A Feral Darkness (17 page)

      
The amusement disappeared, leaving only darkness. "I heard it."

      
"She just kept screaming, and I couldn't get out there, the door..." She hesitated again, then said firmly, "The door wouldn't open. And then...she just stopped. All I could find was the collar, snapped off the end of the run cable."

      
"The cable snapped?" he asked, surprised, as if he hadn't had the chance to put that together yet.

      
"It's new, too," she said ruefully, and then realized that it didn't matter, that she wouldn't need a cable for Sunny anymore—

      
She bolted from him. Out of the kitchen, straight for the bathroom.

      
Privacy, she just needed a little privacy, and
what was going on and what had happened to her dog and why to such a sweet dog, never hurt anyone and what was
he
doing here anyway?
Brenna leaned against the bathroom door and pulled the cuffs of her long-sleeved T-shirt over her hands and then put her hands over her eyes and face, blotting the tears as quickly as they came, until they finally stopped coming.

      
She took a deep breath, hiccoughed, and waited in a moment of stillness to see if there'd be more.

      
Apparently not.

      
At which point she glanced in the mirror on the back of the door and blinked at the sight. Jeans torn across her thigh, her T-shirt ripped over her stomach, a long, clawed welt across her neck and climbing to her ear—Druid had done a lot more than bite her. And now her eyes were red and swollen, and her skin so flushed she wondered if it would ever fade away.

      
She splashed some cool water on her face just for the soothing feel of it and then decided that as long as she was here, she'd take advantage of the facilities. Whereupon she discovered more bright blood and had a quick moment of panic until her brain started functioning again and dryly informed her that it was
time
for that to happen, had she forgotten? So she took care of that, too, and came out of the bathroom no less bedraggled in appearance but beginning to get a grip on her spirit.

      
Masera was on the floor with Druid—so strange to see the man there in her kitchen—checking the dog's mouth while Druid rolled his eyes unhappily but submitted to the inspection. Masera looked up at her and released the Cardi; he immediately trotted to Brenna, unsteady and limping, and looking up at her with the most abject, the most worried face, his whole posture full of submission and uncertainty.

      
She knelt to let him climb up on the platform of her thighs and bury his head under her arm.

      
"He looks fine," Masera said. "Some split nails, some cuts on his lips and gums...but no broken teeth."

      
She kissed the back of his head—all she could reach—in relief. And then she looked at Masera and said, "Just because I'm upset doesn't mean I can't take care of myself."

      
He seemed to be given to studying such statements, for he didn't react immediately, didn't strike back as she might have expected, or walk out with wounded pride. "Well, no," he agreed finally. "But wouldn't it be easier with help?"

      
"You didn't have to come. I'm not sure why you did."

      
"I was worried," he said flatly. "You wouldn't have called me unless you felt you had no choice."

      
"No," she said, and that one came out more as a whisper.

      
"And I
heard
those screams, Brenna. Whatever you may think of me, my heart's not that cold."

      
I never said it was
. But she kissed Druid's head again and didn't say it out loud, because they'd had more than enough between them, unspoken and spoken, for him to know that she hadn't forgiven him for the way he'd judged her before they'd even met. Not that he
deserved
to be forgiven for such rude arrogance—

      
You care too much
, he'd said to her.

      
Maybe
he
cared, too.

      
But when she looked up after that insight, he'd gotten to his feet and was looking thoughtfully out the kitchen door, through its glass pane to the dog room and beyond. "It was confusing from my end, but...I never did hear anything other than you, the Cardigan, and your...other dog."

      
"Sunny," Brenna said quietly. "She was a Redbone Hound. Not a single brain cell in her body, but—"
But a good dog
.

      
He nodded as if he'd heard the last. "Did
you
hear anything?"

      
"Besides Sunny?" And in between her own screaming?

      
He nodded again, looking away from the door to return his scrutiny to her. Druid sank into a couchant position beside her, keeping himself within petting distance. "Besides Sunny," he said. "Other dogs?"

      
She considered it for a moment, but still remembered her own astonishment at the soundless wind. And if she'd noticed that the wind wasn't making any noise, surely she'd have noticed if other dogs
were
. So she shook her head, climbing stiffly to her feet to stand awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, her arms looking for something to do and finally crossing themselves over her partially exposed midriff.

