A Feral Darkness (14 page)

      
"Call me Gil," he said. "Or Masera.
Mr. Masera
is reserved for boy scouts." He rolled up the cuffs on his ubiquitous flannel shirt. Blue today.

      
Gil
. It didn't suit him somehow; she wasn't sure why. And she knew she should tell him to call her Brenna, but when her mouth opened, nothing came out. By the wall, Druid sat wary and watchful, and Brenna suddenly realized that for some reason, she felt exactly the same way. Wary. So instead she reached for the correct squeeze bottle of diluted shampoo, and tipped it at him like a drink. "This is what he needs," she said, stepping out of the way. And then, though she wanted to hover and supervise, she got a grooming noose from the hook by the door and went to the Dobie's crate. Sweet Sara Dobie with her extreme overbite and her worried eyes; Brenna always tried to get her done first. Druid, who had quickly learned the patterns of activity here, already waited by the door.

      
When she glanced at the tub, she discovered that Masera had removed the muzzle. Of course. "You'll want that," she told him, turning off all the dryers for a moment of respite and easier conversation.

      
He looked at the muzzle and said, "Does Mickey ever help out back here?"

      
"Mickey?" she said. "Why would he? He's in stock. If I've talked to him twice, I don't remember the second time. And really. You need the muzzle."

      
He said mildly, "I don't."

      
"You know what?" she said, discovering that she just didn't care enough to be angry or annoyed, not with the dogs waiting to be done and Sara shifting nervously by her side. "Yes, you do. Because no matter how good you are, no matter how many dogs you've trained, you're not going to train that one out of biting in the tub
and
bathe it within the next fifteen minutes. And that's what it's all about in here, you know? Not training them, not civilizing them, not trying to socialize them in the few moments every three months that I might have my hands on them, and
not
getting bitten. Cleaning them up, making them as comfortable as possible so they can get through another season—
that's
what it's about. And doing as many as possible in one day, and getting them done when we've told their owners we will. So if you're not going to use that muzzle, tell me now—because I can bathe that dog and have it dry by the time you even get it near a crate. We don't
train
them. We
handle
them as best we can without getting hurt. Do you get that now?"

      
For a moment he looked unaffected; she waited for his gaze to grow lidded and hard. Instead his eyebrows drew together to pinch the high, thin bridge of his nose—just for a moment. Then the expression smoothed and he said, "This is killing you, you know. You care too much."

      
Her eyes widened; deep inside something twisted, and in that moment she hated him. "What an astonishingly personal thing to say," she told him, her own voice as hard as she'd expected from him. Sara the Doberman gave her hand a nudge with a cold nose and offered a whisper of a whine; she put an absent and soothing hand on the dog's head. "Are you going to put that muzzle back on, or should I put Sara back in the crate and do the bath myself?"

      
"I'll use the muzzle," he said, still mild, and had it back on the dog almost before he'd finished speaking.

      
She didn't know what to say then—
thank you
might have been good, but she couldn't bring herself to say it. Not when she didn't entirely understand why he was here in the first place, or why he was making this peace overture when he'd also made it so clear how he felt about groomers. Or how quickly, when he wanted to, he could nail down things she knew better even than to think about.
You care too much.
"He'll try to slip the noose," she muttered, and flipped the dryers on in quick succession so that if he had anything else to say, maybe he wouldn't.

      
He didn't.

      
He bathed the dog, toweled it off, and had it drying in the crate by the time she worked out the bulk of Sara's fine, shedding winter coat—even Dobies hid an amazing amount of insulation on their thin-skinned bodies—filled out the paperwork, and returned to the tub room. She found him tossing used towels into the hamper, and she spent a studious few moments adjusting the dryers on each dog—there were never enough, it seemed, especially not with that Husky in the line-up—and finally couldn't avoid turning to him.

      
"Thank you," she said, looking at his wet knees instead of his face. "That makes my day easier."

      
"A little shorter, maybe." He shrugged, and she looked up to see a fleeting smile. "Probably not actually
easier
." He tossed a final towel into the hamper and headed for the door, where he turned long enough to add, "Though I
meant
for it to."

      
And left her thinking about it while the door closed in his wake.

      
Or
not
thinking about it. She was, she determined right then, far too busy to think about any of it for the rest of the day. She felt a gentle pressure on her leg and looked down to find Druid sitting up on his haunches, one paw cocked up and the other barely touching her—for her attention or for balance or out of concern, she wasn't sure. But he got a big hug all the same.

