else.” The challenge didn’t ease in the faintest. “Someone who you haven’t lied to yet.”
“I didn’t—” she said hotly, but stopped. Not just because she pretty much had lied to him, even if it was both simpler and more complicated and that. But because he’d gone still, staring down the hill. Not still as Maks or another big cat would do, the stalking calm—just plain still.
And then, before she could ask, he started down the slope. There was something about the angle of his head that caught her attention, spiking concern.
“Ruger,” she said, pitching her voice as a warning.
He didn’t seem to hear, and maybe it was just as well she hadn’t distracted him. For an instant later, when a camouflage-obscured figure behind the fallen tree exploded into motion, Ruger barely startled at all, even when Mariska yelled his name—this time imbuing it with alarm as well as warning, all the dammit, this is what I’m here for she could manage in one word.
At the park, he’d respected that. He’d wordlessly left her the room to do her share of the brawling.
Now he ignored her completely—even though he could easily see that the man had reacted in panic as Ruger’s path downward narrowed his escape route from this swale. And he could damned well see that if he stepped back, he’d create the man room to get past, leaving him completely open to Mariska’s full-bore approach from the side.
A bear in full-speed charge was nothing to trifle with, whether in her human or animal form.
But no, Ruger crouched slightly, weighting himself to earth—taking those few necessary steps to block the man’s way. And then he just was, rooted and unmoving. He ducked one shoulder in a perfectly timed block, and Mariska found herself floundering to shift gears. She cursed, slipping in the layered old pine needles, and righted herself to discover that the fool of a Core minion was fighting back—and doing it in the cowardly way that the Core did best when they couldn’t manage an ambush.
With firearms.
“Gun!” she cried, barely hearing Ian’s mind voice with its bemused ::What the hell is going on over there?:: as she spotted the weapon on its way out of the shoulder holster hidden beneath the forest-patterned camo jacket. “Gun!”
::Idiot,:: Ruger snarled, a personal thought gone public—or at least gone to Mariska—as he yanked the man up and off his feet, gave him a good shake, and dropped him to slap the gun away. “Stay down.”
But by then Mariska was close enough and still running on strong, and she could see the man had no intention of doing any such thing. He fumbled in his jacket pocket even as he crabbed away—a classic amulet grab—and Ruger said, “Ah, hell,” and threw himself down on the minion.
“No, no, no!” Not when there was no way to tell what the amulet would do if it made contact, what it would do even if it didn’t.
The dull snap of bone stopped her short. Ruger rolled away from the man, ending up on his hands and knees and already poised to thrust up and away. A big man, nimble on his feet.
But then, she already knew that.
Amulet corruption shredded the air, far thicker than carrion; the man had time for only a faint gargle of horror, a quick and spastic thrash toward death before he subsided.
After a moment, Ruger climbed to his feet, nothing of haste about it.
::Ruger?:: Ian said, obscured by terrain and structure. ::What the hell?::
::We’re good,:: Ruger said, an absent sending that didn’t distract him from circling in as he brushed himself off. ::Back with you in a moment.::
“Good?” Mariska said, aghast at the shrill note in her voice. “We’re good?” By then she was close enough to reach him—she punched him solidly on the arm. “This is what you call good?” She looked down at the minion—the former minion—and discovered his elbow bent the wrong way, his hand stuck in his pocket as it clutched the amulet… and his body as mummified as any creature left dead and undisturbed in the desert sun. “What were you even thinking?” and she threw another punch into his arm, full of frustration and fury.
Ruger turned with a quickness belying his size, his hand closing around her wrist—closing hard. His eyes, so matter-of-factly amiable—so filled with heat—had gone hard, hard enough to make her gasp. And he said nothing, but she heard the growl rumbling deep in his chest.
She responded without thinking, offering the quiet sound in her throat that meant a bear’s acquiescence—but only for the instant before she managed to cut it short. Then she yanked her wrist free and glared at him. “You should have let him go. I would have had him—that’s why I’m here.” And when he said nothing, she found herself flinging out words, rushing to fill that void, wanting something—anything—from him in response. “Last night in that parking lot, you would have let him past. You would have worked as a team. You should have known—”
“Last night,” Ruger interrupted, “we were a team.”
She blinked back unexpected emotion, and made her voice hard. “We’re still a team. You have your job, and I have mine. Don’t get them mixed up again.”
::Guys?:: Ian said. ::Hate to break up your little whatever-it-is, but have I mentioned I want to know what the hell is going on?::
“We had company,” Ruger said, out loud as much as through his mind’s voice. “Our company accidentally fried himself with his own amulet.”
::Purely by coincidence, I’m sure. Keep sharp, then. We’re just about through here; come on over and we’ll get a look inside.::
::Coming,:: Mariska said—but when she lifted her head, she discovered that Ruger was already on his way.
The brief, acrid stench of stolen Core power burst through the underground workshop, making Ciobaka sneeze. “Wowoww.”
“What are you complaining about now?” Tarras slammed the door of the recently emptied cage nearest to Ciobaka’s.
“No,” Ehwoord said, the snap of annoyance in his voice. “He’s right. Yoske triggered one of his defense amulets.”
Ciobaka tilted his head, studying Tarras as his mouth clamped shut and his body stiffened in anticipation of repercussion. But Ehwoord continued quietly grooming amulets for the next round of impressions, no more prepossessing than he ever was with his slight stature, his belly going round, his hair gray and his skin lined with wrinkles of a strangely stiff nature—as if parts of him had forgotten they were old and the rest of him was ancient. Sometimes Ciobaka thought his mind worked in that same pattern, shifting from coldly efficient to something just a little less sane.
Tarras asked carefully, “You felt it?”
“It’s my amulet,” Ehwoord told him, as if that was explanation enough.
“Then they’ve found the overflow installation.”
“Perhaps. Or Yoske became careless between here and there.” Ehwoord’s mouth tightened. “I needed that network up and running. I need those cameras. After a time, if Yoske doesn’t return, you’ll see to it.”
Tarras
