He didn’t have words for that; he had only sorrow and assent, and he knew she’d heard him by the way her hand tightened over his hip—and by the way she leaned over to plant a kiss on his cheek.
When she would have retreated, he snagged her hand—needing to see her face, her eyes. There was no snap in those eyes—they were merely huge and dark and sad.
Resigned.
She used a scrap of his shirt to dab around the blood at his mouth and chin, and then she did just what he’d hoped, bending over his shoulder to take his face and kiss him with a firm possessiveness.
“Perfect,” he told her, as she drew away again.
“
Perfect
is a good healing,” she told him. “Not with any damned sludge, either. The real thing. The same work that’s had healers talking in all the brevis regions—like what you did for Joe Ryan in Flagstaff before that ambush.”
::I’m not that healer any longer,:: he said, mustering the energy to feel annoyance that she would even say it, even if he couldn’t muster spoken words.
“You’re not that
man
any longer.” She settled down behind his shoulders and briefly rested her forehead on his arm, the only sign she’d given of her own struggle. “Don’t you get it yet? You don’t
need
to be. Quit trying to do it all at once, and let me help.”
::You don’t understand.:: A new wave of pain shuddered through his torso. ::Talk fast,:: he told her dimly, when he could. ::I can’t...
can’t
—::
She talked fast. “I know you can take care of yourself, Ruger, and I know that makes you invaluable in the field, but you
never
should have been asked to handle healing and protection at the same time. There should always be someone to watch your back—
always.
” He snarled a panting denial, absurdly weak as it was; she ignored it. “That’s why I wanted to come on this assignment and that’s what I’m here for now. Think about it! You can’t do both at once, not truly. And now that you were hurt so badly, how could you begin to let go of
protecting yourself
enough to let the healing happen?”
The words hit him like a blow, leaving him without words.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and she sounded unutterably weary. “You can hate me for saying it if you like, as long as you
live
—”
He barely managed the words. “You’re right.”
“I... What?”
::You’re
right.
::
He’d been hurt in Flagstaff—hurt badly. Deep down, he’d never let go of that fact. It had infused him with determination—
never let it happen again.
And the only way to do that was to throw all his energy—subconscious or not—into making sure it didn’t.
How, then, was he supposed to put any of that energy into healing? Or even into getting past his own defenses?
::You’re right...::
Her breath caught; it sounded like a sob of relief. “Then let me help.”
He wasn’t sure how. Or he thought it should make sense, and he just couldn’t think it through.
“It’s okay,” she said, resting the side of her head against his shoulder, leaning against the breadth of his back—small and solid, full of curves and strength both. “I’m covering you. That’s all you have to know right now. And all you have to
do
is let go of that responsibility and be the healer. I know it’s not easy to heal yourself, but you can
save
yourself. I believe that. Do you?”
His breath caught; he struggled with a new stab of pain.
There goes the lung.
Collapsing.
“
Ruger.
Be the healer!” She poked him, hard, up high on his shoulder. He snarled reflexively and gasped in the wake of it—and she didn’t let up. She poked him again. “Get off your metaphysical ass and do something about this!”
::Don’t—::
“Then make me stop.”
Damned if she didn’t poke him again, sending hot shards down his side.
He sent her a silent snarl this time, barely managing it through the tangle of fog and pain.
She didn’t know what she was asking...she
couldn’t.
She’d never tried to absorb her own pain, feeling it double as it wrenched through both healer and body. She’d never tried to think through that onslaught, or to direct delicate energies.
But she was still right.
He reached for his healer’s calm, floundering through the chaos of pain to assess and target his own needs.
Too big...too much...
Teeth clenched, breath panting hard, just barely aware of her at all—just knowing that she was there, and that she stroked and petted him, her lips on his skin in a comforting flutter. His side burned, his blood flowed, his breath ached in his lungs...it slammed into him from the healing side and escalated until he writhed against it—and then her strong hands held him down.
But when he reached for the healing, he found only sludge. And when he pushed at the sludge, the pain grayed around the edges, the
world
grayed around the edges...
