Inside, Sheriff Porter stood by the window in a small living room crowded with people—four Delacroix men and one woman who was Delacroix by marriage. Another woman, one with soft brown hair and terrified eyes, said frantically, “Nothing? You can’t get anything?”
“I’m sorry,” Robin repeated, feeling helpless. “It feels like something is blocking me. That’s never happened before, so I don’t know if . . .” Foulness washed through her. Her eyes went blind as the land spoke to her in its own language, one far removed from words. “Clay,” she whispered.
He was already there, slipping an arm around her waist. “What is it?”
“It’s on our land. It crossed onto our land. Arjenie was right. And it . . .” She swallowed. “I’m blocked. I can’t touch it. And it has the little girl.”
They must have walked five miles—two and a half out, two and a half back, though at an angle. They wouldn’t be entering Delacroix land at the same place they’d left it, but coming in closer to the house. She hoped she’d triangulated correctly. The mate sense was certain, but the terrain made them veer this way and that.
Sammy had finally given her back her phone. He was murmuring to himself, repeating words she didn’t know. Navajo wasn’t one of her languages. “Nettie Two Horses wants me to go see her,” he’d told Arjenie quietly when he ended the call. “When this is all over, she wants me to go to her. Do you think . . . could she mean to teach me?”
The hope in his face was so raw. “Did she say so?”
He’d shaken his head. “Only that I was a young idiot, and I was to come to her.”
That sounded like Nettie. “Then you’d better come to California with me.”
Five miles wasn’t so much, Arjenie told herself. She had no business being tired already. At least all the walking kept her warm, except for her face, which was freezing. Had she already acclimatized to San Diego, or was it really as far below freezing as it felt? The snow kept drifting down....
Her phone vibrated against her hip. It had occurred to her when Sammy gave it back to her that she didn’t want it singing Christmas carols if they happened to be near the bear, so she’d set it to vibrate. She took it out. “It’s Aunt Robin. Hello?”
Four minutes later she returned the phone to her pocket. “Sammy, what kind of shape are you in?”
“What?” He turned a puzzled face her way.
“Can you run four or five miles?”
“I suppose. But you can’t. You’re doing great, but running—”
“I know.” Not in the snowy dark. Sometimes dignity had to be set aside. “Josh? Time for Plan B.”
Benedict lay on his stomach. Over three hundred yards away, and so well out of sight if not hearing, a man chanted in a voice so low he picked up only the sound of it, not the words. Snow still drifted down slowly, some of it caught by the branches of the oak he lay beneath. His haunch and leg throbbed along with his heartbeat. His breath frosted the air.
The little terrier huddled against him. Settle down.
He hadn’t moved, hadn’t so much as twitched.
You’re twitching plenty inside.
I won’t let him kill that child.
The terrier huffed out a breath. Benedict could see it in the cold air. She sleeps. She isn’t hurt. I’ve promised to let you know in time to commit suicide by bear if he finishes his preparations before they get here.
We’re too far away.
If we go any closer, he’ll detect us, revert to bear, kill you and Havoc, then finish his chant and kill the girl. He’s not finished. Wait.
He knew how to wait. He hated it, but he knew how to do it.
Havoc/Coyote shivered and tried to get closer.
Can’t you use some of your magic to keep poor Havoc warm?
It takes a lot of power to watch him without him noticing me.
How close to the end of the chant is he?
I told you, the chant isn’t a set length.