Sentinels: Leopard Enchanted. Doranna Durgin
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into satisfaction.
After all, she had invoked the amulet. She was spending time with Scott. He might sicken first, but ultimately she faced death right along with him. And she had no idea it would come at her own hand.
* * *
“Aspirin, yes. Ibuprofen or acetaminophen, no.” Ruger’s deep voice rumbled over Ian’s phone. Southwest Brevis’s skilled, no-nonsense healer was a man who took the bear in his other form—bigger than most, rumblier than most. “Keep ’em drinking—and put a drop of lemon oil in their water. Not the stuff under the sink for the furniture.”
“Not the furniture polish,” Ian repeated, amused in spite of the circumstances. He rounded the breakfast bar where he’d been taking notes, and opened Fernie’s remedy cabinet.
“You’d be surprised,” Ruger muttered. “Look, every once in a while something like this comes along—it sweeps through a bunch of us and goes on its way, showing up mainly in the light-bloods. Stick with common sense, and in a few days it’ll be history. Besides, it’ll take your mind off those silent amulets.”
“Does everyone know I’ve been sent up here to turn my brain off?”
Ruger made a rumbling noise of amusement. “Who do you suppose talked to Nick about prying you out of that laboratory for a while, little leopard?”
Ian made his own throat noise, and it wasn’t amusement.
Ruger laughed outright. “Never mind. We’ll talk about that later. Meanwhile, you’re not affected by this thing?”
Ian hesitated, thinking of the previous evening, not quite ready to admit vulnerability when he’d spent so much effort of late telling everyone he was fine, dammit. But then he’d hesitated too long, so he shrugged as he reached into the cabinet for the lemon oil. “Last night,” he said, tapping the little bottle against the counter in a clinking percussive accompaniment. “Helluva headache. Today, a little...yeah, hungover. Nothing more.”
“Sounds about right,” Ruger said. “Take the aspirin. Drink the fluids. Don’t get in over your head with activities.”
Ian snorted. “Now you sound like Fernie.”
“And,” Ruger said as if Ian hadn’t spoken, “call me if things don’t get better over the next day.”
Ian heard the serious note behind that directive. “Got it.”
“In fact, just call me. Tomorrow. I want to know how this thing is going, in case you’re not the only ones.” When Ian hesitated again, Ruger offered no leeway. “You’re not up there to get distracted by your work. Call me.”
Ian didn’t quite mean to mutter, “It’s not work that’s distracting me.”
Ruger laughed again. “Well, then,” he said. “Tell her hello, and look no further for the source of your little virus.”
“I only met her two days ago,” Ian grumbled. “Hardly even that.”
“That’s all it takes, with the right virus.” Ruger sounded altogether too cheerful. “It happens, you know. Even with us.” He gave Ian a quick list of other remedies they might find useful and that Fernie was likely to have on hand, including a recent batch of Ruger’s own tonic. “But don’t pull that one out unless things are getting bad. You’ll have the whole house bouncing off the walls. Of course,” he added, humor back in his voice, “you do that as a matter of course, so who’s to tell the difference.”
“Ha,” Ian said. “And ha.” And managed to mutter a promise to make that update call before he hung up.
But when he turned to face the kitchen, he couldn’t be quite as sanguine as Ruger—a man who had good reason to be cheerful, with his love Mariska newly pregnant. Another reason not to draw him up here. Mariska was also bear, small and fierce, and floundering a little in her new role as pending mother.
But Ian had arrived to find the place cluttered with an unprecedented number of dishes and no other evidence of the other retreat residents. A quick look around had revealed them all to be sleeping, and he’d left them that way, choosing to clean up and call Ruger before he disturbed Fernie.
Now he brewed her a quick cup of her favorite soother tea and added the lemon to it...and then hesitated and made one for himself, gulping an aspirin before he rummaged up one of yesterday’s muffins to add to her tray.
Unlike Ian’s room—a bedroom off the back of this quirky, open air home with its half-basement warren of little rooms and its common spaces—Fernie lived in a tiny little casita attached to the home but separate of it, just barely within the enclosed courtyard. Her own tiny kitchen, bathroom and bedroom—and a place into which Ian had never ventured, because it was quite obviously Fernie’s territory. Full of Southwest color and wrought iron and photos of a family grown and scattered across three brevis regions.
But he’d stood in the doorway, and that’s what he did now—knocking on the door until he heard the rustle of sheets and a sound of quiet dismay through a window that habitually remained cracked during the cold nights and warming days.
“It’s me, Fernie,” he said, cracking the door open. “I brought some tea. And one of your muffins. And I’ve talked to Ruger. So that means either I come in there with this tea or you come out, because...you know. Ruger said.”
“Come in,” she said, her voice a little ragged but perfectly alert. And then, practically before he’d crossed the threshold, “How are you? What about the others?”
He entered the bedroom bearing the tray like an offering, relieved to see that although he’d clearly woken her, her gaze was sharp enough and her expression alert. “I haven’t checked yet. I’m triaging, and you’re the important one.”
“And you?” she said, tucking the covers around her plump waist so he could settle the tray into place. Her graying hair hung over her shoulder in a long, simple braid, and age had settled into her plain, welcoming features overnight. “You didn’t look good last night, and you don’t look good now—and of all of us, you must stay well.”
“I’m—” He started to say he was fine, but didn’t finish. He wasn’t. The headache had returned, settling in behind his eyes. “Ruger says this should pass quickly—just some atypical virus. He didn’t sound concerned. I took notes about the remedies that might help.”
She’d taken a sip of her tea, and nodded. “The lemon is always good. But I need to know that you heard me. We’re counting on you.”
A stab of pain caught him behind one eye, and he winced, rubbing it. Fernie didn’t fail to note it. “And if this isn’t just some virus?”
He stared at her as if he’d suddenly forgotten how to think. Maybe he had.
“Ian,” she said, buttering her muffin with quick, impatient movement, “I’ve been managing this retreat since my Manny passed. He had no Sentinel blood at all, you know. So I know what a virus looks like, and I also know what it looks like when we light-bloods get hit with one. You think this would be the first time?”
Ian pulled her robe off the back of a wooden chair and draped it over her footboard so he could flip the chair around and straddle it. “And this doesn’t look right to you?”
She lifted one shoulder, sipping tea. “It doesn’t look familiar. Even here, we don’t take things for granted.”
He thought about the working he’d felt at the overlook, the mere ripple of corruption in the air. It hadn’t been a thing of significance—a passive detection spell, unless he missed his mark, and he wasn’t that far off his game. And members of the Core were everywhere, just as the Sentinels were. Clustered, yes, but always with plenty of individuals moving freely between.
“I see I’ve got you considering it, at least.”
“I’ll