She did more than poke him. She hit him. She hit him
hard,
a punch to the shoulder that jarred him loose from the sludge and sent him whirling back into the pain. He cried out with it, as angry as he was hurting, even knowing she’d just kept him from slipping right away into the gray.
“Stop it!” she snapped, and hit him again. “Screw the sludge! I’m
here,
Ruger, and
I’m
doing the watching. Now
let go and be the healer!
”
The world tumbled away.
He had no idea if she touched him; he had no idea if he cried out as he plunged back into that doubled agony. He had no sense of the ground beneath him, the roots above them, the distant presence of Core corruption... He knew only the pure clarity of pain and the sharply defined kaleidoscope of energies surrounding him.
He plucked at the energy, spinning it like wool and sending it spearing along the lethal flow of life from injured vessels. He found the wounded lung and infused it with a spongy pale essence; he found torn flesh and soothed it, soaking it with soft encouragement. He found the body as a whole—drained and exhausted—and nourished it with clear, cool sustenance.
And, quite suddenly, he found himself looking back out on the world. He looked up to the roots dangling above them, on his back with the fingers of one hand digging into dirt and the other hand clenched around Mariska’s so tightly that it felt crushed in his own.
His side ached ferociously, but...he breathed. His heart pounded a galloping rhythm...but one that slowed, one that beat steadily and not erratically.
“Are you back?” Mariska whispered. “Did you do it?” She brought their hands up to rest her cheek against the back of his, leaving his skin damp.
Tears.
“I’m back,” he said, and tugged her back down, pulling her to him until she understood
come all the way
and stretched out right on top of him where he held her close and closer yet, until her tears no longer ran down his neck. He smoothed a hand over her hair as she lifted her head to meet his gaze from those close quarters, her face smudged, her cheeks full of high color, her eyes still gleaming. “I’m
back,
” he said again.
She kissed him, full of feeling, and then rested her head on his chest for long moments in which they did no more than breathe together, his chest rising steadily beneath her. Long moments in which he did nothing more than absorb the feel of her—her breasts pressing into his torso, the line of her ribs and the softness of her waist and the definition of her hips. He stroked her back, down her spine and over her tight round bottom. “Thank you.”
And then he rolled over to his side, lowering her to the ground so their legs tangled and he propped on one shoulder over her. Hell, that hurt. But it was only pain.
In deep healing, he could mend a cut; he could resolve a moderate wound. But he couldn’t take a body that had been deeply rent and do anything more than stop it from dying. He could stop it from bleeding and kick-start it to recovery, but not
fix
it. At least, not in one session. And over the centuries, they’d learned it was better that way—that support was better than brute physical change, even change for the better.
Mariska drew a deep breath beneath him. “We’re not done yet, are we?”
“Not by far. We still have to find that entrance. We still have to stop Forakkes. And we still have to save Ian.” He kissed her, as gently and thoroughly as she’d just done to him—not an arousing kiss, as much as his body responded to her. More of a statement—of intent and feeling.
They’d talk about how hard she’d hit him later.
“Can you stand watch for just a moment longer?” he asked. “Because my guess is that much as you’ve not said it, you’re as done as I was.”
He was surprised to see her lower lip tremble; she bit it as if that would stop her emotion, and then gave up. “God, Ruger—it hurts. Everywhere. Please make it
stop.
”
“Watch for me,” he said, and slipped into being the healer again.
* * *
Tarras was dead. Broken and dead and dumped in a corner along with Yovan.
Ciobaka hadn’t liked Tarras. He hadn’t considered him a dominant and he hadn’t felt obliged to listen to him, only resentful of the artificial circumstances that made it necessary.
But he had
known
Tarras. And he had been aware that the man’s presence was an intricate part of the balance in Ehwoord’s pack.
Ciobaka hadn’t
thought
that he liked Tarras. But already he missed him.
