Trouble Bruin (2 page)

Chapter Three

Charlie’s head pounded so hard the pain radiated into her teeth and down her spine. She was unbearably thirsty, and every muscle ached. She opened her eyes to find herself staring at a cloudless sky, and it was like having shards of blue glass driven into her eyeballs. She felt like she had the worst hangover in the history of the world.

She sat up painfully, gasping and wrapping her arm around her ribs. She didn’t think they were broken, but they were definitely bruised – probably from where the seatbelt had restrained her when she’d hit the ground. She had muddled, half-conscious memories of her handsome hallucination lifting her from the wreckage; had felt his breath on her lips as he’d hovered over her, his dark eyes full of concern.

She wondered if she had a brain injury, or whether it was just sunstroke.

She turned her head to the side. Shock washed through her as she saw it. An enormous bear – bigger than any natural animal. The top of her head would barely come to its massive, shaggy shoulders, and its paws were the size of hubcaps. It was munching contentedly on a crop of wild Starweed.

Well, that explained it. She’d gone crazy. First imaginary men; now a non-existent bear. It could only be a matter of time before the pink elephants paraded through.

But as her head cleared and she got a firmer grasp on reality, she realized the bear was very much there, and exceptionally real. And she definitely wasn’t hallucinating the massive jaws full of teeth like knives.

She slowly, silently moved her hand down to her hip and was relieved to find that her gun was still holstered there. It could be all that stood in the way of that thing killing and eating her. Maybe Titch, too, if she hadn’t taken Charlie’s advice and headed for the hills.

After a couple of false starts, she managed to get to her feet without drawing the bears’s attention to her. She tried to remember what you were supposed to do in bear country. She knew they could be attracted by garbage. Well, she
felt
like garbage, so that was strike one.

The bear raised its massive, shaggy head and gave a rumbling, interrogative grunt.

Should she play dead? She thought she could do a pretty convincing job of it. She thought she was, like…eighty percent dead. She tried to think back on the advice she’d been given on what to do if she encountered a bear. Did you punch them on the nose, or…no, that was sharks. And squeezing it to see if it was ripe was for fruit.

Get a grip.

Okay, so…
Identify yourself as a non-threat
.

Given the size of the thing, and the fact that she’d recently lost a bitch-fight with gravity, it would have to be one stupid bear to imagine she was any kind of threat. But it was worth a try.

“Um…nice bear?” she tried, speaking softly and trying to keep the panicky tremble out of her voice. “Who’s a good bear, then? Um…”

The bear moved out from behind the crop of Starweed, huge muscles moving in its furred shoulders like some kind of enormous industrial machine.

Don’t run. You can’t outrun a bear
.

Okay, that was another one she could manage. In her current state, she couldn’t outrun a rock. Terror made it really hard to hold her ground, though, and she tottered backwards a few steps as the bear slowly advanced on her.

Climb a tree if available.

Hah! Not likely. This was the Badlands. There was nothing out here except rock, a bit of scrubby brush, more rock, Starweed, and yet more rock. There were probably still fossils out here – the remains of dinosaurs from millions of years ago buried in the strata – but they were basically just interestingly shaped rock.

The bear began to pace towards her.

Try to retreat slowly
…

She stepped back, one wobbly pace at a time, her eyes never leaving the advancing predator…

There was a sudden peal of laughter. “Nice bear?!” Titch was only feet away from the bear, clutching her stomach and chortling so hard that tears stood in her eyes.

“Oh my God! Get behind me!” Charlie scrabbled at her hip, all thoughts of her own safety gone, and pointed her gun at the advancing behemoth. Her hands trembled, but it didn’t matter – hitting that monstrosity would be like hitting the broad side of a barn.

But instead of running to her, Titch shouted, “Charlie, no!” and launched herself in the direction of the bear, shielding it with her skinny body. What was she thinking?

Charlie was so shocked that her finger twitched on the trigger and a shot pinged off the rock near the bear’s huge forepaws, throwing up chips of stone as it ricocheted.

