond that point, they had to pull themselves together one day at a time, like anyone else.

Or at least, almost like anyone else.

On the surface, Maks didn’t hover over Katie, his slender love, and he didn’t evince any threat or subtle warning—but Mariska quickly realized that no matter how they shifted in conversation, he always stood between her and the team.

With good reason, at that. No Chinese water deer would find herself happy in the presence of so many predators. Ian’s two assistants were too light of blood to take a change form, but two bears and a snow leopard were quite enough.

All the same, Katie Maddox—long-legged, graceful, and touched by cinnamon in her hair, her eyes and even her faint freckles—didn’t look intimidated. She looked, in her way, fierce. Protective. And while Mariska puzzled over it, Ruger narrowed his eyes, traded glances between Katie and Maks, and said, “You two didn’t waste any time.”

Only when Katie looked at him in surprise, her hand touching her abdomen, did Mariska understand. She immediately accorded Maks another notch of respect for his quiet restraint, and took a step farther away from Katie.

Maks chose not to acknowledge Ruger at all; he lifted his head to the woods, drawing their attention west.

“We bought the neighbor’s land,” Katie said. “And there’s forest on all sides of us. So as long as you head out in this direction, no one will see you.” She ran a hand over the electronic ATV sitting beside her; four of the machines hunkered by the side of the old pole barn well behind the house. “You’ll be hooking up with an old logging road for most of the ride. Don’t be seen—nothing with a motor is allowed in this forest.”

“Then why use them at all?” Mariska was the first to voice the unspoken, although she tried to put humor behind it. “You didn’t think the bears could keep up with the cats?”

Maks only smiled, quiet as it was. “Up to you,” he said. “I’m riding.”

Ruger sent her a look, a thread of incredulous response reaching her from what was most likely a lingering result of their time together. Only then did she understand, even as Maks shifted the weight from his recently injured leg, and winced as she opened her mouth to apologize—except she couldn’t read the expression that crossed his face just then, a sudden dazed distraction.

“Maks…” Katie’s voice sounded odd, faint and distressed; her eyes had lost focus. If Mariska had had any doubt about the nature of their relationship, it would have disappeared before the sight of the tiger gone stupid and dazed beside her, caught up in whatever gripped her.

Ruger reached Katie just as her eyes rolled back, scooping her right off her feet, his legs braced but otherwise showing no particular effort—as though he could stand there forever.

“That’s a powerful thing for a vague little seeing,” Ian said, always that little sardonic tone behind his words.

“Could be the pregnancy,” Ruger said, carefully shifting so Katie’s lolling head found support against his shoulder. “Could be she’s been hiding this much from us.”

Maks took a staggered step forward, caught his balance, and shook off whatever had gripped him, looking far too vulnerable for a tiger. His voice came a little rough. “No. This is new.” He reached for Katie with purpose, but it was too late; she stirred in Ruger’s arms and then made a startled, frightened noise, stiffening against him.

“Katie Rae,” Maks said, but he didn’t crowd them; he only put a hand on her leg. “Ruger is safe. Let it be.”

“Maks,” she said uncertainly, clutching at Ruger’s shirt as if that would hold the world still, too.

“Let it be, Katie Rae,” Maks said again. “If he frightens you, I’ll have to hurt him. And we need him right now.”

“Oh,” Katie said—still breathless, but no longer quite sounding frightened. “Okay, then.” But then she hesitated, looking up at Ruger as if she saw him for the first time—reaching to touch his face with a sympathetic empathy that took Mariska by surprise. “Healer,” she murmured. “I’m sorry.”

Mariska fought a shock of envy at the way he received Katie’s touch, accepting both it and the sentiment she offered. He set Katie gently on her feet, relinquishing her to Maks.

Katie held tightly to Maks’ hand. “Just like before,” she said, her gaze still a little distant. “This foreseeing has always been about more than Maks’ presence here… that was just part of it. The first part. But… there’s a foreboding… there’s terrible grief, there’s—” She stopped and shook her head. “Can I try to show you, please? My seeings have never translated well to words.”

“Can you do that?” one of Ian’s assistants asked. Mariska hadn’t seen them at the meeting, hadn’t ridden with them in the tidy little BMW SUV, and now, with some resignation, simply thought of them as Heckle and Jeckle.

