him. “The feeble-blooded Sentinels at the retreat are sickening, but Scott didn’t spend the night there.” Anger flickered to life at Ana’s defiance—her delay in invoking the second amulet, her whorish behavior with the Sentinel.
“So my man reported,” Budian said. “Scott left her rental a few moments ago—she wore him out, no doubt about that. I’ll pick her up if she leaves—or let you know if he returns. I’ve also planted a tracker on his motorcycle.” He took a breath on new words, hesitating there.
“What is it?” Lerche snapped.
Budian found the necessary mix of cautious respect. “Her face,” he said. “She came outside to say her goodbyes, and the bruises were visible. I must counsel caution when it comes to disciplining her, no matter that she deserves it.”
The anger flickered higher. “She should take better care with her makeup.”
“Agreed. But these Sentinels are notoriously possessive—that’s been the problem with them all along, hasn’t it? Possessive of the earth, possessive of whatever they deem to be theirs. It will complicate our task if this one goes looking for whoever left those bruises.”
“She knows better than to talk. And she heals more quickly than most.” Not that she knew it, or had any understanding of the taint her blood carried. She puzzled over her lack of acceptance within the Core ranks, but that was her problem. Lerche shook his head. “She is mine to discipline as necessary. But I’ll take your words into consideration.”
“Thank you,” Budian said, as well he might. “I’ll keep you apprised.”
Lerche nodded in dismissal, turning his attention back to the spy amulets. One still offered a mutter of occasional conversation and clattering kitchen noises, and the other briefly provided a muffled and unidentified sound.
Ana Dikau was a problem. Had always been a problem. Too eager for acceptance, never seeing that she wasn’t worthy, never understanding why—and yet constantly defying even the simplest edict. Never understanding that how little her value to him, she was still his.
She’d slept with the Sentinel.
Anger surged—and then slowly ebbed into satisfaction.
After all, she had invoked the amulet. She was spending time with Scott. He might sicken first, but ultimately she faced death right along with him. And she had no idea it would come at her own hand.
* * *
“Aspirin, yes. Ibuprofen or acetaminophen, no.” Ruger’s deep voice rumbled over Ian’s phone. Southwest Brevis’s skilled, no-nonsense healer was a man who took the bear in his other form—bigger than most, rumblier than most. “Keep ’em drinking—and put a drop of lemon oil in their water. Not the stuff under the sink for the furniture.”
“Not the furniture polish,” Ian repeated, amused in spite of the circumstances. He rounded the breakfast bar where he’d been taking notes, and opened Fernie’s remedy cabinet.
“You’d be surprised,” Ruger muttered. “Look, every once in a while something like this comes along—it sweeps through a bunch of us and goes on its way, showing up mainly in the light-bloods. Stick with common sense, and in a few days it’ll be history. Besides, it’ll take your mind off those silent amulets.”
“Does everyone know I’ve been sent up here to turn my brain off?”
Ruger made a rumbling noise of amusement. “Who do you suppose talked to Nick about prying you out of that laboratory for a while, little leopard?”
Ian made his own throat noise, and it wasn’t amusement.
Ruger laughed outright. “Never mind. We’ll talk about that later. Meanwhile, you’re not affected by this thing?”
Ian hesitated, thinking of the previous evening, not quite ready to admit vulnerability when he’d spent so much effort of late telling everyone he was fine, dammit. But then he’d hesitated too long, so he shrugged as he reached into the cabinet for the lemon oil. “Last night,” he said, tapping the little bottle against the counter in a clinking percussive accompaniment. “Helluva headache. Today, a little...yeah, hungover. Nothing more.”
“Sounds about right,” Ruger said. “Take the aspirin. Drink the fluids. Don’t get in over your head with activities.”
Ian snorted. “Now you sound like Fernie.”
“And,” Ruger said as if Ian hadn’t spoken, “call me if things don’t get better over the next day.”
Ian heard the serious note behind that directive. “Got it.”
“In fact, just call me. Tomorrow. I want to know how this thing is going, in case you’re not the only ones.” When Ian hesitated again, Ruger offered no leeway. “You’re not up there to get distracted by your work. Call me.”
Ian didn’t quite mean to mutter, “It’s not work that’s distracting me.”
Ruger laughed again. “Well, then,” he said. “Tell her hello, and look no further for the source of your little virus.”
“I only met her two days ago,” Ian grumbled. “Hardly even that.”
“That’s all it takes, with the right virus.” Ruger sounded altogether too cheerful. “It happens, you know. Even with us.” He gave Ian a quick list of other remedies they might find useful and that Fernie was likely to have on hand, including a recent batch of Ruger’s own tonic. “But don’t pull that one out unless things are getting bad. You’ll have the whole house bouncing off the walls. Of course,” he added, humor back in his voice, “you do that as a matter of course, so who’s to tell the difference.”
“Ha,” Ian said. “And ha.” And managed to mutter a promise to make that update call before he hung up.
But when he turned to face the kitchen, he couldn’t be quite as sanguine as Ruger—a man who had good reason to be cheerful, with his love Mariska newly pregnant. Another reason not to draw him up here. Mariska was also bear, small and fierce, and floundering a little in her new role as pending mother.
But Ian had arrived to find the place cluttered with an unprecedented number of dishes and no other evidence of the other retreat residents. A quick look around had revealed them all to be sleeping, and he’d left them that way, choosing to clean up and call Ruger before he disturbed Fernie.
Now he brewed her a quick cup of her favorite soother tea and added the lemon to it...and then hesitated and made one for himself, gulping an aspirin before he rummaged up one of yesterday’s muffins to add to her tray.
Unlike Ian’s room—a bedroom off the back of this quirky, open air home with its half-basement warren of little rooms and its common spaces—Fernie lived in a tiny little casita attached to the home but separate of it, just barely within the enclosed courtyard. Her own tiny kitchen, bathroom and bedroom—and a place into which Ian had never ventured, because it was quite obviously Fernie’s territory. Full of Southwest color and wrought iron and photos of a family grown and scattered across three brevis regions.
But he’d stood in the doorway, and that’s what he did now—knocking on the door until
