Charlotte Boyett-Compo- Wyndsheer (13 page)

“When they check for the permits and everything, they’ll find that I do,” he said with confidence.

“Who really owns it?” she prodded.

“Someone not of this world,” he said softly.

“And all the right paperwork is just gonna magically show up in all the right places, huh?”

“Something like that,” he answered.

“Must be nice to have friends in such elevated positions,” she commented.

* * * *

The Guardian stayed well away from the land to which Jamie led Edger Tolbert and his sons Chad and Rafe later that afternoon. An Fear Liath Mor did not want its presence to instill fear or trepidation in the village men although it knew they would be nervous the entire time they were in its realm and not really know why. It sat perched on his favorite crag and stared into the bubbling brook that slithered past, watching the humans as they went about pounding stakes in the ground.

“Like busy little ants,” the Guardian chuckled. “Busy, busy little ants.”

In his infinite wisdom, An Fear Liath Mor knew the Lycant had not seen the last of the crazed one. The man’s mind was not as addled as it had hoped to make it. It had wanted to scramble that pitiful awareness but that had not happened. The human had proved to be stronger than anticipated. There had been madness deep in that subconscious long before the human had trekked through the Guardian’s realm.

Madness and murderous intent.

“He wants your woman, Wolf,” Coimirceoir, the Guardian said.

There would be a reckoning, An Fear Liath Mor reasoned, but it would be there on the Lycant’s side.

“At his side,” the Guardian corrected.

* * * *

“You couldn’t have picked a better spot for a homestead,” Edger Tolbert said as he took off his hat and swiped an arm over his sweaty forehead. The man was much too heavy for his five foot four frame. He looked around at the tall conifers and the limestone streaked with bright red and gold striations, the wandering stream with its sparkling little waterfall shaped like a crescent. “It’s peaceful here though just a touch unsettling.”

“Ain’t no close neighbors, Papa,” Rafe Tolbert suggested. “That’s what makes it so ....” He couldn’t find the right word.

“I think I’ll be happy here,” Jamie said. “It gets old living in a damned cave.”

“You been there so long,” Chad, the youngest Tolbert remarked, “why move out now?”

“Reckon that’s his business, Chad, and none of yours,” the boy’s father chastised with a growl and a lowering of his brow. It was common speculation in the village that the Lycant had found the missing woman and an unspoken vow that she wouldn’t be mentioned until Mac, himself, brought up her existence.

“Just asking, Papa,” Chad mumbled, his cheeks red.

“I think you know why I need a decent place to live, Chadwick,” Jamie said and reached down to pick up a smooth stone from the bank of the stream. He pitched it across the stream, watching it skip along the water.

“Ain’t none of his concern, though,” Edger insisted. “And it ain’t gonna be discussed.”

“Much obliged,” Jamie acknowledged. He dusted his hands and braced them on his hips. “I’ll be back down in a day or two to help. If you need anything, see Elspeth.”

Edger nodded. He glanced around. “Ah, we ain’t gonna have no visitors while we’re working up here, are we?”

Jamie shook his head. “No, but you’ll be watched over so you need not worry about bears or the like.”

“That’s a relief,” Edger said on a long sigh.

“Just don’t let anyone go beyond the cairn I showed you,” Jamie warned. “Everything from there on up the mountain is sacred to An Fear Liath Mor and he protects it.”

Edger glanced uneasily at the small pyramid of stones that set off to one side. “Won’t be going beyond that, no, sir.”

The Tolberts left Jamie to make their way back down to the village. He stayed for a bit--knowing he’d have company. He sat down tailor fashion beside the stream with his legs crossed in front of him and wrapped within the circle of his arm and waited.

It didn’t take long.

“Busy little ants,” the Guardian said from behind him.

Jamie didn’t turn around. He knew the creature did not like to be looked upon unless it did the inviting. “There will be quite a few of them up here until the house is built.”

“I can tolerate ants,” came the gruff statement. “They are easily squashed if they annoy you.”

“They’ll keep to this side of the cairn.”

“Oh, I know they will!” the Guardian chuckled and clicked its teeth together like a cat.

