Trouble Bruin (3 page)

Chapter Five

“What the hell is this?”

Charlie almost jumped out of her skin when Art’s furious bellow broke the peaceful nighttime stillness. Titch snorted, mumbled in her sleep and turned over, pulling the blankets over her head.

Art strode towards the camp, clad only in jeans, the firelight throwing the muscles of his impressive chest into fiery highlight and shadow. His jaw was set, one fist crumpled around a wad of papers, the other clutching a bulky plastic bag. A trick of the light cast hellfire into his eyes.

She scrambled to her feet. Was this some kind of drug-induced episode? “What’s wrong? What’s the matter?” Her heart was trembling in her throat – he exuded a sense of raw power, like the electrical feeling in the air before a storm. She half expected thunder to roll overhead.

He stopped too close to her, his chest heaving with exertion. “Starweed,” he said. He threw the bag to the ground, where it split, leaves and stems spilling out and releasing the characteristic dark-green smell of the herb.

She felt the color drain from her face. She hoped the flickering glow of the firelight disguised it, and that her voice didn’t betray how sick she felt.

“You’ve been back to the plane?” she said. She didn’t know why she was asking – she could see the Dynamic Earth logo on the papers still crumpled in his fist. Maybe she was just stalling for time. If Art found out that she was working to wipe out all the Starweed in the Badlands… Dr. Atkins had made the risks very clear, and the rules.

“Get into the Badlands and out again, quick and quiet. Don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t be seen. If you’re seen, don’t interact. Don’t reveal what you’re doing there. Don’t reveal the aims of the project.”

It was really just a rephrasing of common sense.
“Don’t piss off super-strong drug-crazed bears. If they find out you’re trying to cut off their supply, forever, they won’t like it.”
She knew that the fact they were working on a serum that would eliminate withdrawal symptoms and cure their addiction once and for all wouldn’t make him any less angry.

“Explain,” Art demanded. “Now.”

Her mind raced as she sought for an explanation that would defuse some of his anger. “We’re, uh…refining the drug,” she said.

He brandished the paperwork. “You’re
altering
the drug,” he said. “Tampering with its effects. I was starting to think you were a decent person. The way you look out for Titch…” He shook the thought off. “Give me one good reason I shouldn’t turn you over to the Badlands bosses and let them decide what to do with you.”

“Because…I’ll cut you in on the new supply,” she blustered. She tried to adopt the stance of someone who was totally at ease with criminal jargon and had struck more spur-of-the-moment drug deals than she’d had hot dinners. “It’s going to be a good, clean high,” she said. “No come-down, no side-effects, cheap to prod—”

“Are
you
high?” Art had taken a step back, and the look on his handsome face was one of complete bafflement. “What the hell are you talking about? Starweed isn’t a narcotic – it’s a medication used to treat a rare blood disorder that affects male bear shifters.”

Charlie scoffed. “Yeah, right,” she said.

He held her gaze and he stepped closer. “Let me say this very slowly,” he said, “in simple words so you’ll understand,” and there was a rising tone of impatience in his voice. “Starweed is used as a medicine. It is not for fun. Without it, I will get sick. I will die.”

Charlie put her hands on her hips and gave him a scornful look. “Riiiight,” she drawled. “Listen, buddy, I spent my childhood in the care system because my mom was too fond of her ‘medicine’, only in her case it was booze. None of the usual addict justifications are going to work on me.”

He shook his head impatiently. “Read my lips. Starweed is used to treat a blood disorder. You might as well accuse me of chasing an insulin high or getting buzzed off antibiotics. What you’re saying makes no sense.”

“And I suppose the super strength has nothing to do with it?” she demanded. “You don’t get high off the ability to…to rip off airplane doors and walk through bullets?” Her eyes fell to the bullet scars high on his chest, and she felt a strong compulsion to reach out and touch them, to feel the roughness of the scars pocking his smooth, caramel skin.

He shook his head impatiently. “It’s unrelated. The blood factor that makes us dependent on Starweed also happens to boost strength, healing, endurance…”

A horrified look came over his face. He paced closer, towering over her. There was a musky, animal smell to him that reminded her he had much more raw power than a mere man. It was frightening, but exhilarating too. A trickle of moisture dampened her panties, and she swallowed hard, betrayed by her own body’s reaction to his maleness. What was wrong with her?

