Page 16 of Concluded (The Bureau #13)

A numbness had settled over Achilles. He should have been relieved, because it meant the pain no longer ate at him, but instead he found it unsettling.

Before, he’d been hollow, and now he felt barely connected at all.

He imagined his spirit—his soul, his anima, whatever it was—as a bit of gray fluff, attached to his corporeal self by nothing more than a slender strand of silk.

The only thing keeping him together was the warm body behind him and the strong encircling arms.

Achilles hadn’t expected Dee to release him from those chains.

And he certainly hadn’t expected him to get Achilles to safety and keep him as comfortable as possible.

Honestly, Achilles had spent much of his life assuming the worst of people, so it came as a huge surprise to discover that someone was better than his initial behaviors implied.

When all of this was over—assuming Achilles survived—he’d see a shrink. Maybe a therapist could help him work through his low expectations.

He was still thinking about this when a coyote trotted into the building with a backpack held in its teeth. It dropped the pack, shivered, and became a grinning man. Boone, of course, and he looked pleased with himself.

“No phone. Sorry. But there’s water bottles, food, and some stuff to keep you warm. It’s too bad you can’t grow fur.”

As Achilles licked his parched lips, Martell—no, Dee—helped him sit up and lean back against the stone wall.

Then Dee attacked the backpack, pulling out the promised bottles along with an assortment of packaged protein bars, trail mix, snack chips, and candy.

There was also clothing: a pair of olive-green sweatpants, a matching sweatshirt, a knitted cap, and a pair of thick socks.

Dee helped Achilles dress. It was maddening to be so weak, but warm clothing certainly made him feel better.

“Where did you find all of this?” Dee asked.

Boone, who apparently didn’t care about his own nudity—shifters rarely did—plopped down to sit cross-legged. “Visitors’ center. We’re inside a national monument because of the adobe ruins.”

“Why didn’t you just have the rangers call for help?” Dee demanded.

“They closed the monument to the public a few days ago and fired all the rangers.”

Achilles paused before taking a sip from a water bottle. “Why?”

“Feds, man. They’re doing all sorts of crazy stuff. Our clan leader heard they want to lease out the land for mineral rights.” Boone scowled. “We run on these lands. Hunt on them. We always have. If men come in with machinery, clawing away at the earth….”

“I understand. I’ll speak with my boss about it, although I can’t guarantee anything. A lot’s going down right now.”

Although Boone remained man-shaped, for a moment he didn’t look at all human. Maybe it was something about his eyes. But he nodded gravely. “I understand. I can smell it in the wind. It’s bad.”

Well, lovely—a confirmation that Achilles didn’t especially welcome.

But he continued to sip the water and nibble at the snacks.

He was ravenous and wanted to gobble all of it, but he knew better.

The last thing any of them needed was him puking his guts out.

Or worse. Anyway, although he was still in sorry shape, he felt a lot better now that he was hydrated, had a little food in his belly, and felt warmed by the soft clothing.

“The Bureau owes you a debt for your help,” Achilles told Boone. “And I owe you a debt as well.”

Boone’s expression softened and he looked pleased.

After Achilles decided he’d eaten enough, he lay back down, using the now-empty backpack as a pillow.

He pretended he didn’t miss the comfort of Dee’s embrace.

The sun was high overhead now, although there was still a chill in the air, and the sky was a clear blue.

Dee and Boone quietly rustled some of the snack bags, but the only other sounds were bird calls.

Achilles could imagine the roars of excavators and backhoes, the stink of diesel exhaust, the gaping holes in the ground like wounds that would never heal.

Countless plants and animals killed instantly or withering away through loss of habitat.

And a thousand years of human history carelessly wiped out.

Not the biggest atrocity the world was facing right now, but also not negligible.

“Where are all your scars from?” Boone asked through a mouthful of Doritos.

During a training session, Agent Becker had mentioned that coyote shifters respected scars as marks of having survived something dangerous. Becker himself was disfigured from his encounter with aliens, but he always wore his scars with pride.