Titch sprawled flat and covered her head. The bear snarled and disappeared behind the bushes. It re-emerged as a man who was hastily buttoning the jeans he’d just struggled into. His face was like thunder.

And she’d have known him anywhere. It was her dream man. He was a shifter. He really had rescued her from the wreckage of her Cessna. And she’d just thanked him by trying to shoot him.

“Jesus, lady, you could have hit Titch. What the fuck were you thinking?”

His dark eyes were furious. His cheekbones were high, his jaw square, his lips full. Butterflies swarmed in her belly. Her gaze lingered on his broad shoulders. Dog tags hung from a chain around the strong column of his throat, resting between the sweeping curves of his collarbone. His chest was muscular, the skin smooth and golden…except for three pink, shiny scars on his shoulder and upper chest. They were perfectly circular, like…bullet wounds. As if he’d walked through a hail of gunfire and survived. Which had to mean…

Her eyes snapped back up to his as she remembered that when she’d woken, he’d been eating Starweed. The plant was highly addictive. It made bear shifters incredibly strong, incredibly aggressive and practically impervious to pain. Nigh-on invulnerable. It made PCP look like M&Ms.

She aimed her gun at him again. “Stay right there, or I’ll blow your brains out. And let the girl go.”

He looked at the gun, glanced back at Titch, then strode towards her, jaw set with determination.

Titch had got to her feet again. Charlie caught her eye, then cut her gaze to the side, indicating that the girl should find somewhere to hide; wriggle into a gap in the rocks where the bear-man wouldn’t be able to follow.

She turned and ran. As she did, the gun fell from her limp fingers. It didn’t matter. Judging from the bullet scars, shooting him would probably just have made him mad.

You can’t outrun a bear… You can’t outrun a bear…

Maybe not, but she could draw this guy away from Titch and give her a chance to get to safety.

Every lungful of air sent a stabbing pain through her injured ribs, and the pounding in her head was a nauseating drum solo.

She heard a shout behind her. “Stop! Wait!”

Then a higher voice, punctuated by pants of effort. “Don’t thunder after her like a stupid great elephant – you’ll scare her.”

Huh?

Charlie risked a glance behind her, and saw that the man was falling back, slowing to a trot, raising a hand to shade his eyes so he could squint after her.

Her foot snagged on a questing root from one of the scrubby thorn bushes that dotted the landscape. She went sprawling on the ground, grazing the skin of her palms and knocking all the wind out of herself.

Titch skidded to a halt next to her and said, “You can’t outrun a bear, you know.”

Charlie rolled over and stared up at the sky. There didn’t seem to be much to say in reply to that.

Heavy footsteps approached and she flicked her eyes to the side to see the bear-man standing over her, hands on his narrow hips. He really was absolutely gorgeous.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” he demanded. He knelt down beside her and put his arm around her shoulders, supporting her as she sat up. He was surprisingly gentle, and she leaned on him gratefully. He smelled musky and masculine and scrumptious, and not at all like a drug-crazed murderer. Plus he wasn’t trying to eat her. That was good enough for her. She was beyond being scared – she was so battered and bruised she couldn’t really feel anything beyond exhaustion.

“What the hell did you think you were doing, running off like that?” he demanded. “You didn’t even know which way you were heading, did you?”

She shook her head, suddenly so bone-tired she felt like crying.

“What are you doing out here anyway?”

She shook her head again. She couldn’t tell him the truth – Dr. Atkins had made it very clear when she’d taken on the job that letting anyone know why she was in the Badlands could be dangerous – even deadly.

He stared at her for a moment, his jaw set and his expression unreadable. Then he said, “Right, well, I’m taking Titch to Cottonwood. It’s a town about a hundred miles from here. I’ll take you too.”

“The hell you—” She scrambled to her feet, shaking her head sharply from side to side, then stopped because it hurt. “The hell you will,” she said. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”

“Oh yes you are,” he insisted. “Your plane’s crumpled up like a tin can, you have no idea what you’re doing, and I’m pretty sure your brains are scrambled. If I leave you out here, you’ll die.”

