Alaskan Fire (42 page)

Jack eyed the trash nervously.  He
licked his lips.  “Wait…”

Blaze hesitated.  “Oh?  You want
the diaper, then?”

Jack’s face flushed crimson and
he muttered something about Yetis and Clydesdales.

“Fine,” Blaze said, going back to
working his limp legs through the pants.

He kept casting nervous looks at
the jeans, then at the box of adult incontinence products.  Finally, he grabbed
the waistband of the jeans, stopping her from working it further up his
thighs.  He muttered something softly under his breath.

“Oh
what now
?” Blaze
cried, standing up to glare at him.

“Diaper,” Jack grated.

“Sorry?” Blaze asked, grinning. 
“I don’t think I heard you correctly.  Did you say you wanted me to swaddle
your ass?”

“Give me the damn diaper, wench!”
Jack snarled, hair prickling through his emaciated back. 

Chuckling, Blaze went to the
trash, retrieved the incontinence wraps, and proceeded to pull one free of the
packaging.  Then, holding it up to the light, she gave it a long, curious
inspection.  “Awww,” she said, “It’s almost like a pair of Huggies.  For big
people.”  Then she grinned, noting the pink color.  “Guess I should’ve stated
‘boy’ adult incontinence products, eh?”

“Fine!” Jack growled, his face
purpling.  “Throw it away.  I don’t need it.”

Ignoring him, Blaze bent over
him, diaper in hand.  “Push up,” she ordered, sliding one half of the diaper
under his rear.

Reluctantly, Jack obeyed, pushing
down with his fists, lifting his butt awkwardly off of the ground.  Blaze
tucked it in place and cinched it down with the adhesive straps.  Then she
stood up, admiring her handiwork.  “You know,” she said, “I should get a
camera.  You look absolutely adorable in pink.”

Jack hunched over like an angry
weasel, glaring up at her.  “I’ll remember this, when I’m back on my feet, Yeti
wench.”

“Uh-huh,” Blaze said.  “Until
then…”  She reached down, finished tugging on his pants, and then lifted him
into the wheelchair.  “Here’s your shirt.”  She tossed it to him.

Glaring, Jack put his skinny arms
through the sleeves, then flinched and looked down at the way it hung from his
bony body.  “This can’t be happening,” he whined.

“What?” Blaze asked, “I pick the
wrong color plaid?”

“I’m a blacksmith,” Jack growled,
holding up a scrawny arm.  “
Look
at me.”

“So you got some filling out to
do,” Blaze said.  She shrugged.  “It’ll come back.”

He peered up at her, long and
hard.  “Did you cry for me, Blaze?”

She flinched from the suddenness
and oddness of his question.  “Uh…”  She remembered the coma, remembered waking
up alone, not knowing how many days had passed until she switched her phone
on.  “Kind of…” she admitted.

Jack lowered his head to look at
his legs.  “Hard?” he asked softly.

“Pretty hard,” Blaze managed.

Jack twisted to look up at her. 
Tentatively, he whispered, “Think you might cry for me again anytime soon?”

Blaze snorted.  “Not if I can
help it.”

Jack jerked like she’d hit him. 
“Why the fuck not?”

“Why
should
I?” Blaze
demanded.  “You’re fine now.  Don’t need me going and putting myself in a coma
again for no damn good reason, do we?”

Jack’s hackles went up.  “What,
I’m not worth a good cry?”

The self-loving, egotistical
prick.  Blaze laughed at him.  Jabbing a finger into his chest she said, “Not
on your
life
, you asshole.  You’ve been such a pain in my ass…hell,
after you
asking
me to, I doubt I
could
cry for you, even if I
wanted to.  Go take your crippled ass somewhere else to wallow in your
self-pity.  I won’t have any more part of it.”

Jack stared at her, mouth
slightly ajar, looking deeply wounded.  Before Blaze could figure out what she
had done wrong, the wereverine closed his mouth and, glaring at her, turned
suddenly and started wheeling himself out of the room in a huff.  His wheel got
caught on the door-jamb and he cursed.  Before Blaze could move to help him, he
had violently shoved himself off of the door and scooted away, snarling at her
to keep her distance.

“What’s wrong?” Blaze called
after him, confused.

The wereverine turned a corner
and a door slammed.

