Shadowmark (The Shadowmark Trilogy Book 1) (24 page)

“Hey, buddy. Whatcha got there?”

The dog backed away from Mina and wagged its tail. Mina looked down at the place where it had been scratching. A man dressed in camo lay at the foot of the rocky outcropping.
Still alive?
Mina hurried over. A second too late, she realized she was wrong. His bloated body crumpled at an awkward angle, as if he had fallen. The smell coming from him stung Mina’s nostrils, and she turned away, trying not to retch.

The dog whined, and she reached out to it. It backed away. She tried a different tactic.

“Sit.”
 

The dog nervously wagged its tail.
 

“Come,” she commanded.
 

The dog’s lip curled as its teeth bared. When it snarled menacingly, Mina retracted her outstretched hand with a sharp breath. But the dog wasn’t looking at her. Mina turned to see Doyle standing a yard or two away.

“What are you doing?” he asked. The dog continued to growl at Doyle, its hackles raised.
 

Mina looked back at it. “I think I found the hunter from the cabin. Must be his dog—it led me right to the body.” She heard the sound of a gun click and turned again. Doyle had aimed his rifle at the dog. It snarled.

“It’s just scared!”

“Get away from it.”

Mindful of the gun in Doyle’s hands, Mina dared not get closer to the animal, and instead tried talking to it in soothing tones. “It’s okay, buddy. No one’s going to hurt you.” The dog gave a short bark and snapped at her. She quickly took a step back. “Don’t shoot it! It’s protecting its owner.”

Doyle lowered the gun for a second to reach for Mina’s arm and pull her out of the way. The hound lunged. Doyle grunted in surprise as the heavy dog latched onto his right arm, pulling him to the ground, the gun flying into the wet leaves. Mina scrambled for it as the dog worried Doyle’s arm. Unable to reach the knife on his right hip, Doyle held off the dog with his left hand, but it quickly released his arm and lunged for his face instead. Doyle gripped the loose skin around the dog’s neck with both hands and pushed it back, rolling it to the side.
 

Mina had the rifle now but she hesitated, afraid of hitting Doyle. “Grab it!” Doyle yelled as the dog clawed at his shoulder. She dropped the rifle and launched herself at them, grabbing the dog by the scruff to haul it off. The dog rounded on Mina, its teeth bared. In the next second, Doyle had his knife in hand and had thrust it into the animal’s ribcage. The hound stopped mid-attack, twisting and falling to the ground with a sharp yelp. Standing, Doyle picked up the rifle. The dog snarled again. Mina turned away, covering her face, as he shot it.

When she looked back, Doyle was bleeding profusely from his arm, and blood soaked his shirt near the shoulder. He must have twisted his ankle at some point, too, because when he turned to walk up the slope, he grabbed a tree for support with his good arm. Mina took one more look at the dead man and his dog and hurried to help Doyle. She placed her hand on his back, giving him support while she grabbed trees to pull herself up. They slowly reached the place where Mina had spotted the dog. From there, Doyle limped on his own back to the cabin.

As they climbed the steep steps, Mina instinctively put her left arm around Doyle’s waist to help him up the stairs, her other hand on his chest for support. At the first step, however, a rushing noise filled her ears, and the stairs swam in front of her. They abruptly came back into focus, yet she could see the image of the snarling dog as if it were on top of her, attacking. Startled, she shook her head to clear it and grabbed hold of the railing for support.

Doyle looked over. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Just a little lightheaded.” She tried to smile, but as soon as she grabbed Doyle again to move forward, the hound reappeared. As Mina grabbed the railing for a second time, Doyle disentangled himself from her and hopped up the stairs on his own, reaching out his hand to pull her up the last two. At the top she felt better, like nothing had happened.

“Must be tired, I guess. That dog . . . ” she trailed off.

Doyle looked at her strangely.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said before going inside. He hobbled around the cabin, opening drawers and cabinets. Mina, having already explored to her heart’s content, went to the bathroom and came out with a first aid kit.

Doyle eased himself onto a stool at the kitchen counter while Mina pulled out gauze and antiseptic wipes. She proceeded to clean his arm, pressing a bandage to the wound to stop the bleeding. The dog’s teeth had shredded his skin in several places, but not as badly as Mina had feared—no large chunks of flesh were missing. She packed on gauze and wrapped it tightly.