      
And then she went on with her day.

~~~

Brenna left Pets! feeling more upbeat than seemed reasonable after the way the day had started. But Elizabeth had come in early, and they had taken a moment to present a united front to Roger, armed with enough commonsense arguments to earn themselves a permanent bather for the season. No more grabbing whoever was convenient, no more wasting time training a new temp bather every week.

      
Assuming that DaNise, the cheerful young woman who'd enthusiastically agreed to work with the dogs, didn't quit before the summer was over. Brenna suspected that DaNise had no idea just how much crate cleaning the grooming work entailed. But she seemed sensible enough, and sturdy enough to deal with the physical part of the work. Most importantly, her nails were already neatly trimmed and she wouldn't spend half of her time trying to protect them.

      
But when Brenna stepped into the parking lot with Druid on a pleasant heel beside her, her arms full of her coat and her purchases for the day—more bones to keep Sunny happy in the crate and please, God, let the danger from the dog pack pass soon—that upbeat mood blew away with the strong spring breeze at the sight of Masera, almost around the corner of the building with his SUV, tailgate open and down, handing off a wad of money and taking two young pit bulls in exchange. Stout and already muscular despite their early age, probably actually some mix of American Pit Bull and American Staffordshire Terrier; people called both breed "pit bull" and most didn't distinguish between them.

      
In between dogs, was he? Looking at a Cardi for his next, was he? That would have made sense, too—Cardigans were a herding breed, highly suited to obedience and agility competition, and a good showcase for his training business. But pit bulls? And was that Mickey from the stock room standing with his back to her, looking sullen even from that perspective?

      
He'd lied to her.

      
He'd come in and made nice and lied to her.

      
And damn, it bothered her.

      
She wasn't sure she liked him, but she'd respected him for coming to the grooming room, for offering to bathe the Westie—and for doing it her way. But he'd lied, and now he had his hands on a pair of pit bulls in a back-lot transaction that didn't make her think of anything good.

      
"Maybe he's rescuing them," she told Druid, watching Masera hoist the dogs into the SUV and crate them. But she didn't convince even herself with that one.

      
So go ask him
.

      
She'd have to run for it, Druid and packages and all, bellowing his name across the parking lot, and he was already climbing into the driver's seat. And in the time it took for that thought, she missed her chance; he was pulling away from the building.
Damn.
Druid whined, looking up at her, and she shifted her grip on the slipping coat and packages, heading for her pickup. "As if I care."

      
She didn't convince herself with that, either.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CHAPTER 8
NAUTHAZ
Restriction & Pain
A quick stop at the video store netted Brenna a light romantic film she had missed in the theaters, and she splurged on a big bag of malted milk balls from the bulk section in the supermarket when she ran through to scoop up groceries for the week. She grabbed some seedling flats while she was at it; tomorrow was supposed to be fine and sunny, she had the day off, and she looked forward to a day of puttering. Put the little tomatoes in big pots so she could bring them in if they got a late frost, clear out the leaf mulch she'd had protecting her chrysanthemums, do a little target shooting and give the rifle a good cleaning, let Sunny have a good run...

      
Puttering. And tonight, malted milk balls, a sentimental happy-ending movie, and maybe if she got her second wind she'd even clean the bathroom. Alone again, of course. Too fixed on her own course, too strong in who she was—for good or bad—to suit anyone else for long.

      
Besides, she
liked
movie rental nights and puttering days.

      
By the time she got home it was twilight—even her early hours couldn't make up for a slow grocery cash-out line—so she put Sunny out on the cable run she'd constructed several days earlier and threw a pot on the stove for pasta. They all ate together—even Sunny, who had graduated to strictly supervised moments in the kitchen—and Brenna tossed Sunny back into the crate with a new bone. "Poor hound," she said fondly at Sunny's forlorn look. Sunny was a creature of sinew and long legs and the need to romp, and the crating routine had gone on for far too long—especially considering that there had been no sightings of the pack. Brenna would give her a few extra moments on the run later on. For now, she was ready to settle in to the old couch in the den, a comforter on her shoulders and a Cardi in her lap. By the time she finished the video she'd be lucky to make it from the couch to the bed, despite the early hour—but that was the norm for her lark's schedule.

      
"Ready for the movie?" she asked Druid, who cocked his ears to their most alert angle, tipping his head to the side as if at any moment he would burst into spoken commentary—or maybe she'd start talking in dogspeak. Between the ears and the bright white symmetrical blaze, he was probably close to illegally cute. "Never mind," she said, when he couldn't place her words into his vocabulary. "How about this one—want to come up on the couch?"

      
Fast learner, that dog. He was waiting by the couch by the time she scooped up the video and followed him into the den. He waited just long enough for her to settle into the corner of the couch—a quick procedure, given the extent of the dip that many years of use had formed there—and open her arms to him, and then sprang into her lap to curl into a pleasantly boneless cuddle. His nose twitched at the malted milk balls, but he'd quickly learned there was no point to outright begging. A subtle gleam of drool formed on his lips as he heaved a great sigh and resigned himself to sleep.