Almost a week went by with Jack
scooting around the basement in his wheelchair, muttering and cranky, and Blaze
having absolutely nothing she could do to cheer him up.  She toted all of her
guns and silver upstairs the first day, which was a good thing, because one of
the first things he did, once she left the house to tend the livestock, was go
looking for them.  When she came back, her room was a mess and Jack was
glowering at her from a pile of clothes, where he had fallen out of his chair. 
Sighing, Blaze scooped him back into his chair and once again sent him on his
way, grateful for the few added pounds of weight he had gained in the interim.

Yet neither his legs—nor his
incontinence—seemed to get any better.

The longer he was in the
wheelchair, the more grumpy the wereverine became, until it was a dreaded chore
just to take dinner downstairs and eat with him each night.  More than half the
time, it ended with Blaze getting frustrated and storming off—or Jack throwing
his plate across the room. 

Jack began to complain about
everything, from the way she cooked to the way she wiped his ass.  He insulted
the weather, he insulted her, he insulted the clothes she’d picked out for
him.  His entire life, trapped within the basement of the lodge, seemed to
become a mission to see how miserable he could make Blaze’s life.  He griped
and puttered around the bottom story of the Sleeping Lady like a bitter old nursing-home
fart who’d lost the will to live, but couldn’t get his pesky heart to
cooperate.

“That’s
it
,” Blaze finally
growled, after the second week of Jack’s deteriorating mood.  She grabbed the
wereverine by the back of the wheelchair in the middle of yet another
griping-puttering mission, twisted him around, and started for the back porch.

“Now hold on there, Yeti wench,”
the wereverine growled, trying to slow the chair.  In the last fourteen days, ‘Yeti
wench’ had been a more common term than her name, used with loving care in such
sentences as, ‘My bath is cold, Yeti wench,’ or ‘We’re out of firewood, Yeti
wench,’ or ‘So where does a Yeti wench like you learn how to cook?  ‘Cause that
last meal tasted more like charcoal than duck.’

Blaze ignored him and kept
pushing the wheelchair towards the back door.  “You,” she said sweetly, “Are
going to start making this place cripple-accessible.”  She gave him a little
shove through the door, stopping him just before he flew off the back porch. 
“I’m tired of your griping about not being able to do anything.”

Jack swiveled to glare up at her,
his animal growl once again rattling in his chest.

“Here,” Blaze said, reaching
beside the door to grab the supplies she had collected.  She dropped a hammer,
a box of nails, and some boards into his lap.  “First order of business is
gonna be for you to make me a ramp.”

Jack squinted at her, and for the
longest time it looked like he was going to tell her to get lost.  Then,
tentatively, he said, “A ramp?”

“You want to leave the lodge? 
Then make yourself a way to do it.”  She gestured at his chair. 

Jack peered down at the tools in
his lap, then gave the back porch a dubious look. 

Then Blaze raised a brow. 
“Unless you don’t think you can…?”

Jack bristled again.  “I’m going
to need some ten-foot two-by-sixes, a level, a planer, a sander, tape measure,
pencil, paper, skillsaw, and lunch, Yeti wench.”

“Okay,” Blaze said, fighting down
a surge of excitement that he seemed to be interested in something again.  Then
she hesitated.  “What’s a planer?”

Nose in the air, with all the
delicacy of a carpenter detailing his trade to a very retarded dog, he
explained it to her.  And she went and got it for him, along with everything
else on his list.  Then Blaze allowed him to direct her as she got everything
situated where he wanted it, then helped the wereverine down out of his chair,
to sit on the ground, propped up by the porch. 

After settling in, Jack picked up
boards and started measuring and sorting them.  Blaze watched for a few minutes,
feeling like a nervous hen, but the wereverine had seemed to forget she
existed.

Runt came up to stand beside her,
the soft black fluff of a baby Silver Fox rabbit in his hands.  He petted the
bunny with a distracted air, frowning as they watched the wereverine grumble
and mutter over his project.  “Are you sure he’s capable of building anything in
his condition, Lady?” the fey finally said. 

“I’m sure,” Blaze said, though
once Jack started casually busting out the beautiful hardwood railing and
flinging the debris haphazardly across the yard, she found she had to go do
something else before she thought about yet another part of her lodge that the
wereverine was breaking.

