Sentinels: Kodiak Chained. Doranna Durgin
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them, though there was no structure evident. “There,” he said, and crouched—started to, at least, until the one leg buckled, and he put his knee on the ground with the compensatory grace inherent in all the big cat Sentinels. “The bunker.”
The ground dipped halfway down the ridge and rose even higher on the other side; otherwise, it was unremarkable. Just a rocky little swale covered in stubby, twisted scrub oak and the ancient skeleton of another fallen tree.
But Mariska wasn’t going to be the first one to say there wasn’t anything there. Instead, she moved into position beside Ruger, turning her senses to their surroundings—even if that meant no more than noting the pine siskins fweeting overhead and a singular squirrel rustling around in the pine needles some hundred feet away. The local energies were quiet—no scent of Core amulet corruption, everyone’s personal shields drawn tight. Maks’ was the loudest of those, his shields so much stronger than she ever would have expected, even knowing of his personal strengths.
“Ah,” Ian said suddenly. “I see it now. How the hell did you ever find it?”
“It stinks of Forakkes,” Maks said, and his voice was no longer casual at all. “And others, once close.”
And still Mariska didn’t see it—not until she quit searching the details and instead looked at the little swale as a whole. The slight convex curve of the ground, the occasional hard-edged shadow, immune to the sway of the breeze. This time she couldn’t stop herself. “How—”
How had he buried this structure, and left so little sign of it on the surrounding environment?
“It’s been there a long time,” Ian said, with no trouble following her line of thought.
“The old logging activity would have been a perfect cover for its construction,” Jeckle observed. “The question is, how do we get in?”
“In the rocks across from us,” Maks said. “I didn’t try it.”
“Smart,” Ian said again. He glanced back to Heckle and Jeckle. “Let’s drift on over there, boys. Stay quiet on your feet, and when I say to hang back, then damned well hang back. No one’s asking you to be field Sentinels overnight.”
Maks looked over to Ruger. “Don’t underestimate him,” he said. “Forakkes. He is a man without soul.”
“I know what he did,” Ruger said grimly, and Mariska got the impression that they were alluding to something other than the events in the operation field reports—the details of Forakkes’ amulet workings from the time of Core D’oíche, including those that had caused the ultimate if inadvertent demise of the former local Core prince, the drozhar, of this area. Forakkes had gone on to create the monstrous javelina-creature Maks had battled at so great a price—and he’d nearly succeeded in his intent to kidnap and enslave Katie Maddox.
But this was something else—something grimmer and even more personal. If she hadn’t known it by Maks’ eyes, she would have heard it in Ruger’s voice.
Maks pushed off from the ground—he’d barely faltered before Ruger reached him, one strong arm steadying him the rest of the way up. Maks’ expression was more annoyance than pain, and he said to Ruger, “No matter. Katie will see to it.” Mariska was instantly caught by their easy camaraderie, by Ruger’s instant response to a teammate’s need. By herself, instantly the outsider.
She had only herself to blame for the intensity of that feeling. Jet had been the only one to confront her so directly, but they all knew Ruger had been stunned by her presence on the team—they all knew it was personal.
Maks started back down the slope, and she quickly smoothed away the little curl of envy that tightened her mouth. Ruger turned to her, his dark expression enough to warn her. “Nothing happening here for a bodyguard, you may have noticed.”
“I’m patient,” she told him.
He snorted. “I doubt the hell out of that.” He bent and scooped up his pack. “If you were patient, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t have talked your way onto this team, when Nick damned well could have used you elsewhere.”
But I wanted to work with you. And I believed in what I told Nick. “I wish we could start over,” she said abruptly, shifting her own pack. “I wish you could look at me and see whatever it was you saw in that park yesterday evening.”
He looked at her for a long moment. “So do I,” he said, and for that moment his voice was devoid of blame and bitterness, holding nothing but honesty—and maybe a touch of sadness. “Dammit, Mariska—so do I.”
Across the swale, up on the high ridge, Ian waved to them; it was enough of an invitation that Mariska tentatively made herself more receptive to sent communication, and she wasn’t surprised when she felt the tickle of his thoughts.
::We can see it,:: he said. ::We’re heading in.::
::We’ll wait,:: Ruger said, not so much as glancing to see if she agreed. ::I’m getting something from inside, though—not human, not well. I’ll try to make sense of it.::
Her resentment flared. Hello, you could have discussed this decision with me. But staying here made too much sense. Besides, if he was heading into some sort of healer mode, she could hardly move out on her own after making such a big fat bear deal about being here.
And if she was going to be honest with herself, she’d have to admit her crankiness came from resentment—from the slowly dawning awareness that she’d just plain screwed up.
::Got us a door,:: Ian said. ::Nicely integrated with the Core amulet equivalent of ice-cold water balancing in a bucket overhead. Gonna be a few minutes.::
::We’ll wait,:: Ruger said again, although this time his attention seemed divided, his gaze distant. His brow drew with concentration—with some subtle effort. “Not unwell,” he muttered, and she wasn’t sure if he spoke to her or if he just spoke. “But not right. I can’t—Hell.” He jerked as if he’d needed to catch his balance against the nonexistent movement of the ground, and Mariska put out an impulsive hand to steady him—but pulled back before he noticed, as he abruptly turned away, one palm pressing against his brow.
She gave him that physical space as he yanked a colorful bandanna from his back pocket, broad shoulders stiff.
“The brief said your healing was still affected,” she said. “It didn’t say how.”
He turned back to her, stuffing the bandanna away. “Does it matter?”
“I don’t know,” she told him. “Does it?”
He glared at her a long moment, then muttered a curse—a capitulation of sorts, if not a happy one. “Affected,” he said, “is a euphemism for can’t.”
It shocked her more than she expected. “At all? But I thought—”
He shook his head, a vicious motion that cut her off short. “Can’t,” he repeated. “I can still feel the wrongness of things—like in there.” He jerked his head at the obscured bunker. “But I can’t heal it. I can’t touch those energies any longer, never mind guide them.”
“But you’re—” They were thoughtless words, and she stopped herself just in time. You’re Ruger. The bear who heals—and who does it better than anyone else in the field. The one who needs backup just because he’s too important to risk, never mind that no one should have to do those two things at once.
She might as well not have bothered. He clearly understood the direction of her thoughts. “Not anymore,” he told her. “I’m here to analyze, that’s all.”
“I don’t understand.” She didn’t, and it troubled her; she didn’t bother to hide it. “Then why would Nick give me the impression you’d take the healer’s role—that you’d need me?”
Ruger snorted; it was