Читать книгу Sentinels: Kodiak Chained - Doranna Durgin - Страница 8

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.”