“That’s it, isn’t it?” he demanded. “They’ve isolated the genes that give us super strength. And the experiments controlled for aggression –
increased
aggression. They’re trying to get their claws into the only supply of a life-saving medicine so they can use innocent bears as super-soldiers,” he snarled – and it
was
a snarl. He was so furious his voice barely sounded human at all.

“No,” she protested weakly. “They
are
doing genetic testing, and they
have
been working on a serum, but it’s to help Starweed addicts. To stop the berserker attacks that have been in all the headlines. You can get clean. You won’t need the wild-growing plants once they’ve—”

“I only hope you really believe what you’re saying.” He stepped closer still. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, smell the earthy musk of his masculine sweat. His lips were only inches from hers as he spoke in a low, deadly tone. “Because that paperwork says different. You probably think I’m just a big dumb bear, but my years in munitions got me interested in chemistry, and when you’re by yourself out in the Badlands, you have time for a lot of bedtime reading. I know what I’m talking about.”

“I…I’m not a chemist,” she stammered. I don’t know…”

He leaned closer. “Don’t you think you should
find out
?”

That electrical energy was in the air again, crackling over her skin, humming through her veins. Her nipples were hard against the cotton of her T-shirt and there was a pulsing between her thighs that was impossible to ignore.

Art was looking at her like he wanted to eat her alive, then lick the plate clean. He fisted his hands by his sides, as though fighting the temptation to touch her. Without her volition, she swayed towards him. Her heart thundered in her chest. He bent his head, his lips almost grazing hers…

There was a deliberate cough. Charlie jerked her head around to see Titch with her hands over her eyes. “Just tell me when I can look. I’m okay with the violence, but I get traumatized by mushy stuff.”

Art stepped back from Charlie so fast she almost stumbled, leaving a hollow ache in her center. A muscle in his jaw twitched and he refused to meet her eyes.

They stomped off to opposite sides of the campfire and, despite Titch’s doomed attempts to get them talking again, they stayed there for the rest of the night.

Chapter Six

Charlie stumbled, and Art caught her arm to steady her. His fingers were strong and sure, and she could have smacked herself for enjoying his touch on her skin, despite her tiredness. He seemed such a steady, reassuring presence that it was easy to forget he was a Starweed junkie – about as unpredictable as they came. And clearly suffering from paranoia. She couldn’t allow herself to be swayed by his sincerity, his apparently rock-solid belief that Dynamic Earth were out to get him – once they were deep enough into the addiction, from what Dr. Atkins had told her, Starweed users jumped at shadows and heard voices – and often listened to them, and the conspiracy theories they spun.

If anything, his sincerity, his apparent gentleness, made her all the more determined to help him, whether he wanted her to or not.

That didn’t mean she was going to let her guard down, though. She wouldn’t soon forget the rage burning in the depths of his eyes the previous night. She wouldn’t want to have it directed at her.

Titch was chattering away, regaling them with version four hundred and twenty-six of what she planned to do with the rest of her life. “So my great uncle’s a count, and he has this castle in Romania…”

Charlie cast an affectionate glance at her. “Are you ever serious?”

Titch looked hurt. “It’s true!” she replied, crossing her heart with one grubby finger. “And anyway I’m serious a lot. About the important things. Like food – I’m very serious about food.”

“That’s true,” Art said. “She is. It’s kind of scary. When I was cooking the rabbits last night, she was slavering. I thought she might just dislocate her jaw and swallow them whole, like a python. I shudder to think what she’d do if faced with silverware.”

Titch scowled. “Transylvanian nobility do not
slaver
,” she said firmly. But the banter had lightened the mood a little.

The cliffs to either side had been closing in as they walked, and soon they entered the mouth of a shallow dry gully. Its steep walls cast a pleasant cool shade, and by mutual unspoken agreement, they slowed their pace, dawdling along and enjoying the more refreshing temperature and the dappled shadows.

Charlie spun as there was a soft thud behind her. A man had dropped into the gorge, and he stood with his feet planted and his arms spread wide, as if to block her escape should she try to run. He had a thin, unhealthy looking face covered with several days-worth of salt-and-pepper scruff, and his body odor had the unpleasant undertone of sickness – but he looked wiry and strong and, worse, desperate. When he spoke, his voice had a clotted, growling quality. “Don’t give us any trouble, and maybe we won’t hurt the little girl.”

Another muffled sound, and Charlie turned again to see that the man was not alone. His two companions had boxed in Art and Titch, leaving the three of them surrounded. They could try to scramble up the walls of the pass, but by the time they got purchase with fingers or feet, their attackers would pull them back.