“Excuse me,” she began, “but I’m perfectly capable—”

“Skip it,” he said tersely. “It’s non-negotiable.”

And with that he stooped, grabbed the backs of her thighs and threw her over his shoulder as if she weighed nothing.

Chapter Four

Upside down, Charlie had a very appealing view of Art’s backside. It didn’t make her any happier. She drummed her fists on the small of his back, and kicked and wriggled. “Let go of me, you caveman!” she yelled.

Art just kept trudging, presumably heading towards Cottonwood. Was he seriously going to carry her the entire way there? He’d said it was a hundred miles away. But then, if he was a berserker – the name given to Starweed junkies because of their freakish strength and endurance – he could probably do it without even popping a sweat. And Titch, the little traitor, wasn’t making any effort to stop him. That could either mean Art was basically safe to be around…or that Titch had no idea how potentially dangerous he was. She was just a kid, after all, no matter how streetwise she seemed.

“Titch,” she tried. “Can’t you persuade this stupid great oaf to put me down?”

“I don’t think he wants to,” Titch said. “I think he’s enjoying the view.”

Charlie realized that Art also had a pretty good view of
her
rear end. She couldn’t blush – all the blood had long since rushed to her head, and she had a good idea that her face was already a fetching shade of puce – but she kicked harder. “I swear to God, if you don’t put me down
right now
I’ll… I’ll…”

“You could bite him,” Titch suggested.

“You could,” rumbled Art cheerfully, “but I might enjoy it.”

Charlie sighed and went limp. “Just put me down. Please? It’s been a really rough day, and I’d like to spend some of it with my feet on the ground and not facing certain death.”

Art set her on her feet, but kept hold of her. His big hand gently encircled her wrist, but she had no doubt that if she tried to get away his grip could instantly become bruising and unbreakable. She took a moment to recover her breath, and used her free hand to brush unruly straggles of hair out of her face. One stubborn lock kept tumbling over her forehead, and she blew upwards. It flopped back again, and Art reached out to tuck it behind her ear.

“Promise me you won’t run,” he said.

She sighed. “We’ve established you’ve got me outclassed on speed, strength and macho-man stunts. I’ll come to Cottonwood with you. I assume they have a long-range radio there and I can contact Dynamic Earth, get out of here and pretend this entire shit-show never happened?”

At the mention of Dynamic Earth, the amused tilt to his lips disappeared and his eyes suddenly looked flat and harsh, losing their light. “I know the Chief there,” he said tersely. “He’ll make sure we have what we need. Let’s just get there with the minimum of drama so we can go our own ways.”

Charlie wondered how a berserker knew the Chief of Cottonwood. She couldn’t imagine he got invited to many shifter society garden parties. She wondered darkly if perhaps things in Cottonwood weren’t as Mister Roger’s Neighborhood as she’d been led to believe. Corruption in high places?

Art released her wrist. “We’ll be passing by where you wrecked your plane,” he said. “Is there anything in there you need?”

Despite the heat, Charlie shuddered. She didn’t want to see the downed Cessna, buckled and battered and with a long gash torn in its fuselage. The memory of her hurtling descent was too fresh in her mind, a nightmarish, jumbled sequence of mental snapshots. Fear. Panic. Pain. Blackness. She shook her head mutely.

* * * * *

To be fair to Charlie, she kept up with Art’s longer strides without complaining, though she must be exhausted and was certainly battered and bruised. She had grit; he’d give her that. The only time she faltered was when they skirted around her light aircraft, passing within a couple of hundred meters of the crash site. Despite herself, her eyes slid to the side. Her face went sickly pale and she bit her lip, but she didn’t say a word. Art felt an ache in his chest – an impulse to reach out and touch her, reassure her that he was there and she was safe.

Ridiculous. He had to remember that she didn’t need protecting from the dangerous things of the world. She
was
a dangerous thing. She was part of Dynamic Earth, and they were killers. And he still didn’t know why. He had to find out, and he wasn’t going to do that by falling head over heels for Charlie.

