A welcome invitationâ¦
âMy place?â she asked.
Sweet cinnamon bear, full of humor and fire and strength. âAny place you like,â he said, rumbling low.
She didnât respond as she headed toward the parking lot, a ragged asphalt patch crammed full of cars in what had become true dusk. She looked over her shoulder, found him watching her and smiledâand she didnât wait. Not playing games, just matter-of-fact check yes or no.
Ruger took a deep breath of the night air, found it scented with leftover heat and sage and creosote. It tasted like anticipation. The hair on his nape bristled, a tingle on his skin.
He followed her.
DORANNA DURGIN spent her childhood filling notebooks first with stories and art, and then with novels. After obtaining a degree in wildlife illustration and environmental education, she spent a number of years deep in the Appalachian Mountains. When she emerged, it was as a writer who found herself irrevocably tied to the natural world and its creaturesâand with a new touchstone to the rugged spirit that helped settle the area and which she instills in her characters.
Dorannaâs first fantasy novel received the 1995 Compton Crook/Stephen Tall Award for best first book in the fantasy, science-fiction and horror genres; she now has fifteen novels of eclectic genres, including paranormal romance, on the shelves. When sheâs not writing, Doranna builds webpages, enjoys photography and works with horses and dogs. You can find a complete list of her titles at www.doranna.net.
If a bearâ¦
Like Ruger hadnât heard all the jokes. Bear, woods, yeah, yeah, yeah.
But he wasnât alone. From where he stood among a small patch of trees, heâd looked down on the unexpected plaids and bagpipes and sporrans and kneesocks, smelled the scents of whisky and wool in the cooling air, and heard a pipe-and-drum band squalling up into full sound over all.
And heâd looked down on this woman.
If a bear finds another bear in the park during a Celtic festival, does anyone notice?
He sure did. And so did she.
She stood outside the whisky-tasting tent with its miniscule cups of tasting whisky. If any of the humans standing near her had a clue, they would have treated her with more respect. They wouldnât have casually bumped into her on the way to the open tent flapâor failed to see the strength in her short houri form, the beauty of nut-brown skin and black hair and smoky eyes.
She smiled faintly at Ruger and lifted her tiny plastic cup of honey-gold liquid in a quiet salute. Ruger lifted his chin in a subtle salute to the lady bear and eased back into the trees of the hillânot quite ready to give up his woods, thin as they might be.
If a bearâ¦
Especially a Sentinel shifter bear looking for quiet the night before a field assignment in the continuing fight against the Atrum Core. One trying to pretend that he wasnât quite himself, still recovering from what hadnât killed him, but had maybe killed who he was and had always been.
Healer.
Never mind the Atrum Core ambush that had put Ruger out of action for months. The bite of Flagstaffâs night air, their team gathered in the hotel parking lot where the Atrum Core had been seen, Maksâ hand pushing against the hotel door, their trackerâs cry of warningâ
The astonishing flash of stinking, corrupted Core energy blooming from the room to take the team down.
Rugerâs bruises had healed long before heâd woken from the induced coma. And theoretically, his singed senses were, in fact, recovered.
Theoretically. He could sit up here on the crest, thin, gritty soil beneath the seat of his jeans, and he could feel the accumulated ills and ails of the festivities below. He just couldnât do anything about them.
A woman on chemotherapy, smiling brightly to a friend. And there, a middle-aged man whose lungs sat heavy in his chest, and on the far side of the festival, amidst children clustered at a game under the mercury lights, was a youngster with sickness lurking in his bones. Ruger couldnât see himâeven a Sentinelâs night vision had its limitsâbut he could feel it well enough.
On a normal night, he could ease the manâs breathing, offer the woman energy, andâ
No, the child was what he was.
On a normal nightâ¦
Ruger closed his eyes, absorbing the taste and feel of the ailments and knowingâknowingâhe could help. Knowing that if he channeled the healing energies that had once come so readily to him, he couldâ¦
Sootheâ¦
Easeâ¦
Mendâ¦
He reached, and found nothing. He reached deeper, and found only a deeper nothing, a profound and echoing inner darkness.
Deeperâ
The pain came on with the inexorable nature of a gripping vise, increasing to sharp retribution in an indefinable instant. Ruger grunted with the impact, momentarily stunned by it.