Jamie laughed and felt the creature settle down beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the thick, shaggy coat of the Guardian and the massive feet that ended in appendages with long, sharp talons.

“How goes it with your woman, Wolf?”

“Things are going good, I believe.”

“The one who desires her will be back.”

Jamie frowned. “You believe so?”

“I know so.”

The big feet flexed. The long toenails curled downward. “Best for you to be prepared for his return.”

“Aye.”

They sat there for a moment longer then the creature shambled to its feet with a grunt and a snort, its large bones creaking like that of an ancient one. A ripe smell washed over Jamie to make his eyes water and clog his sinuses.

“Call should you need me, Wolf.”

And then it was gone as quietly and as suddenly as it had appeared.

It had been a warning that Jamie knew he should heed. He understood very little about the Guardian, but he suspected the creature had abilities so vast, so powerful that it could see into the future. He knew it could easily pluck memories from the minds of human and animal alike. The extent of the powers it could wield did not bear contemplating.

Pushing up, he stood beside the stream for a bit longer--surveying the beauty of the land, the serenity of the surroundings, the peace it gave him--then turned to head back to the cave.

* * * *

Jake Hobart was grim as he walked out of the hospital room where his ex-partner lay strapped to the bed. Wendt was practically foaming at the mouth with fury at being tied down, but the words coming out of the man’s mouth, the wide-eyed stares and fierce snarls had garnered him the restraints.

“I don’t know what happened to him up there but your agent is showing signs of a complete psychotic break,” the psychiatrist had informed Spencer Croft, the head of the agency, earlier than evening.

The team had turned in the vans in Rickover, the closest large town to Lamb’s Grove, and then taken a helo back to the Agency. They had been met by a contingent of steely-faced escorts who had spoken not one word on the way to the sprawling complex that housed the Agency. Upon arrival, the men had been separated and taken to interrogation rooms where all but Hobart still sat.

“I’ll get to the bottom of it, Doc,” Croft had assured the Mind Healer. “I’ll know what happened out there or heads are gonna roll!”

Hobart had spent five hours being grilled by a team of agents with Croft shouting and cursing at the top of his lungs, but what had there been for either him or the other members of the team to say? None of them saw what had so frightened them and not a one had been touched--as Wendt surely had--by whatever had come after them on that mountain. Something had been there, but what?

“Don’t give me that shit about not seeing what attacked you!” Croft had bellowed and then when not a single one of the agents could give him any more information, he’d put them all on administrative leave.

And ordered them to undergo psychiatric evaluations.

All except Hobart, who had turned in his resignation.

“Coward,” Croft had labeled him but Hobart didn’t care. He had one last order of business to see to before leaving the Agency Compound for the last time.

Passing orderlies and nurses who were giving him speculative looks, Hobart ground his teeth and continued out of the hospital and into the night. His talk with Wendt had accomplished nothing and now Jake Hobart was even more uneasy. He crossed the street and walked to the monorail station, glancing up to look at the schedule to see when the next train would arrive. Annoyed that it would be a thirty minute wait, he went into the station and slumped down on one of the hard plastic benches, his legs shooting straight out in front of him. He was tired, hungry, and worried.

“Rough night?” the station master inquired from his grilled kiosk.

Hobart looked up to see the man watching him over a lowered newspaper. “One of the worst of my life,” he replied.

“Lose a friend in there?” the man asked, hitching a thumb over his shoulder toward the hospital, the newspaper bending and rattling with the movement.

“Yeah,” Hobart said. “And a partner.”

“Happens,” the other man declared, snapped the paper, and then went back to reading.

“Yeah,” Hobart agreed quietly.

“James MacGivern? James MacGivern?”
Croft had yelled, his face turning red when Hobart had mentioned the ex-warrior.
“Motherfucking hell! Why wasn’t I told it was him up there? Eighteen men have been sent to retrieve that fucking Lycant and eighteen men have come back with their fucking asses having been handed to them! Every goddamn one of them is a mental case now! If I’d known that bastard was up there, I’d have sent a fucking regiment with trans-out helmets and revert guns!”