Getting the wereverine to build
himself a ramp, it turned out, was a mistake. 

Now, instead of being restricted
to the basement, he was free to gripe and complain all over the property, and
did so with great enthusiasm. 

At least,
she thought,
watching him weld a piece of steel to his 4-wheeler that enabled it to be shifted
by hand, as opposed to by foot,
He’s being a
productive
asshole, now.
 
She went back to gathering eggs from the chicken coop.

* * *

Jack was propped up beside the
4-wheeler, welder in hand, when he saw the pale, naked form limp around the
back of the shop.  It was just for an instant before the main body was hidden
by the little Jeep he had pulled out of the woods and gotten running the day
before, leaving only the ghostly white calves and feet visible under the car. 
He frowned and pushed his welding mask out of the way, trying to get a better
look around the 4-wheeler and other equipment blocking his view.

Finally lowering himself almost
level with the dirt to look beyond the 4-wheeler’s undercarriage, Jack managed
to catch another glimpse of the naked ankles.  And, now that he thought about
it, they had an odd color to them, almost grayish.  The odd, stilted shuffle
set the little hairs along the back of his neck on end.

And, like a blow, the wind
carried with it the sudden stench of rot. 
Horus be merciful,
Jack
thought, scooting away hastily.  Even though Jack had made no efforts to be
quiet, he watched the bare feet continue their shuffle towards the far side of
the yard, their goal elsewhere.

Jack, frowning, wedged himself up
to see what the creature was aiming at.

Across the yard, Blaze stood with
her back to him, picking eggs from the additional coop that they’d had to build
to support her growing flock.

Examining the creature’s
trajectory, Jack heart began to hammer. 

Then, as the corpse of the last
woman he had ever loved lurched into sight around the 4-wheeler, his heart
stopped altogether.

* * *

Blaze placed the last egg into
her basket, leaving the two broody Australorp hens to hatch their clutch, then
turned to head back to the lodge.  Jack was probably getting hungry again—ever
since he’d started carpentry and mechanicking again, he had been needing a
constant supply of food—and she wouldn’t have minded a quick lunch herself.  As
for the Second Lander, Jack’s first analysis that all fey had an extreme case
of A.D.D. seemed to be pretty accurate.  Runt was gone again—doubtless with a rabbit,
gosling or some other form of small, cuddly animal—and probably wouldn’t have
wanted eggs, anyway.  As far as Blaze had seen, the little imp ate only fruit,
berries, and herbs.

…and her hot peppers. 
All
of them.  Once the fey had gotten over the fact that they had enough heat to
blow the top off of a nuclear power plant, he had taken to eating them.  All. 
Of. Them.  Blaze had yet to catch the little bastard at it, but she hadn’t
managed to make a single spicy meal in three weeks, despite having an
overabundance of sweet peppers.

Muttering, she was closing the
fence to the yard when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.  She
turned, expecting Jack and his wheelchair.

A naked, too-pale woman was
slowing down a few feet away, her washed-out eyes fixed on Blaze’s face, her
head cocked curiously.  There was something familiar about her, something about
her face that Blaze was sure she had seen before.  Yet, whoever she was, she
was
sick.
  Blaze winced at the grayish color of her skin.

“Are you okay?” Blaze asked
softly.

The woman swallowed, rasped
something, then swallowed again.  Blaze had to resist the urge to gag at the
smell of her breath.  It was definitely the worst case of halitosis she’d ever
experienced.

“What happened to you?” Blaze
asked, panicking, now.  “You get robbed?  You need some clothes?”  She racked
her brain trying to remember where she had seen the woman before, but it kept slipping
under the surface of her mind.  She frowned. 
Why
was the woman giving
her such goosebumps?  In the distance, she heard Jack start the 4-wheeler, and
found herself irritated that the self-absorbed prick hadn’t tried to help the
woman.

The gray-skinned woman worked her
throat again, and the rasp that came out resembled something akin to, “I need…blaze.”

“A fire?” Blaze asked, glancing
at the house.  “We’ve got a wood stove.  Come on.”  She turned to head into the
lodge.

The woman’s hand was like ice
when it grabbed her wrist.  “I need…blaze.  Are you…her?”