Titch kept up a stream of cheerful chatter, and Charlie responded, sometimes seriously, sometimes playfully. Art just brooded – but he did notice, as they trudged along and the sun started to sink in the sky, that Charlie’s responses were becoming less lively, her wit a little less sharp and her tone less cheerful. They needed to stop for the night. He wanted to get to Cottonwood and get Charlie off his hands as soon as he could – of course he did. But he told himself that if he pushed her beyond her limits, it would only slow them down.

So they settled down for the evening. Art built a fire, and Charlie arranged a couple of blankets into a sort of nest for Titch and herself. Titch curled up by Charlie’s side, snuggled into the blankets for all the world like a bear cub with its mother, and Charlie carefully tucked her in. It was definitely
not
adorable.

He shook his head.
This isn’t a game,
he told himself furiously. Charlie was dangerous. Mysterious corporations that killed teenagers in cold blood and the word “adorable” shouldn’t even be allowed in the same headspace together. What the hell was wrong with him, anyway?

Charlie looked up at Art, where he sat poking at the fire with a stick. “Aren’t you tired?” she asked. “Because you
really
need your beauty sleep.” She tried a tentative smile.

Art clutched his chest as though mortally wounded. “My ego!” he gasped. Then he shook his head. “I’m going to stay up for a little while. Maybe go and hunt. You hungry?”

“Starving,” Charlie said. “I’d kill for a chocolate sundae.”

“Ah,” Art deadpanned. “The wily and elusive chocolate sundae. Not too many of those running around the Badlands, but I can probably manage a rabbit or two.” He eyed her apprehensively. “Don’t go anywhere.”

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t leave Titch!” she protested.

And the funny thing was, Art believed her. She could be trusted, at least, to look after the girl.

It didn’t take him long to catch half a dozen rabbits. Before he returned to the camp, though, he lodged them in a crevice in the rock, where smaller predators and scavengers wouldn’t find them, and he padded away in the direction of the light aircraft wreckage. He was doubling back on the route they’d taken, but in bear form it wouldn’t take him long.

Once there, he shifted. He crouched over the torn-away door, running his fingers across the Dynamic Earth logo emblazoned on the twisted metal. Something about it raised his hackles, beyond the shady, murderous goings-on he already knew about, but he couldn’t pinpoint what. Something itching at the back of his mind, trying to get his attention…

Inside the aircraft, a smear of blood on the pilot’s seat gave him a little pang as he remembered how pale and still Charlie had been when he’d first seen her.

The seating had been torn out to allow room for cargo, and the space was stacked with opaque bags, each neatly labeled with a sheet of densely handwritten data at the top right-hand corner of which was the familiar green script. He recognized the smell at once, pungent and distinctive – it lit up his synapses as if they were a great big flashing neon sign. Starweed. Dynamic Earth had been gathering the plant and shipping it out of the Badlands – which explained why it had been increasingly difficult to find lately. But
why
?

Paperwork was scattered around, and he gathered it into a loose stack and settled down in the pilot’s seat to read. It was pitch-black out here in the Badlands at night, the only illumination coming from the smashed-glass stars scattered across the sky, but his shifter senses meant that he had no trouble seeing in the dark.

It was pretty dense stuff, though, and difficult to understand with the pages out of order. Customs documents, experimental protocols, and…hmm…chemical formulae, relating to…

His heart lurched.

Dynamic Earth were running experiments on bear shifters, dosing them with slight synthetic variations on the chemical makeup of Starweed, controlling for aggression, strength, stamina and healing power. He suddenly knew exactly what they were doing.

He found himself flooded with a white-hot rage unlike anything he’d ever felt before. His beast roared just below the surface, desperate to emerge. He clenched his jaw, hearing the sharp crack of the bones as they tried to reform, extending into a muzzle. The tips of his fingers ached where his claws tried to break the skin and his chest seemed to swell as he fought down the monstrous bear that wanted to come to the surface. He heard himself growling, a low, rumbling sound that reverberated through his whole body; a wordless, inhuman sound of animalistic rage. He breathed deeply, battling with his bear, willing himself to remain human. Then he strode back in the direction of the camp, blood boiling, determined to confront Charlie.