The Pagan Stone Page 0,37

on the blood-stained grass. "I've never killed anything before. Clay pigeons, targets, shooting gallery bears. But I never put bullets into a living thing."

"If you hadn't, I might be dead. That dog weighs a good eighty pounds, mostly muscle, and it was shithouse crazy."

"It has a collar, tags." Steeling herself, she crossed the lawn, crouched. "An up-to-date rabies tag. It wasn't rabid, Gage, not in the usual sense. But I guess we both knew that."

She straightened when Gage limped over to join her. "What do we do now?" she asked him.

"We bury it."

"But... Gage, this was someone's dog. This wasn't a stray, he belonged to someone. They must be looking for him."

"Getting him back dead isn't going to help. Trying to explain why you put four bullets in a household pet-one who won't show rabies on any test-isn't going to help." Gage gripped her shoulders, fingers digging in for emphasis. "This is a goddamn war, do you understand? One we've been fighting a long time. More than dogs die, Cybil, so you're going to have to man up. Telling some kid that Fido won't be home for dinner because a demon infected him isn't on the boards. We bury it, we move on."

"It must help not to have any feelings, any guilt or remorse."

"That's right, it does. Go home. We're done for the day."

"Where are you going?" she demanded when he turned away.

"To get a damn shovel."

Gritting her teeth, she marched to the garden shed ahead of him, wrenched open the door.

"I said go home."

"I say go to hell; we'll see who gets where first. I put that dog down, didn't I? So I'll help bury him." She wrenched down a shovel, all but threw it at Gage before grabbing another. "And here's something else, you son of a bitch, we're not done for the day. What happened here needs to be shared with the others. Whether you like it or not you're part of a team. This whole ugly business has to be reported, documented, charted. Burying it isn't enough. It's not enough. It's not."

She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, choked back a sob as the cracks in her composure widened. When she would have pushed by him, Gage grabbed her, pulled her against him.

"Get away from me."

"Shut up. Just shut up." He held firm, ignoring her struggles, and when she gave up, gave in and clung, he held her still. "You did what you had to do," he murmured. "You did fine. You held up. Go on inside, let me finish this. You can call the others."

She leaned against him another moment. "We'll finish it. We'll bury him together. Then we'll go call the others."

Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

SHE'D ASKED QUINN TO BRING HER A CHANGE OF clothes. After the horrible business of burying the dog, Cybil was filthy, sweaty, and stained. Rather than think about what stained her pants and shirt, she simply shoved them into a plastic bag, and once she'd showered, intended to shove that into Cal 's trash.

She'd gone to pieces, she admitted as she stepped under the spray. She'd done what needed to be done, true enough, but then her shaky wall of control had broken down into emotional rubble.

So much for cool, clearheaded Cybil Kinski.

Now, if she couldn't manage cool, she could at least make a stab at the clearheaded.

Was it worse or better that she'd melted down in front of Gage? Two ways of thinking, she supposed. Worse-much-for her pride, but for the overall picture, it was best they knew what made each other tick. In order to handle their end of this successfully, knowing each other's strengths, weaknesses, and breaking points was essential.

It was a pisser she'd broken first, but she'd accept that. Eventually.

It was a tough swallow, she supposed, when she'd always perceived herself as the strong one. As the one who made the choices-the tough choices when necessary-and followed them through. Other people fell apart-her mother, her sister-but she held it together. She'd made damn sure of it.

Second swallow, she admitted, was accepting that Gage was right. A dead dog wasn't going to be the worst of it. If she couldn't handle that, she'd be useless to the others. So she'd handle it.

Bury it, as he said, and move on.

When the door opened, she felt a flash of temper along with the chilly air. "Just turn around, hotshot, and go back the way you came."

"It's Q. You okay?"

The sound of her friend's voice had tears