Sentinels: Kodiak Chained. Doranna Durgin
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under feral paws.
Now he was dog, and yet more. He saw more, heard more, comprehended more… but understood nothing.
He sat in the cage that had once easily held him, but now required lock and key. The cage sat in a vast and unnatural underground space, the ceiling arching overhead and sly sky tubes bringing in enhanced sunlight to turn darkness into an illuminated artificial cave. At night there were fake lights, driven by a thing called solar power.
Human things surrounded him—a stack of crates and cages, a dissection table, a long wall full of things electrical and whirring. To the far end, the men slept in cots; beside that section, Ehwoord had his own den. There was a tiny place where the humans snatched food, and a tiny toilet closet. Crammed beside this stood a black, molded chest with a lid and drawers and foam, and it held shiny metal weapons that stunk of oil and acrid powder, and none of the men touched it at all.
Ehwoord’s places were brightly lit at all times. No one would guess at the man’s importance otherwise. He was of advanced years and weakened body, although it seemed to Ciobaka that Ehwoord grew strangely straighter with the passing days, his sparse hair thickening, his lines softening, his voice growing sharper even as his temper grew more erratic.
Ehwoord fussed endlessly with metal disks and leather thongs, and he captured and caged many small creatures with thin crunchy bones and juicy meat. He didn’t eat them, as only made sense; he changed them—and changed them again.
“Ehwoooor,” Ciobaka said, as much as lips and tongue would allow. “Wahwaaaah.”
One of Ehwoord’s subordinates—Tarras—smacked the metal bars of Ciobaka’s enclosure with a baton. Ciobaka snarled horribly; the man flinched.
“Tarras,” Ehwoord said, his voice tight as he barely glanced aside from his current scratching notations, “don’t annoy Ciobaka. Ciobaka, don’t frighten my people. And the phrase you’re looking for is want to. Not wanna and certainly not wahwah.”
Ciobaka pushed breath up toward his nasal passages. “Wahnaaa.”
“Freak,” Tarras muttered, and went back to the task of cleaning small animal cages. Like Ehwoord’s other subordinates, he had swarthy skin tones, dark hair pulled back into a short club at his nape, and shining silver pieces at his ears and neck.
“An improvement,” Ehwoord said of Ciobaka’s enunciation. “But you nonetheless may not have this gopher. He and his little friends are doing me a great service with their deaths.”
“Toopit,” Ciobaka said with some disgust. He flattened his dingo-like ears, his lips pulled back at the corners in canine disapproval.
Ehwoord gave him a sharp glance. “You will not think so if my success with them spares you.”
Tarras reached for the prey food pellets. He picked up the pellet scoop and said, “I liked the thought of surprising those Sentinel bastards with your workings to change our forms. This, I don’t get.”
Ehwoord’s voice grew very tight for that moment. “Finalizing that working under these crude conditions has proven impossible. At this moment, what we need is redemption in the eyes of the Septs Prince—he who holds sway over all our regional drozhars.” He smiled gently, an expression Ciobaka found even more frightening. “Once he’s captivated by our success, our positions will be secure. And I’m sure he’ll agree—if we can’t have Sentinel powers, then neither will they.”
Chapter 3
I don’t need her there. I don’t want her there.
Mariska shouldn’t have lingered at Nick’s office, reorienting to the elevator and the quietly classy earth tones of the hallway. No, she shouldn’t have lingered at all. Not when her hearing was as acute as any Sentinel’s.
Apparently, she’d somehow fooled herself into hoping that Ruger would understand.
Silly bear that she was.
It had all made sense when she’d spoken to Nick about the assignment, twelve hours before she’d even gotten close to Ruger. No doubt she should have said something when she’d found him at the park… but the moment had been so perfect, the opportunity so rare, the man so engaging…
Well, so be it. She’d take the elevator down to the gear room to augment her own minimalist duffel—a couple of high-power stun guns, a collapsible baton, a blackjack… everything it took to manage Atrum Core goons without leaving bodies behind.
When it came time to leave bodies, she had only to call on her bear.
Not that the Core played fair. They carried guns and they carried amulets, and they pretended they were only protecting the world from Sentinels run amok with their own prowess—the connection to the earth that had given their druid ancestors the ability to shift form, and then further specialties besides. Healers, like Ruger. Trackers and warding specialists and earth power wranglers.
Mariska had none of that. She was strong and able, a powerhouse packed into a curvy little body. And she continued in the tradition that had started two thousand years earlier, when that first shape-shifting druid had faced his fratricidal half-Roman brother—a man who had then founded his Atrum Core clan, so intent on stealing power and influence that they’d only helped shape the Sentinels into what they were today—strong, confident protectors.
What did you expect from me? The thought held a bitterness she’d felt more and more often in recent days. Take a bear shifter, train her in that tradition, keep her just a little bit bored and a whole lot eager, and then turn her loose in front of opportunity?
“What did you expect?” she muttered, out loud this time, as she gave the elevator call button an unnecessarily savage punch. The little plastic cover made a faint cracking noise. Well, hell. She needed the activity, anyway. She’d take the stairs.
“You smell like Ruger.” The voice came so close, so unexpected, that Mariska startled away from the elevator.
Jet. Of course. Only wolf-borne Jet could take a Sentinel unaware. Not that Mariska had been at her best, so full of introspection and unexpected emotions. She put on her calmest face, casting Jet a glance. “Is that polite?”
Jet paused to think about it, wild whisky eyes beneath black hair, feral features unbothered by the implied criticism. “Is it not polite?”
A little off balance all over again, Mariska said, “It’s private.”
“Private is a thing that others can’t perceive,” Jet pointed out. “The scent of Ruger is an obvious thing.”
“You’re supposed to pretend,” Mariska muttered, taking a step for the stairs, uncertain how this woman fit into the hierarchy of Southwest Brevis—other than being more wolf than anyone, other than providing invaluable insight to the Core… other than being Nick’s chosen.
“Pretend what?” Jet tilted her head slightly; her posture changed, ever so subtly, and Mariska froze, seeing the threat behind it.
Mariska knew the rules about taking her bear here in the hallways of brevis. She wasn’t so sure about Jet.
“Pretend you weren’t lovers?” Jet asked, with no apparent self-consciousness at all. “Pretend you didn’t share that part of yourself with him, before you came in here this morning to hurt him so?”
“I’m doing what I think is best,” Mariska said, irritation rising. She hadn’t understood, until she’d seen that look in Ruger’s eyes, that her presence would do more than annoy him. That it would undermine him—and it would do so in front of his team. But her reasons for doing it? Still sound. Still important. “For both brevis and Ruger.”
“And for you.”
Mariska felt her eyes narrow. “You were right at the head of the line when they handed out blunt, weren’t you?”