“I can try,” Katie told him. “But I need hands.” She extended hers, and Maks put his over it. Ruger, too, and that left Mariska and Ian and Sandy, exchanging glances with a mutual reluctance but finally adding their hands to the physical nexus along with Heckle and Jeckle.

“Ready?” Katie murmured. “Here it comes…”

But Mariska wasn’t ready.

The wild, yipping howl of a bereft wild dog, the wash of a vile stench, tasting foul in her throat. A hollow huffing sound, followed by a clacking, the surge of fear… a tremendous explosion. And then an entire chorus of grief, animal skins fluttering to the ground like sodden laundry. Wolf and bear, panther and boar, wildcat and stoat and deer. Crumpled up and discarded, and a nation of grief splashing in to wash it all away—

Ian swore under his breath, jerking his hand from beneath Mariska’s and sending her tumbling back to reality. Tumbling back in reality, as she struggled to reorient and found herself steadied by a pair of familiar hands—familiar and big, and a touch her body knew instantly.

Not until she’d blinked and recovered her equilibrium did he step away, leaving an ache where his warmth had been.

“You see,” Maks said, glancing at Katie. “You see why it matters.”

“Yes,” Ian said, and his words sounded a little strangled. “Whatever that was, it sure as hell matters.”

“That sound,” said Heckle—short, bandy-muscled, and not strong enough of Sentinel blood to take the change. He cupped his hands over his mouth to imitate what words couldn’t quite convey. A hollow huffing sound, a clacking…

“What was that?” Jeckle asked, but not as if he expected to get an answer. Like Heckle, he likely saw little of fieldwork, but he was a solid sort, old enough to have a wealth of experience behind him.

Mariska exchanged a glance with Ruger, looking for and finding the wince of awareness that told her he’d recognized it, too. “Bear,” she said finally. “Frightened black bear, with teeth and breath.”

Heckle gave her a skeptical look. “What frightens a bear?”

Ruger said flatly, “Not much,” and Mariska realized she was chafing her upper arms, chilled to the bone in the rising warmth of the late-summer day.

“Great,” Ian said. “Now the bears are spooked.”

“Good,” Katie said, her tone unexpectedly practical. “You should be.”

Ruger made a rumbling noise; Mariska thought it might have been dark humor. Katie shot him a look. “And maybe you’ll all be careful.” She shivered, giving the woods a wary look.

“The boundaries are up,” Maks told her. “I’ll know if anyone approaches while we’re gone.” He sent a look Ruger’s way that Mariska interpreted as a warning. And once I take you in, you’re on your own.

Chapter 4

The ATVs moved along in eerie silence, and the old logging road unrolled in uneven waves until it slipped along the side of a more significant ridge. By then they’d hit their first Core-imposed obstacle, the thick layers of determent workings that filled Mariska first with the impulse to turn aside and then a rising anxiety.

But Maks led them steadily forward, and the effect faded. Eventually, Maks took them off the trail to a little hollow, and they huddled the machines together and cut the engines. By the time Mariska dismounted and grabbed her gear bag, Maks had already snagged the waiting camo net and flipped it over the ATVs.

Heckle and Jeckle were the last to get out of his way, fumbling their heavily padded amulet storage bags. Maks gave the net a final flip and it settled into place. Rather than heading down the road, he circled aside to move slantwise along the slope of the mild ridge they’d just passed by, his limp more pronounced with the marginal footing—a cautious approach.

“I thought this bunker was abandoned,” Mariska said, keeping her voice low as a matter of course with the assumption that someone—anyone—might be in these woods close enough to hear.

Maks looked back at her with some surprise, leading them upward. “This is Core.”

“He means,” Ruger added, “we don’t take anything for granted.”

Mariska gave herself a little kick. Of course not. She simply wasn’t in step with this team yet.

Wouldn’t be, if she didn’t stop second-guessing her own decisions.

Maks took them over the crest of the ridge. “I don’t know if anyone remains,” he told them, a note of apology there. “The scents are strong enough. But I didn’t go in.”

Ian’s voice held some hint of exasperation. “I should hope not. We’ll need to sweep for amulets before we so much as touch the damned door. Tell me you knew that.”