She whipped back around to keep the first man in view. They probably looked like a soft target for bandits – one guy travelling with a bashed-up woman and a skinny kid. It probably seemed that taking whatever valuables and supplies they had would be like taking candy from a baby. Easy pickings.

The bandits closed in.

There was a terrifying roar, and all eyes turned to Art as he transformed into a gigantic bear. Fur rippled over his skin and his clothes tore, shreds of cloth fluttering to the floor as he turned into a towering beast. His handsome face morphed into a snarling snout, his fingers melted into monstrous paws, and he rose to his full height, bellowing his fury.

Charlie caught Titch by the arm and pulled her back against the wall of the gully. For once, she didn’t kick up a fuss.

The bandits snarled. The leader had spoken, but it was possible the others no longer could – they’d gone feral, or were right on the edge of it. Outside the Badlands, where the Council for Shifter Affairs monitored the shifter population, they’d be thrown into a detention center or, if they were all the way gone, put down. A silver bullet through the brain. Out here, it was the job of bounty hunters like Art to deal with them.

The three men shifted, but without the power and grace of Art’s transformation. Their change was jerky and awkward, like bad stop-motion animation, and they howled and snarled as their bodies struggled between human and animal form. Bones cracked gruesomely as their limbs changed shape, interspersed with unpleasant gristly sounds. But within moments they were three wolves, scarred and mangy-looking but circling Art with foaming jaws and predatory intent.

They leapt at Art in a vicious whirl of fur and fangs and claws. They snapped and barked, jaws dripping foam as they went for his throat and his belly. One of them ripped open his side, leaving his huge flank matted with dark blood. Another darted around his hind paws, biting and worrying, trying to upset his balance. If the three wolves could get him on the floor…

The third bandit bunched and sprang, hurling itself upwards, and Art swept his massive forepaw in a broad, muscular arc, sending the wolf flying through the air. It hit the gully wall with a sharp, agonized yelp and tumbled heavily to the floor, all the air driven from its lungs in a blood-flecked grunt of pain.

Before Charlie could stop her, Titch was running towards it, dodging nimbly around Art and the other two bandits where they were still locked in savage combat. As she reached it, the wolf whimpered and tried to drag itself away. Titch kicked it viciously in the ribcage.

Charlie glanced around wildly for something to use as a weapon. A slender sapling had taken root in a crevice in the rock, and she wrapped both hands around it and heaved, wrenching it free. Then, wielding it like a club, she rushed towards Titch and the fallen wolf. A single blow to its skull knocked it out, and she and Titch clung together, breathing hard from anxiety and exertion.

Unconscious, the wolf looked a sad specimen – underfed, with scraggy fur and a broken tooth in its frozen snarl. But Charlie knew that weak and starving wolves were all the more dangerous because they were desperate, and these bandits were feral, too – under the sway of their animal natures.

Art was still struggling with their other two attackers, who were tag-teaming him – one keeping him fighting while the other withdrew to recover and lick its wounds before leaping back into the fray.

Art was wounded, but he would win, there was no doubt about that. If Charlie slipped away now, taking Titch with her, they could easily make it to Cottonwood without a guide – it couldn’t be more than an hour’s walk away. And it wasn’t as if they’d be leaving Art to die. If he hadn’t been distracted by worrying about Charlie and Titch’s safety, the bandits would have been grisly smears on the rock moments after they’d attacked.

If he hadn’t been distracted.

Worrying about Charlie and Titch.

Looking out for them.

Damn it.

Getting a good grip on her branch, she charged into the fight, swinging viciously at the bandits. She connected with the leader’s snout with a resounding crack, and he tumbled away, whimpering. Behind her, Titch had resorted to her tried-and-trusted rock-hurling technique.

The leader crouched low, hackles raised, yellowish eyes darting from the rearing, bellowing beast to the woman and kid who’d gone completely berserk and started throwing sticks and stones.

He gave a sharp, commanding bark, and his companion scrambled to join him. They slunk away, carefully watching Art, Charlie and Titch.

When they reached the unconscious wolf, one of them shifted and heaved its furry carcass over his shoulder, wrinkling his nose with distaste and giving a grumbling growl when he realized its fur was soaked with urine. They retreated, casting worried glances over their shoulders.

Titch grinned fiercely. “He peed himself,” she muttered scornfully. “Who’s the little girl now?”