of the gorgeous Santa Fe property under the gorgeous blue skies in the gorgeous fall weather. “‘You’ll like it,’ he said.”
“You could like it.” The woman’s voice from the patio sounded anything but repentant for her eavesdropping.
Ian found her standing on the porch with her arms folded over her motherly shape, her expression a mix of affection and exasperation.
His own face held nothing but exasperation, he was certain of it. “He took away my team. My computer. My tablet. My lab!”
“Pfft.” She made the noise with no sympathy at all. Her name was Fernie, and she ruled this retreat with nothing so overt as an iron fist. An iron spoon, perhaps. With cookie batter on it. “That’s what happens when you work yourself sick.”
Ian’s grumble grew closer to a growl. “Field Sentinels,” he said distinctly, “don’t get sick. And I wasn’t.” He hefted the dumbbell for a quick set of curls, proving the point.
“You,” she said, just as pointedly, “were injured. And Nick Carter knows better than to let his people wear themselves down.”
“Right,” Ian said, switching the weights to his other arm. “Can’t have that. Can’t have people getting tired when there are lives to be saved.”
His angry sarcasm was meant to drive her away. Instead she came down the three porch steps, past the towering, bloom-heavy hollyhocks and into the yard, her body language neither aggressive nor submissive—a woman with an extra touch of empathy who well knew the full-blooded Sentinels with whom she often worked.
Especially the cranky ones.
“Ian,” she said, and the soft lines of her face held understanding, “you can’t do it all. Maybe you can do most of it, but not all.”
Something in his temper snapped; he felt the hard coil of it in his chest. “I don’t have to do it all. I just have to do this one thing! One thing, to keep my friends safe!”
The best amulet tech in Brevis Southwest, and he still hadn’t devised a defense against the Atrum Core’s rarely detectable silent amulets—a failure that had cost them all dearly. Repeatedly. And which had given the Core time to devise other new deadly workings—while also leaving them vulnerable to new third-party interlopers, as of yet undefined in spite of their recent activity in the Southwest.
Fernie stood her ground. “That working is a fearful thing, no doubt. But the man who made it is dead now. You have time. And you’ve only been here a week.”
He glared. “They have stockpiles of silent blanks. Sooner or later, they’ll reproduce his work. And then the rest of us will die.”
“Let it go for this moment,” she said, quite steadily. “Don’t you think that’s why you’re here?”
That hard spring coiled tighter. Ian left the weights on the ground and gave way to his leopard, letting the prowl of it come out in his movement—pacing away to the tall latilla coyote fence and back again, feeling the strength of four legs and solid big cat muscle lurking beneath his skin. Out and back again, thinking that although he could detect any normal amulet within a mile, identify its nature, even trigger it if he wanted, he still didn’t have a thing on the silents.
Until Fernie said, in understanding admonishment, “Ian.”
He snapped a look at her. Her eyes widened; she took a sharp breath. But she held her ground, because that’s what she was here for. “Ian.”
His snarl was as much acquiescence as temper. He paced onward...but tucked the leopard away.
Mostly.
“All right, Fernanda,” he said, pausing by the fence. He found his fingers tapping against the rough, pinto bean bark of the hand-peeled latillas; he stilled them.
Maybe a run. Better than a hike up in the Sangre de Cristo trails, at least until he was certain the previous week’s activity hadn’t roused any interest. Strange that an aggressive mountain lion hadn’t been reported.
The narrow Santa Fe River Park ran east-west before them, a riverbed greenway full of cottonwoods and trails. He drifted to the front of the compact yard, through the groomed pines to the thick old adobe wall—four feet near the open gate, stepped up to five feet and then six to meet the tall latilla poles at the corner; another group of stout blooming hollyhocks festooned the transition from adobe to the old fashioned poles. The rest of the fencing was just as idiosyncratic, done in stages to include a high adobe corner in the back and token rail fencing along the property line. Typical of these old Santa Fe properties, where bits and pieces had been added over time.
A dirt road stretched out before them, defining this barely developed privacy in the middle of Santa Fe. The Sangre de Cristo mountains loomed to the east, marching northward to Taos and Colorado—over fourteen thousand feet high, full of bear and cougar and pristine air, tall pines and craggy outcrops. Perfect for a snow leopard.
That had pretty much been the whole point. Nick Carter, Southwest Brevis Consul and definitely the boss of Ian, could have sent him to any one of the Sentinel retreats, from oceanside to low desert scrub. Instead he’d sent Ian from their Tucson base of operations into the high cool mountains for his snow leopard to love.
Ian had simply been too preoccupied with what he’d left behind to truly walk away from it.
Atrum Core bastards.
Two thousand years earlier, the strictures of their cold war with the Core hadn’t been so important—not when druids held sway and Romans were trying to beat them down. Then, the Sentinels hadn’t tried too terribly hard to hide their developing nature, their mandate to protect the Earth—and the Core hadn’t even considered hiding their intent to gather power, ostensibly to make sure the Sentinels didn’t get out of hand.
Mostly it had been seen as a power struggle between two half brothers—and maybe, mostly at the start it was.
But the Core turned to dark ways and corrupted energies to achieve its goal, and the Sentinels honed their skills—and the world changed around them until both factions were in agreement over the need to remain undetected. Their conflict went underground, a worldwide détente with certain understandings: no direct offensives, no breaking cover. Theirs would be a cold war.
Until the Core’s most recent Southwest drozhar had gone rogue. Thanks to his silent amulets, too many Sentinels had been killed or wounded—especially the full-blooded field Sentinels. Those who took the shape of the other within.
Like Ian.
Atrum Core bastards.
“Go take a run,” Fernie said, startling him. “You think I can’t tell that you’ve gone off inside your head again?”
He growled at her.
She waved it away. “Go,” she said. “Run. Think about something else.” And she left him in the yard, returning to tend the cause of the yeasty sweetness wafting out into the yard.
What good was it to have a great growl when people ignored it? Ian propped his foot against the wall and retied his laces. All right, Fernie. A run.
But