      
He frowned, and she was about to repeat the negation out loud, cross at being doubted, when she realized he wasn't doubting at all...just confused by her response.

      
Of course confused. Given her words, how
not
confused? But there was more to that frown—more than just a man confronted with a puzzle. More like a man confronted with other than what he thought he'd hear.

      
"You were expecting something," she said suddenly. "Something in particular—something
else
. That's why you came over here so quickly. What do you know that I don't?"

      
"Nothing," he said, but there was a subtle note to his voice that she hadn't heard before. And a distraction to his expression as he looked at the sink and the bloody token that was left of Sunny, then glanced at his watch, told himself, "Ucher," as if
that
were a word, and shook his head. He leaned over the kitchen sink to catch a glimpse of the moon out the big window, heavily waning and still high in the sky. "Medusa moon," he muttered, and frowned.

      
"
What
moon?"

      
He'd been lost in thought; the look he gave her was surprised. "Nothing," he said. "What it means depends on who you are. But
this
—" and he reached into the sink; she heard the clink of Sunny's ID tag moving against the old porcelain.

      
Brenna cleared her throat sharply. "Still think there's no dog pack?"

      
He dropped the collar and abruptly ran cold water over it, watching the blood swirl away. "I never said that."

      
"You did," she told him. "You said it to Sammi. Maybe not in so many words, but that's what you meant."

      
He grimaced. "No," he said. "I don't think it was a feral dog pack."

      
She tilted her head at him; one hand found her braid and drew it up to play with its end. "You say a lot," she told him, "in what you don't say."

      
"Then I suppose I'll have to stop saying anything at all." He turned the collar under the uneven stream of water—stronger when the well pump ran, weaker in between as the water pressure ran down enough to kick off the pump again. "In any event, daylight might shed some light on what happened here tonight."

      
"I doubt it," Brenna muttered.

      
He gave her a quick grin, that dark expression he'd so perfected. "You know what? So do I. But we've got to look."

      
"We?" she said, lowering her head to give him an even stare from beneath her brows.

      
Blue met blue. "Or not. Your call."

      
She fiddled with the end of her braid, considering. She knew this property. She knew what was out of place from day to day, and she'd grown up playing trailing games. She didn't know what he thought he could add to that.

      
Just being there, maybe. In case she didn't want to mourn her dog alone.

      
But no, he had an interest here. He wanted to know as badly as she, for all he was willing to walk out and leave her to it.

      
"You said you wanted to work with Druid," he offered. "This would be a chance to do that."

      
"I thought you said you were busy tomorrow."

      
"I am. Sometimes I change my priorities. But you need to make up your mind now, because I've got calls to make if you want to do it."

      
Work with Druid. Have someone else there as she scoured the yard for signs of Sunny or of Sunny's flight. And did she
really
want to be alone if she found anything? She stuffed her braid into her back pocket and gave him a nod. "Okay then. It's supposed to rain, though."

      
"Drizzle. And I won't melt. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not made of sugar."

      
"Actually," she said, feeling some of her strength come back now that the morrow didn't loom so empty before her, "I
had
noticed."

      
"Just as well," he said. "It won't come as any great shock later on." And his grin this time was genuine if self-knowing. He turned off the water, shook off his hands, and made a visible decision not to use the towel hanging off the stove. "Call me when you're up and ready to go. I'll be there."

      
That was it? He had arrived suddenly, swooping in to survey the wreckage, and just as suddenly he was going? And then she'd be alone, with Sunny's collar in the sink and her hand throbbing and her grief lurking.

      
Well, she'd said it. She could take care of herself. "I'm an early riser," she said.

      
"Fine by me." But he hesitated by the door, his hand on the knob, his gaze first on the sink, then on Druid, then on her. And this time, she knew what she looked like. "Listen," he said. "Do you have someone you can call, so you're not alone tonight? Family?"

      
She snorted without even thinking about it. Call who, her mother? Rhona Fallon was already firmly convinced that her daughter couldn't handle the life she'd chosen. Or Russell? Then she'd get to hear about his latest success and hey, at least it had only been a
dog
, lost in the night. No, better to be here by herself, even if it meant tears in a quiet house, or dreading the return of the horrifying darkness that had somehow descended upon her and Druid both.