Ehwoord still raged, hours later. He’d gotten little work done with his amulets this day, and he blamed the dead men. Then he blamed the three men still alive for their shooting and their wasted grenades. He blamed the Sentinels for being so tenacious, for interfering with Core business.
He did not blame himself.
Ciobaka knew only that the Core itself was the biggest pack he could imagine, and he had the sense that Ehwoord’s business wasn’t in fact necessarily Core business. This he had learned because no one ever paid attention to his swiveling ears, and they spoke without reservation in his presence.
He curled up in his back corner to give his venison ribs a thoughtful chew, his hindquarters resting casually on top of the key Tarras had dropped. Maybe Ehwoord would send him out to hunt down the Sentinels.
He could do that.
“
Find
them,” Ehwoord raged, flinging the thing that wasn’t really a mouse anymore at the man named Doro. Doro’s hand twitched as if he might catch the not-mouse, but he knew better. He stood stiffly still as it bounced off his hard chest.
He didn’t know enough not to say, “They must be wounded, sir. We had them right in our sights only moments before impact. They can’t threaten your work now.”
Ehwoord’s fury extinguished to hard, cold intensity—that which Ciobaka feared most of all. “Then you know nothing of Sentinels at all.”
Doro’s fear-sweat reached Ciobaka’s nose. Ciobaka chewed on his ribs, crunching off a chunk of meat and bone in a display of great relish. Pretending he didn’t notice things weren’t right anymore, pretending he didn’t care.
Pretending he hadn’t learned so much these past few days.
Ehwoord brushed off the front of his immaculate black lab coat, all his anger gone. Just like that. Ciobaka had seen that, too—how as Ehwoord strangely grew less lined and less gray, his moods grew more volatile.
I am only a dog. I am only chewing.
“Never mind,” Ehwoord said. “Of course you don’t understand what I’m doing here. How could you? But understand this—those Sentinels are a threat to us until they’re dead. And I don’t want them
dead
until I have a chance to test my new working on them. It will save us weeks of remote field experiments, and it means we can abandon this compromised facility in short order.”
That much, Doro certainly understood. None of the men wanted to be here anymore. Ciobaka quietly reached out to caress a thumbed paw-hand down the nearest bar.
“Now, if you would...
go find them.
” Ehwoord’s voice rose to a dangerous pitch, then just as abruptly dropped back to normal. “On your way out, please find the box with Ciobaka’s amulets. It’s time to accelerate my protocol.”
I am only a dog. I am only chewing.
Ciobaka’s paw-hand closed around the key.
Chapter 21
M
ariska flexed her hands; she ran them down her body. She searched herself for aches and pains and that debilitating sense of imbalance she’d carried for days now—and then, free of it all, she scrambled out of their little hollow and dared to reach for the bear along the way.
Mariska Banks, who takes the bear.
And she did, surging into her bear with accustomed ease. When Ruger emerged to unfold to his full height, she charged for him, as delighted to see him stand his ground as she was to leap at him. She reached for the human just in time to wrap herself around him, ankles hooking at his hips and arms around his neck.
“Feeling better?” he asked, just enough of a dry tone to make her laugh; his hands quite naturally cupped her bottom, supporting her. She kissed him by way of answer, and then, feeling the strain on his side, slipped away to her own two feet.
“No headache!” she said. “No lead feet! Now, let’s see you.” She turned him around to the sunlight, running her hand over his back. The peppered little wounds were nothing more than pink spots and scabs, some of them hard to see around the dried blood. She glanced overhead, hoping for more rain, but the afternoon thunderheads weren’t voluminous or dark enough to be promising.
Her inspection grew more tender at the site where he’d been impaled. That wound was far from closed; it even still trickled a pale glisten of fluid—probably from her rough treatment of moments earlier. “Sorry about that,” she said, running a hand down the ridged muscling of his side and abdomen.
His skin twitched beneath her fingers. “Worth it,” he said, but he put his hand over hers, pulling her attention from his injury to his eyes. “Mari,” he said. “You were right. You’ve been right all along. And you were the only one who had the strength to say it and
make
me hear it.”