“I knew that,” Maks said, mild in response. Like Nick, Mariska thought—with enough confidence so he had no need to bristle back. But let someone threaten Katie…

She wondered, quite suddenly, what it would be like to have someone at her back so fiercely. Not because she needed it. Just because of what it would feel like.

Maks led them around the jagged stump of a fallen pine and tipped his head at the cut of ground breaking way before them, though there was no structure evident. “There,” he said, and crouched—started to, at least, until the one leg buckled, and he put his knee on the ground with the compensatory grace inherent in all the big cat Sentinels. “The bunker.”

The ground dipped halfway down the ridge and rose even higher on the other side; otherwise, it was unremarkable. Just a rocky little swale covered in stubby, twisted scrub oak and the ancient skeleton of another fallen tree.

But Mariska wasn’t going to be the first one to say there wasn’t anything there. Instead, she moved into position beside Ruger, turning her senses to their surroundings—even if that meant no more than noting the pine siskins fweeting overhead and a singular squirrel rustling around in the pine needles some hundred feet away. The local energies were quiet—no scent of Core amulet corruption, everyone’s personal shields drawn tight. Maks’ was the loudest of those, his shields so much stronger than she ever would have expected, even knowing of his personal strengths.

“Ah,” Ian said suddenly. “I see it now. How the hell did you ever find it?”

“It stinks of Forakkes,” Maks said, and his voice was no longer casual at all. “And others, once close.”

And still Mariska didn’t see it—not until she quit searching the details and instead looked at the little swale as a whole. The slight convex curve of the ground, the occasional hard-edged shadow, immune to the sway of the breeze. This time she couldn’t stop herself. “How—”

How had he buried this structure, and left so little sign of it on the surrounding environment?

“It’s been there a long time,” Ian said, with no trouble following her line of thought.

“The old logging activity would have been a perfect cover for its construction,” Jeckle observed. “The question is, how do we get in?”

“In the rocks across from us,” Maks said. “I didn’t try it.”

“Smart,” Ian said again. He glanced back to Heckle and Jeckle. “Let’s drift on over there, boys. Stay quiet on your feet, and when I say to hang back, then damned well hang back. No one’s asking you to be field Sentinels overnight.”

Maks looked over to Ruger. “Don’t underestimate him,” he said. “Forakkes. He is a man without soul.”

“I know what he did,” Ruger said grimly, and Mariska got the impression that they were alluding to something other than the events in the operation field reports—the details of Forakkes’ amulet workings from the time of Core D’oíche, including those that had caused the ultimate if inadvertent demise of the former local Core prince, the drozhar, of this area. Forakkes had gone on to create the monstrous javelina-creature Maks had battled at so great a price—and he’d nearly succeeded in his intent to kidnap and enslave Katie Maddox.

But this was something else—something grimmer and even more personal. If she hadn’t known it by Maks’ eyes, she would have heard it in Ruger’s voice.

Maks pushed off from the ground—he’d barely faltered before Ruger reached him, one strong arm steadying him the rest of the way up. Maks’ expression was more annoyance than pain, and he said to Ruger, “No matter. Katie will see to it.” Mariska was instantly caught by their easy camaraderie, by Ruger’s instant response to a teammate’s need. By herself, instantly the outsider.

She had only herself to blame for the intensity of that feeling. Jet had been the only one to confront her so directly, but they all knew Ruger had been stunned by her presence on the team—they all knew it was personal.

Maks started back down the slope, and she quickly smoothed away the little curl of envy that tightened her mouth. Ruger turned to her, his dark expression enough to warn her. “Nothing happening here for a bodyguard, you may have noticed.”

“I’m patient,” she told him.

He snorted. “I doubt the hell out of that.” He bent and scooped up his pack. “If you were patient, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have talked your way onto this team, when Nick damned well could have used you elsewhere.”

But I wanted to work with you. And I believed in what I told Nick. “I wish we could start over,” she said abruptly, shifting her own pack. “I wish you could look at me and see whatever it was you saw in that park yesterday evening.”

He looked at her for a long moment. “So do I,” he said, and for that moment his voice was devoid of blame and bitterness, holding nothing but honesty—and maybe a touch of sadness. “Dammit, Mariska—so do I.”

