Page 6 of The Bear Between Us

I sit back on my heels and look at her properly for the first time. She's younger than I expected, though I'm not sure what I expected. Dark hair, practical clothing for forest work, the kind of hands that suggest she uses them regularly. The spilled basket and the worn strap on it suggest she comes in here often, knows the terrain, wasn't wandering by accident.

My bear pushes forward, not aggressively, more like a hand pressing against a door. Interested. Certain in the particular way it gets certain about things I haven't caught up to yet.

I know what it's telling me.

"Not now," I say, quietly, to myself.

The mark pulses once, brighter, as if in response.

I check her for injuries. Nothing visible beyond what I'd expect from a fall, no head wound, no broken bones when I run a careful assessment. The magic burn on her wrist is the only real damage and that isn't the kind of thing I can treat out here. What she needs is to be out of this hollow and away from whatever the shrine is still radiating, because the stone at the center is still warm when I press a palm to it and the air in the hollow has the heavy, pressurized quality of a space where significant power just moved through.

I gather the spilled herbs back into her basket, not because it matters right now but because some part of me registers that she came here for a reason and she'll want them. I hook the basket over my arm, which is a strange thing to be doing under the circumstances, and then I crouch and get an arm under her shoulders and one under her knees.

She's lighter than she looks.

My bear makes a sound in my chest that I don't have a word for and I tell it, firmly, to be quiet.

I carry her out of the hollow the way I came in, moving carefully through the dense undergrowth, keeping her head supported. The mark on her wrist pulses against my forearm where it rests. I can feel it. Something that resonates with the same old energy I felt ripple through the territory last night and have been tracking since before dawn.

Behind me, the shrine goes quiet.

The forest around us is very still. No birds, no wind movement in the upper canopy. Just that suspended quality from Chapter Two amplified, the held breath of something that has just done a significant thing and is waiting to see what happens next.

I don't give it the satisfaction of looking back.

By the time I've cleared the worst of the undergrowth and found a trail I can move faster on, I'm already building the list. Brennan needs to know immediately. The pack's archive on the Forest God markings needs to come out of storage and be read by people other than just me. The territory's northern boundary patrols need to double tonight, because whatever has been testing our perimeter for the past two weeks just got what it was moving toward, and the pressure on the boundary is going to increase.

And this woman, whoever she is, cannot go back to her life as if this morning didn't happen.

She shifts slightly in my arms, not conscious, just the body adjusting. The mark flares soft and gold for a moment and my bear presses forward again, harder this time, with the specific insistence that I've learned over thirty-eight years means it isn't going to let something go.

I look down at her face.

"I know," I tell it.

It doesn't make anything simpler. But ignoring it won't make it go away, and I've never been the kind of man who benefits from pretending a thing isn't what it is.

I keep walking, and I start thinking about what comes next.

5

ELOWEN

The first thing I'm aware of is the ceiling.

It's wooden, beamed, unfamiliar. The light coming through a window to my left is mid-morning, which is wrong because I went into the forest at dawn, which means either I wasn't unconscious long and I'm somewhere deep in pack territory, or I was out for hours and I've lost most of the morning entirely.

I sit up too fast and the room tilts.

"Careful."

The voice is low and comes from my right. I turn, too quickly again, and have to grip the edge of whatever I'm lying on, a cot, narrow and practical, to keep the room from tilting further.

The man sitting across the room is large in the way that reorganizes your sense of available space. Dark hair, close-cropped, broad through the shoulders in a way that isn't incidental. He's sitting in a plain wooden chair with his forearms resting on his knees, watching me with an expression that is attentive and completely unreadable.

"Who are you," I say. It comes out steadier than I expect.

"Kaedric Voln." He doesn't move. "I found you at the shrine. You'd been unconscious for approximately forty minutes."