Blaze was surprised at the
strength in the woman’s hand.  The woman couldn’t have been more than
five-five, but with a single hand, she had stopped her, dead in her tracks. 
“I’m Blaze,” she said, frowning.

In that moment, the woman’s face
began to morph, stretching and elongating into a roughly ursine form. 

A
dead
ursine.

The woman’s fur sprang forth in
scabby patches, the flesh began to fall off in clumps, and the woman’s slitted
pupil was distorted beyond glowing white cataracts.  The smell of rot was so
strong that Blaze’s stomach heaved. 

“Told…kill…Blaze,” the creature
said, as the hypodermic teeth slid from the top of her jaw, ripping flesh loose
from the roof of her mouth, producing no blood when they punctured the skin. 

Blaze dropped the basket of eggs
and tried to step back, but the woman’s grip was like iron.  It was like a
cold, clammy vice, and no amount of twisting would allow Blaze to so much as
wiggle her arm. 

“Told…kill…Blaze,” the creature
said again, as its toothy jaws stretched wide, snake-like, and tilted to the
side, reaching for Blaze’s throat.

A 4-wheeler slammed into the
creature from the side, knocking it to the ground under a tire, violently
tearing it away from Blaze’s arm.

Blaze looked down at the gashes
left in her wrist by the woman’s talons, then quickly wrapped her hand around
it, seeing the blood spurt to the ground.  Heart hammering, she backed away.

Jack had slid off of the
4-wheeler and crawled over to the dead woman, who threw the machine off of her
with a roar.  It went tumbling across the yard like a toy.  Even then, she was
getting back to her feet, her gaze once more fixing on Blaze.  The creature
took a step forward…

Then screamed as Jack’s axe took
off her right foot at the ankle.  The wereverine was transformed, his hackles
puffing out his shirt, his face stretched in a wolverine’s fanged grimace.  He
swung again, but this time his axe only embedded itself in the bone of her leg,
and as he was trying to wrench it free, the woman turned on him.

“Jack?”  The low, fleshy rasp was
just barely audible through her death-blackened teeth.  Instantly, the woman’s
animal features slid away, leaving ripped and puckered skin.  Her face, twisted
out of proportion by the wereverine’s snout, was only half in place, the rest
sliding downward, revealing white bone around her cheek and eye-socket.  “Is
that you, Jack?”

Jack hesitated, his shoulders
tensing as he stared at the axe bit, buried in the woman’s unbleeding leg.  A
low rattle building in his chest, he yanked the axe free.

“They told me you were dead,
Jack,” the dead woman rasped, as she fell to one knee in front of him.  She
stretched out a grisly hand.

Jack swung again, catching the
woman in the arm as she reached for him, taking it off.

If the woman noticed or cared,
she made no indication.  She seemed enraptured with the paralyzed wereverine. 
“I waited for you to come, Jack.  I spent a month down there in that hole,
waiting.  I thought I would never see you again.”

Jack slammed the axe into her
knee, breaking it sideways, cutting through the rotten joint.

She fell to her hands and knees. 
“I was scared, Jack.  I thought I was going to die down there.” 

Jack cut off a wrist.  Then
another.  The woman tried to get up, clumsy, then noticed the axe in his hands,
her stumps of wrists.  Her delicate face tightened in a frown.  “Jack?” she
asked, looking up at him, confused.

Jack started screaming as he
worked the blade, slamming it into the creature’s flesh, ripping it apart,
piece by piece.

When at last the body was in a
hundred unmoving pieces, Jack let out a wretched bellow, threw the axe aside, rolled
away, and cried.  Blaze watched his shoulders shake, looked down at the reeking
corpse, and remembered where she had seen that face before.  She stumbled
backwards, horrified.

Amber had…
resurrected
her?

Looking at the pile of bones and
putrefied flesh, the air clogged with the stench of decay, Blaze’s stomach
heaved again, and this time, she wasn’t able to hold it down.  She vomited into
the grass, still holding her hand tight over her injured wrist.

As she sat there, staring at the
wereverine and his former mate, suddenly, Jack’s proclamation that she wasn’t a
warrior felt a thousand times more accurate.  Blaze bit her lip out of shame.  Throughout
it all, she hadn’t even thought to use her Desert Eagles.