The little dog sneezed.
Benedict sighed. You can’t find him, can you?
I haven’t found him yet, the other corrected him testily. That is not the same thing as can’t.
Benedict stood. I’m going to hunt.
Of course you are. Maybe once you’ve filled your belly we can get back to saving your woman’s family and however many others he wants to kill.
Benedict looked at him coldly. The little one whose body you’re using needs fuel. She lacks my size and my coat, and she’s exhausted. Without food, she’ll be unable to keep going much longer. If the weather continues to grow worse, the cold and exertion could kill her.
A pause, then: You’re right. I dislike that.
Stay in the hollow I dug, out of the wind.
The mental voice was very dry. I might have thought of that myself.
Had he been in his other form, Benedict might have flushed. Embarrassing to be giving such a one advice. However annoying he might be, he was a Power . . . or some portion of one.
He started to turn away. Paused. Could you check again . . .
On your Arjenie? The terrier cocked her head. She’s fine. At least, her cousin isn’t worried about her.
Benedict turned and tried putting some weight on his right rear leg. It hurt like blazes, but the wound had closed and he could use it if he had to.
You’re sure about what she’ll do? the other asked.
Yes. There was no doubt in his mind about that. She wouldn’t be sensible and safe. She’d come to him, and she’d bring help. Arjenie didn’t know what they were up against, but she would have seen that bullets didn’t stop the bear, so she’d bring his men with her, not the sheriff. He didn’t know how long it would take her, or if her aunt and uncle would accompany her as well. He hoped not. They were in grave danger. But with or without them, she would come.
Once he’d checked the function of his leg he switched to a three-legged lope. Using the leg would slow the healing. Fortunately, he didn’t have to go on a real hunt. They’d passed a farmhouse shortly before stopping to rest, and Benedict’s nose had told him that family kept chickens. They had a dog, too, which was less than ideal. He didn’t want to hurt the poor beast. But perhaps they’d have brought the dog inside, out of the weather.
He resented the delay, but it couldn’t be helped. He resented much more being drafted into another’s service . . . even if it was by Coyote. Maybe especially because it was Coyote.
He’d had a suspicion. Nothing he’d put words to, but he’d wondered about the little terrier’s ability to hitch a ride without anyone noticing. He’d thought she smelled different, too, but the difference was so slight he couldn’t be sure. Then she’d gotten out of that truck—and the window hadn’t been rolled down far; she shouldn’t have been able to wriggle out—and charged a Kodiak bear.
Even a Jack Russell wouldn’t do that. So when he heard the mental voice commanding him to follow, he’d been startled as hell yet not all that surprised. He’d followed. He’d done so automatically, and now he wondered if Coyote had laced that command with a hint of compulsion. But maybe not. Coyote had used his secret name, the one given him on his vision quest over forty years ago, the one he’d never spoken aloud. The one that, truth be told, he’d all but forgotten about.
Yet when he heard it, he followed.
Benedict had been the first to lose the trail. No blame to him for that; he’d been slowed by having to run on three legs, which let the bear pull ahead. Not that little Havoc could have kept up if Benedict had been running full out, but he might have been able to hold the bear in one place until the terrier caught up. But the scent had ended at an asphalt road. Even a bloodhound couldn’t follow one particular vehicle’s scent.
Coyote had taken the lead then, using some arcane means of tracking he hadn’t explained . . . until suddenly he’d lost his trail, too. Benedict had wanted to go back, rejoin the others. Make sure Arjenie was okay. Coyote had assured him she was, which was when Benedict learned that the Power currently sharing space with a Jack Russell terrier had a link with Sammy. Coyote couldn’t mindspeak the boy. He was only able to mindspeak Benedict because of that long-ago spirit quest. But when Sammy had called on Coyote, he’d formed a tie that Coyote could use for a limited sort of eavesdropping.
Not that Sammy had meant to call Coyote or that his reason for calling him had anything to do with why he’d chosen to show up. But the link was there. Sammy couldn’t “hear” Coyote, but Coyote could eavesdrop on the boy.
At the farmhouse, Benedict’s luck was in. The dog wasn’t inside as he’d hoped, but it was a Lab. She submitted instantly, cringing until he licked her muzzle. After that, they were great buddies. The chickens made plenty of noise to make up for their guardian’s silence, but he expected that, and the coop was easy to get into. He killed two—as many as he could carry readily in his mouth—and got out fast.
He loped back on three legs. Havoc or Coyote was right where he’d left her. Or him. Them. He deposited one hen on the ground and ate the other. The feathers were a nuisance, but fresh-killed chicken was delicious.
Havoc/Coyote ate with enthusiasm. I don’t believe Havoc has had raw chicken before, Coyote commented. She likes it.
Benedict made a mental note to apologize to Robin for exposing her dog to a taste treat she shouldn’t indulge in. Robin and Clay didn’t keep chickens, but some of their neighbors did.
The terrier was hungry enough to eat all of the breast and the sweetmeats. Benedict finished off the legs when she—he—they were done, then led the way to a tiny creek. He lapped thirstily, as did the little dog beside him.
How’s your leg? Coyote asked.
Not bleeding. Not healed. Benedict took a moment to focus his thoughts. It’s time you answered some questions.