Across the swale, up on the high ridge, Ian waved to them; it was enough of an invitation that Mariska tentatively made herself more receptive to sent communication, and she wasn’t surprised when she felt the tickle of his thoughts.

::We can see it,:: he said. ::We’re heading in.::

::We’ll wait,:: Ruger said, not so much as glancing to see if she agreed. ::I’m getting something from inside, though—not human, not well. I’ll try to make sense of it.::

Her resentment flared. Hello, you could have discussed this decision with me. But staying here made too much sense. Besides, if he was heading into some sort of healer mode, she could hardly move out on her own after making such a big fat bear deal about being here.

And if she was going to be honest with herself, she’d have to admit her crankiness came from resentment—from the slowly dawning awareness that she’d just plain screwed up.

::Got us a door,:: Ian said. ::Nicely integrated with the Core amulet equivalent of ice-cold water balancing in a bucket overhead. Gonna be a few minutes.::

::We’ll wait,:: Ruger said again, although this time his attention seemed divided, his gaze distant. His brow drew with concentration—with some subtle effort. “Not unwell,” he muttered, and she wasn’t sure if he spoke to her or if he just spoke. “But not right. I can’t—Hell.” He jerked as if he’d needed to catch his balance against the nonexistent movement of the ground, and Mariska put out an impulsive hand to steady him—but pulled back before he noticed, as he abruptly turned away, one palm pressing against his brow.

She gave him that physical space as he yanked a colorful bandanna from his back pocket, broad shoulders stiff.

“The brief said your healing was still affected,” she said. “It didn’t say how.”

He turned back to her, stuffing the bandanna away. “Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” she told him. “Does it?”

He glared at her a long moment, then muttered a curse—a capitulation of sorts, if not a happy one. “Affected,” he said, “is a euphemism for can’t.”

It shocked her more than she expected. “At all? But I thought—”

He shook his head, a vicious motion that cut her off short. “Can’t,” he repeated. “I can still feel the wrongness of things—like in there.” He jerked his head at the obscured bunker. “But I can’t heal it. I can’t touch those energies any longer, never mind guide them.”

“But you’re—” They were thoughtless words, and she stopped herself just in time. You’re Ruger. The bear who heals—and who does it better than anyone else in the field. The one who needs backup just because he’s too important to risk, never mind that no one should have to do those two things at once.

She might as well not have bothered. He clearly understood the direction of her thoughts. “Not anymore,” he told her. “I’m here to analyze, that’s all.”

“I don’t understand.” She didn’t, and it troubled her; she didn’t bother to hide it. “Then why would Nick give me the impression you’d take the healer’s role—that you’d need me?”

Ruger snorted; it was a throaty sound. “I don’t have the faintest idea. Because he’s giving you the chance of your career, to be in on this operation? Because he’s pissed at me about something?” But he stopped, and shook his head. “No, that’s not fair. If Nick’s pissed, he comes at you head-on.” He sent her a direct stare, a challenge from pale brown eyes. “I only know one thing for sure—I don’t need this. And we’re spread thin enough. Nick should have put you somewhere else. On someone else.” The challenge didn’t ease in the faintest. “Someone who you haven’t lied to yet.”

“I didn’t—” she said hotly, but stopped. Not just because she pretty much had lied to him, even if it was both simpler and more complicated and that. But because he’d gone still, staring down the hill. Not still as Maks or another big cat would do, the stalking calm—just plain still.

And then, before she could ask, he started down the slope. There was something about the angle of his head that caught her attention, spiking concern.

“Ruger,” she said, pitching her voice as a warning.

He didn’t seem to hear, and maybe it was just as well she hadn’t distracted him. For an instant later, when a camouflage-obscured figure behind the fallen tree exploded into motion, Ruger barely startled at all, even when Mariska yelled his name—this time imbuing it with alarm as well as warning, all the dammit, this is what I’m here for she could manage in one word.

At the park, he’d respected that. He’d wordlessly left her the room to do her share of the brawling.

Now he ignored her completely—even though he could easily see that the man had reacted in panic as Ruger’s path downward narrowed his escape route from this swale. And he could damned well see that if he stepped back, he’d create the man room to get past, leaving him completely open to Mariska’s full-bore approach from the side.

A bear in full-speed charge was nothing to trifle with, whether in her human or animal form.