When she’d finished, she reached for Doyle’s torn shirtsleeve to look at his shoulder. He stood quickly, brushing away her hand.

“I can manage.” He stuffed the antiseptic and gauze back into the kit, then grabbed one of the hunter’s t-shirts off the couch before limping to the bathroom and closing the door. A second later, the lock clicked.

Mina called through the door, “Are you okay?” But Doyle ignored her. Irritated, she stood at the kitchen sink and scrubbed the blood off her hands with more force than necessary.

When Doyle emerged from the bathroom, he looked a little better. Moving stiffly, he glanced at Mina as he hobbled to the couch.

“I’m sorry,” she said hesitantly. “I’ve never seen a dog attack like that before.”

“Just a scared, starving dog.”

“Well, I’m sorry,” she said again.

“Where did you learn to bandage wounds?” Doyle examined the gauze on his arm. Mina sat on the other end of the couch and faced him, her legs drawn under her.

“My godmother was a nurse. It’s something she had to do for her two sons more than once. They were always getting hurt. Did I not get it right?”

“No, it’s perfect,” he admitted. “Your godmother?”

“I lived with my godparents for a few years.”

“You and your brother?”

“No, he was already off at college.”

“Why did you live with them?”

“My mother left when I was eight. Dad passed away from cancer when I was fourteen. Lincoln was twenty.”

“Were you close to him?”

“I visited him a lot when he was in grad school, before I went to college myself.”

Mina wondered where her godparents were now, but she didn’t dwell on the thought long. She wanted to look ahead, not behind. And thinking about her family only added to the weight in her chest.

She turned her attention to Doyle. He laid his head on the back of the couch with his eyes closed, his bandaged arm propped on a pillow. A new wave of regret washed over Mina, and she stood and walked to the bunk beds. Had she left the dog alone in the first place, Doyle would be fine.

Mina lay on one of the bottom bunks, even though they had plenty of daylight left. Her body relaxed into the thin mattress. She fell asleep without meaning to and when she woke, the cabin was dark. Doyle lay on the other bottom bunk, his head close to hers as he slept. A blanket covered her, but she didn’t remember reaching for it. She pulled it closer around her shoulders and went back to sleep.

In the morning, Mina woke first. He always woke before her, and so she watched him carefully for a moment. His chest rose and fell softly, his breathing regular. Mina rose and went outside, where she leaned on the porch railings to watch the sunrise. The porch faced due east, and it flooded with yellow sunshine as the sun rose over the ghostly mist covering the valley. Behind her, the door opened. Doyle joined her, combing his fingers through his unkempt hair before leaning on the railing beside her. She smiled at him and looked back at the sunrise.
 

“I wish we could stay here,” she whispered. Doyle took a breath as if he was about to comment. She preempted him. “No, don’t tell me why we can’t. I just want to enjoy standing here, looking at this view.”

Doyle furrowed his brow but held his tongue. Mina breathed in the scent of wet earth as the sun warmed her face. She ignored Doyle for a while, enjoying the quiet. Finally, she turned to look at him.

“What are we doing out here?” she asked quietly. “What’s going to happen to us? I think about that man and his dog, and I wonder if that’s how it will end. He was prepared. He had shelter, food, water. And he died. No matter what we do to survive, ultimately it won’t be enough.”

Doyle rubbed his chest as he responded. “You didn’t know that dog would attack. Don’t give in yet. Things can change.”

“How? How can they change?” Mina didn’t want to argue with him. But if he held some hope, she wanted a piece of it.

Doyle looked at her hand resting on the railing, then turned back to the sunrise and said, “It’ll get easier.”

“I can’t figure you out. You’ve saved my life, protected me when I made stupid mistakes, all at your own expense. Yet you act like I am a burden to you. Why?”

Mina wasn’t surprised when Doyle didn’t answer. He studied his bandage as if he found it interesting. Mina looked at it, too. Blood had soaked through the gauze during the night. Now it was dark and dried. At least he wasn’t still bleeding—she didn’t know much first aid beyond what she had already done.

“I’m going down to bury that man’s body today, and the dog’s,” she said.