“Trans-out helmets,” Hobart mumbled to himself and drew his legs in, bent over them as though his belly was cramping him. Just thinking of the specialized helmets that blocked thought transmissions was enough to give him a sour taste in his mouth. He couldn’t help but wonder if that was what had happened up on the mountain, if MacGivern had been playing them.

“Agent Hobart?”

Hobart jumped and snapped his head up to find a short, balding man staring intently at him. “Yes, sir?” he asked, noticing the blue-edged badge on the man’s white lab coat and turned pale.

“I would like a word with you in my office,” the man said. His eyes were stern. “Now.”

Hobart got to his feet. “May I ask …?”

“No, you may not,” the man snapped and turned on his heel to walk out of the station.

There were two security guards waiting outside the station and they fell into position to either side of the man as he walked. Hobart followed along in their wake, feeling like a chastised child.

Once inside the medical center, the man turned down a corridor over which a sign informed visitors it was off limits to all but authorized personnel. Harsh-faced guards stood sentry at the beginning of the corridor and others were stationed at intervals all the way down the long, dimly lit passageway. Each was heavily armed.

The man stopped at a black enamel door. “In here,” he said and opened the door with a swipe of his ID card. A loud, audible click echoed down the corridor and the door slid back into the wall.

In front of him was a long stainless steel interrogation table and two straight back metal chairs without cushions. The room was windowless, very cold and very bright--especially so compared to the dimly-lit corridor--and smelled of strong astringent. There were rust-colored stains on the concrete floor--some in splatters and two in large pools.

“Sit,” the man ordered. He stood with his hands on the back of his chair.

Hobart did as he was told, taking a seat on the rigid, uncomfortable chair, unable to keep from squirming beneath the hard look aimed his way from the unknown man. “May I ask what this is about, sir?” he asked, feeling like a child about to be punished.

“I am Dr. Simon Ordwell. I am chief of staff at Draeton.”

The agent could not stop the shudder that rippled through him. “Draeton?” he repeated, beginning to sweat.

“You are aware James MacGivern was interned at Draeton?”

Hobart nodded, swallowed with some difficulty. “We were told he was given a pardon.”

Ordwell’s beady eyes sparked black fire. “A pardon that has since been revoked. I would very much like to have the Lycant returned to my authority.”

“I have terminated my position with the Agency, sir,” Hobart said although he was sure the man already knew.

“Do you believe Allison Groves is still alive?” Ordwell asked.

Hobart shifted in the chair. “We have every reason to believe she died soon after the crash,” he answered.

“Do you believe Allison Groves is still alive?” Ordwell repeated.

The former agent lowered his head. “Yes, sir, I do.”

“So do I and I believe we both know where she is,” Ordwell stated.

Hobart lifted his head. “Sir, what is it you want from me?”

The scientist’s slow smile was deadly and filled with such brutal intent Hobart felt his bowels loosening. “I have what I needed from you, Jacob. Leave.”

Not needing a second order to do so, Hobart was up and out of the room, passing the two guards outside who gave him narrowed looks that made his throat clog with sour liquid. His pace increased until he was once more at the monorail station, sitting on the plastic bench and trembling violently. He ran a shaky hand over his sweating face.

“Draeton,” he whispered. “Oh, my God. Draeton. That bastard was from Draeton!”

The level nine maximum security mental facilities was the closest thing to hell there was on his world. Not only did it house the criminally insane, it was a government-run penitentiary where it was rumored inhumane experimentation had been carried out on the inmates before--and some say even after--the war. MacGivern had spent time there but the Lycant was stronger, more powerful, and tougher than a normal man. What must it be like for ordinary humans remanded to the hellish facility?

Another shudder traveled through Hobart’s body and he flinched when he heard the sudden rush of sound that heralded the arrival of the monorail. He shot to his feet and all but ran to the stile, shuffling impatiently as he waited for the sleek black train to pull into the station. Glancing nervously around him, fearful Ordwell would come back for him, the former agent could smell his own sweaty body odor and the urine that had stained his pants as he’d hurried from the medical center to the monorail station.