But no, Ruger crouched slightly, weighting himself to earth—taking those few necessary steps to block the man’s way. And then he just was, rooted and unmoving. He ducked one shoulder in a perfectly timed block, and Mariska found herself floundering to shift gears. She cursed, slipping in the layered old pine needles, and righted herself to discover that the fool of a Core minion was fighting back—and doing it in the cowardly way that the Core did best when they couldn’t manage an ambush.

With firearms.

“Gun!” she cried, barely hearing Ian’s mind voice with its bemused ::What the hell is going on over there?:: as she spotted the weapon on its way out of the shoulder holster hidden beneath the forest-patterned camo jacket. “Gun!”

::Idiot,:: Ruger snarled, a personal thought gone public—or at least gone to Mariska—as he yanked the man up and off his feet, gave him a good shake, and dropped him to slap the gun away. “Stay down.”

But by then Mariska was close enough and still running on strong, and she could see the man had no intention of doing any such thing. He fumbled in his jacket pocket even as he crabbed away—a classic amulet grab—and Ruger said, “Ah, hell,” and threw himself down on the minion.

“No, no, no!” Not when there was no way to tell what the amulet would do if it made contact, what it would do even if it didn’t.

The dull snap of bone stopped her short. Ruger rolled away from the man, ending up on his hands and knees and already poised to thrust up and away. A big man, nimble on his feet.

But then, she already knew that.

Amulet corruption shredded the air, far thicker than carrion; the man had time for only a faint gargle of horror, a quick and spastic thrash toward death before he subsided.

After a moment, Ruger climbed to his feet, nothing of haste about it.

::Ruger?:: Ian said, obscured by terrain and structure. ::What the hell?::

::We’re good,:: Ruger said, an absent sending that didn’t distract him from circling in as he brushed himself off. ::Back with you in a moment.::

“Good?” Mariska said, aghast at the shrill note in her voice. “We’re good?” By then she was close enough to reach him—she punched him solidly on the arm. “This is what you call good?” She looked down at the minion—the former minion—and discovered his elbow bent the wrong way, his hand stuck in his pocket as it clutched the amulet… and his body as mummified as any creature left dead and undisturbed in the desert sun. “What were you even thinking?” and she threw another punch into his arm, full of frustration and fury.

Ruger turned with a quickness belying his size, his hand closing around her wrist—closing hard. His eyes, so matter-of-factly amiable—so filled with heat—had gone hard, hard enough to make her gasp. And he said nothing, but she heard the growl rumbling deep in his chest.

She responded without thinking, offering the quiet sound in her throat that meant a bear’s acquiescence—but only for the instant before she managed to cut it short. Then she yanked her wrist free and glared at him. “You should have let him go. I would have had him—that’s why I’m here.” And when he said nothing, she found herself flinging out words, rushing to fill that void, wanting something—anything—from him in response. “Last night in that parking lot, you would have let him past. You would have worked as a team. You should have known—”

“Last night,” Ruger interrupted, “we were a team.”

She blinked back unexpected emotion, and made her voice hard. “We’re still a team. You have your job, and I have mine. Don’t get them mixed up again.”

::Guys?:: Ian said. ::Hate to break up your little whatever-it-is, but have I mentioned I want to know what the hell is going on?::

“We had company,” Ruger said, out loud as much as through his mind’s voice. “Our company accidentally fried himself with his own amulet.”

::Purely by coincidence, I’m sure. Keep sharp, then. We’re just about through here; come on over and we’ll get a look inside.::

::Coming,:: Mariska said—but when she lifted her head, she discovered that Ruger was already on his way.

The brief, acrid stench of stolen Core power burst through the underground workshop, making Ciobaka sneeze. “Wowoww.”

“What are you complaining about now?” Tarras slammed the door of the recently emptied cage nearest to Ciobaka’s.

“No,” Ehwoord said, the snap of annoyance in his voice. “He’s right. Yoske triggered one of his defense amulets.”

Ciobaka tilted his head, studying Tarras as his mouth clamped shut and his body stiffened in anticipation of repercussion. But Ehwoord continued quietly grooming amulets for the next round of impressions, no more prepossessing than he ever was with his slight stature, his belly going round, his hair gray and his skin lined with wrinkles of a strangely stiff nature—as if parts of him had forgotten they were old and the rest of him was ancient. Sometimes Ciobaka thought his mind worked in that same pattern, shifting from coldly efficient to something just a little less sane.