Doyle sighed. “I’ll go with you—don’t argue. You seem to be attracting trouble lately.”

This time Mina needed all day to find rocks to pack up the hill. After watching her for a while, Doyle hobbled over to the dog and covered it with the stones she brought. When they finished, Mina found a small sharp rock and scratched an epitaph into the boulder above the mounds:

A man who inspired loyalty beyond the grave,

And his best friend, who made the ultimate sacrifice.

“You were right. There’s a large camp over the ridge. A thousand, maybe fifteen hundred people.”

“Armed?”

“Most of them.”

“Then that’s where we need to be.” Calla rested in the low crook of a fallen tree, one boot on the massive trunk, the other dangling off the ground. Her dark hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail that accentuated her high cheekbones and pale skin. Three males around her waited for the signal to move. Calla silently reached out into the afternoon sun, feeling her way through the trees to what she wanted. What she yearned for.

No answer. She sensed only those with her, no one else.

“Dar Ceylin’s not coming,” said one of the males.

“You underestimate him,” she replied.

“Such confidence,” he said scathingly. “I do not believe he couldn’t catch Halston.”

Calla’s voice darkened. “He’ll be here.” The hybrid did not argue further.

Calla slid off the tree and checked her laces. Then she left. The three followed her, wading into the shade of the trees in complete silence.

“Are you going to summon the Condarri?” one of them asked later.

“Not yet. I want to be sure we’ve found them all first. I will hunt them down one by one if I have to.”

They hiked in silence again, the world growing dark. At midnight, Calla halted. The smell of hundreds of campfires wafted down the valley.

“Fools,” said one of the males.

“It makes no difference. They are not what we came for.” Once again, Calla reached out to sense her surroundings. There, an answer. Unguarded, surprised.

Then it disappeared. The three next to her sensed him, too.

“If Williams doesn’t come?” one asked.

“Then he is dead where he sleeps.”

Before dawn, she sensed him again. A burly, red-haired man found them as they broke camp. One of the three pulled his gun and stood behind, closing off the newcomer’s exit.

Calla stood. “Why did you not immediately respond?”

“I didn’t know it was you,” Williams answered.

“Liar.”

Williams shook his head, even as he eyed the gun. “There are others in this camp, but I haven’t found all of them.”

“Then you are worthless to me. You’re only trying to save your own skin.”

“No—the rogues plan to unite in West Virginia! And I can give names—Halston.”

“So Halston is here.” Calla fought to conceal her eagerness. “And?”

“And another.”

“Who?”

Williams laughed. “I’m not telling you yet.”

“Traitor!” Calla drew her knife, dark-steeled and superbly sharp.

“No—survivor. I’m not certain who it is yet, but he’s here. If he weren’t rogue, he would have made himself known.”

“And if you were rogue,” said one of the others, “you would intentionally lead us astray.” He drew his knife as well and held it to Williams’s throat. “Why didn’t you report this camp already?”

“Why haven’t you reported it?”

“Enough!” commanded Calla. “We will return. When we do, I want names and your allegiance.”

“You already have that. I’m here, aren’t I?”

“We’ll see,” she mused. “I will give you a chance to prove yourself.”

Williams said, “Until you return, then.” And he left.

“How do you know he won’t run?” asked the one to Calla’s left.

“Because if he does, I’ll find you first and make an example of you for all to see.”

“Why me?”

“Because you’re going to follow him.”

He nodded and grabbed his gear, heading after Williams into the new dawn.
 

Calla closed her eyes and reached out. He would not dare disobey.

After two days, Calla grew weary of waiting and summoned her man back to her.

“The rogues in camp seem nervous,” he said. “No one is showing himself. Maybe Williams was lying.”

“Is Halston there?”

“Yes. But the other is more difficult.”

“I want them all! Do you understand?”

“He’s hiding if he’s really there. Don’t worry. We’ll flush them out.”

“Does Halston know who you are?”
 

“No. I’ve kept out of sight. We need to report the camp, though. The commander is talking about going to West Virginia, and he has a lot of support. Know what’s going on there?”

“I want them,” she said.

“What are my orders, then?”

“Who is the commander?”

“Some Marine captain.”