Tarras asked carefully, “You felt it?”

“It’s my amulet,” Ehwoord told him, as if that was explanation enough.

“Then they’ve found the overflow installation.”

“Perhaps. Or Yoske became careless between here and there.” Ehwoord’s mouth tightened. “I needed that network up and running. I need those cameras. After a time, if Yoske doesn’t return, you’ll see to it.”

Tarras cleared his throat. “Of course. I’ll take a team and—”

“No,” Ehwoord snapped, and Ciobaka blinked at his emphatic tone. Interesting, to see Ehwoord ruffled. Interesting, to see that Tarras feared. “We hardly need half a posse tramping around in the woods if the Sentinels have found the installation. You may, however, take Ciobaka. He can warn you of Sentinel presence long before you detect them. They are, at all times, far too cocky about their presence in woods such as these.”

“Wahnnah!” Ciobaka said, and barked an exclamation as his tail quivered in anticipation. “Ouwwtah!”

“Out,” Ehwoord said, flaunting his human tongue and lips. “And yes. Of course, you will wear the collar—and you still bear the obedience amulet within you. If your behavior is less than exemplary, there will be punishment upon return.”

Ciobaka flattened his dingoesque ears, crouching slightly in the submission that Ehwoord wanted to see. But he flexed his newly mobile dewclaw thumb, pondering the buckle to his electric collar—and made sure Ehwoord saw that not at all.

Chapter 5

In truth, Ruger had only meant to stop the Core minion from pulling the amulet from his pocket. If the man hadn’t triggered the thing in hand, he’d still be alive.

He’d been a handsome man—as were many of the Core, in a snake-oil kind of way. Not because of their strikingly swarthy skin—more olive than Mariska’s stunning complexion, not as dark—but from the affectation of their hair, slicked back into a short queue and always black, whether natural or dyed. And the silver jewelry, heavy at wrist and neck and ear.

And their ubiquitous suits. Especially in the highlevel posses—those serving the regional drozhar or even the Septs Prince, leader of them all. High sheen, beautifully cut… always just a little bit I think much of myself.

Not that this man was any of those things any longer. His black hair had gone dry and brittle; his skin taut, dry walnut stretching over bone. His clothes had been woodsy enough, the camo jacket over fatigue pants and a black T. But whatever else he might have had to tell them, they’d lost it when his tongue dried up. All they’d ever know was that this place wasn’t quite as abandoned as they’d thought it to be.

“He’s safe,” Ian said, coming to inspect the man now that he’d cleared the installation’s entrance of security workings. “I’ll leave the rest of it to you.”

Ruger hadn’t expected Mariska to display any squeamishness over the chore, and she didn’t. She leaned over to search the man, displaying her truly fine ass in the process. Ruger watched until he realized the riveted nature of his gaze, and scowled as he moved off across the swale. “I’m going to take a look inside with the AmSpecs. Let us know what you find.”

“Nothing so far,” she said, all business, her voice muffled as she bent to her task—and as he put distance between them. “Whatever he was up to, I don’t think he’s going to give us any clues.”

One of Ian’s poorly introduced AmSpecs waited by the entrance. It turned out to be a substantial door set within the rocks at the base of the opposite slope, obscured by light and shadow and a truly clever camouflage of combined paint and netting. Of course, Forakkes wouldn’t expect anyone to get this close, given the deterrent workings he’d had set in the area—and likely no one had, until now.

“Jack Ivers,” the man said, as Ruger approached. “AmSpec grunt. Glad to meet you.” He grasped the inset latch and twisted, and then put enough effort into shoving the heavy metal door that Ruger propped a hand over his shoulder and pushed, speeding the process considerably.

Of course, then he had to duck. Not even the Core, with its typically lavish appointments and luxuries, would dig an underground hallway any larger than it absolutely had to be.

This one sloped sharply downward, with fourteen-inch circles of solar tube lighting overhead—eventually they’d find the discreet plastic domes that served to collect and amplify the light. Darkened LED lights also lined the sides of the hall and the center of the ceiling. Wire mesh served to reinforce the packed dirt walls, anchored and slightly concave. The good, clean scent of dirt went a long way toward cleansing Ruger’s head of the inevitable stink of Core workings.

The stink when they entered the installation was another thing altogether. Harrison, the other AmSpec grunt, stood off to the side, his complexion gone a little gray. “All clear so far,” he told Ruger. “We’ve checked the amulet station and the animals.” He nodded at the place, a cavernous Quonset structure also lit by solar tubes, subdivided into distinct areas, and full of such dim corners and visual clutter that Ruger couldn’t immediately make sense of it all. “This is where they work; they don’t need to trip over their own amulets every time they turn around.”

Ruger merely made a noise deep in his throat, an absent acknowledgment. He understood, for the first time, what they faced in this newly emerged rogue—Forakkes, a man who currently defied his own Core as much as he defied the Sentinels. And he understood, for the first time, the truly terrifying nature of Katie’s vision. The pain of this place hit him in a miasma of feeling—all the wrongness, all the misery, all the reeling desperation, striking hard against his healer’s perceptions.

And I can’t do a damned thing about it.

He stood rooted, all his energy focused on just one thing—filtering out the need of this place so he could think.

“I left our friend outside the door,” Mariska said, speaking from behind him before she reached his end of the tunnel. “I didn’t find anything, but maybe a closer look—Oh, hell.” She came up beside Ruger and stared, openly stunned, at the structure spread out before them.

Crates lined the wall on the far end; in the corner stood shelving stacked with aquariums and terrariums. Additional shelves bore bags of esoteric kibble, and one organizational niche held a sophisticated and complex computer station while another held autopsy tables and a third held a wooden worktable and a series of wood cabinets. Closer to the entrance, several completely enclosed spaces looked as if they’d once been private quarters, and a large cage of stout bars still held not only straw and troughs, but the notable stench of javelina.

“What is that smell?” Mariska asked, wrinkling her nose.

“Collared peccary times ten or so,” Ruger told her, absurdly pleased to find he had complete control of his voice. “The creature Maks fought must have lived here. But there’s a lot more here than that.”

She nodded. “Death, for one.”

“Death, for one,” Ian echoed. “No kidding.” Then he pointed out the wooden worktable to his assistants. “That’s where we’ll want to start. I don’t want to touch anything today—it’s enough to see what we have to work with. We’ll make a plan and come at it tomorrow.” He headed that way, glancing over his shoulder at Ruger. “I suggest you do the same. Go slow.”

Mariska watched him—hesitating, for once, before she charged forward.

Then again, so was he.

“Look,” Mariska said, as they closed in on the rack of stacked crates; she nodded to the shelving that held the small animal cages. “Fresh bedding. They all have water. Maybe our guy was here to take care of them.”

“Doesn’t make sense.” Ruger pulled his thoughts together, pushing away the assault of misery. No wonder it had grabbed him so hard from the outside looking in—demanding help, demanding mercy—drawing him past the perception of the woes and into a subconscious attempt to fix them. “If this is an active installation, where is everyone? Anyone?” He looked back to the largest cage where the mutated javelina had stayed. “It’s been weeks since Maks killed that thing, but someone’s been tending these animals.” He paced the length of the stacked crates, finding them empty—albeit with obvious signs of past occupancy.

“It’s as though they’re abandoned and yet still part of some experiment,” Mariska said, and frowned as they approached the aquariums, slowly coming to a stop, her entire body a signpost of reluctance. “Ruger—”

“Yeah,” he said, his voice gruff—agreeing with her, seeing what she saw. This, then, was part of the reason for the odor that permeated this place, interlaced with the misery he’d felt until he could barely tell them apart. It wasn’t an odor of death so much as it was an odor of dying.

The first aquarium held a flat rock that barely rose above several inches of water. A limp form sprawled on the rock, its fur mattered and coming away in patches; sections of rotting skin peeled away from beneath. The animal’s head was under water, its eyes huge and dull, its gills expanding and contracting as if it gulped for air, never quite getting enough.

“Is that…” Mariska’s voice grew tentative; she blew out a breath with an uncanny resemblance of sound to the frightened black bear in Katie’s vision. “Is that a squirrel?”

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