“They’re from a lot of things,” Achilles said. “I think my first happened when I was eight, messing around with a pocket knife. My most recent ones came from a bear shifter.”

“Bears,” Boone growled. “They’re worse than cats. Stupid and brutal.”

“Well, this one wasn’t very pleasant. But I’ve met other bears who were really decent.”

Judging from Boone’s snort, he didn’t believe it.

But Achilles lacked the will or energy to argue.

He closed his eyes and drifted, somewhere between awake and asleep, the soft conversation between Dee and Boone gently washing over him.

It reminded him of when he was a little boy and his parents and their guests would continue talking well after Achilles’ bedtime.

He could hear their voices coming up through the air vent in his bedroom, quick banter in Greek and frequent laughter, and he’d found it comforting.

What would his young self make of Achilles now?

* * *

Darkness had fallen, along with the temperatures, and Achilles was shivering again despite his sweatsuit, hat, and socks.

Boone and Dee huddled close against him, which helped a little, but this coldness seemed to emanate from Achilles’ core.

He wondered whether Dunn had changed something within him—created an infection, either biological or metaphysical—but he decided there was no use worrying about something he could neither assess nor control right now.

At least his stomach felt settled enough to eat a couple of protein bars, a Snickers, and a packet of peanut butter crackers.

Suddenly, Boone sat up straighter. “They’re here.” He leapt to his feet and started stuffing trash into the backpack, an action that Achilles admired. Some of the current feds might not want to respect the history of this place, but Boone was doing his best to preserve it.

“I don’t hear anything,” said Dee.

Boone shot him a grin. “’Cause you have those stupid human ears. Doesn’t it drive you nuts not to hear anything? Not to mention your useless nose.”

A look of comprehension passed over Dee’s face. “Oh, right. Coyotes.”

Achilles decided against giving Boone a lecture on ableism. He knew that many NHSs found human limitations weird or pitiable, and he also figured that it was good for humans to be periodically reminded that, as a species, they were far from perfect.

Less than a minute later, Achilles heard engines.

With Dee’s help, he got to his feet, but he had to lean against the wall in order to remain upright.

His feet were torn up from trekking through the desert in socks, his legs weak from being immobilized while chained to the table.

Now a headache threatened to add to the party.

But hey, he was standing, and that was something.

Boone hurried out of the building and returned a moment later with a woman and two men, all of whom had the look of coyote shifters.

The newcomers took a moment to goggle before Boone urged them into action.

Then everyone went outside—Achilles leaning on Dee for support—where a trio of ATVs awaited.

Apparently it wasn’t going to be a comfortable ride out of here, but it was better than walking.

Perhaps not surprisingly, coyotes drove ATVs like maniacs, hurtling through the roadless dark with seemingly little consideration for topography or the laws of physics.

Achilles, seated behind one of the men, clutched him for dear life and kept his eyes tightly closed.

He knew that coyotes could see well in low light and that their reflexes were faster than humans’.

And presumably this crew was well acquainted with the local landscape.

If he hadn’t been exhausted and aching, he might have found the ride exhilarating; but as it was, he was terrified he’d lose his grip and go tumbling off a cliff.

He was deeply relieved when the vehicles skidded to a halt in a small valley.

There were only a few lights here, so he couldn’t make out the details of the surroundings, but he had the sense that the entire coyote clan was gathered: thirty or so people, some in human form and some canine.

One of them, a middle-aged woman in jeans and a plaid shirt, approached him before he had a chance to peel himself off his driver.

“I’m Jackie,” she said without preamble. “This is my pack.”

Achilles dredged his memory for coyote etiquette. “Pleased to meet you, ma’am. I’m Agent Achilles Spanos from the Bureau of Trans-Species Affairs, and that’s Dee Martell. I apologize for not bringing gifts. We’re… in pretty desperate straits. And I’m incredibly grateful for your clan’s assistance.”

“My mother made an agreement with your agency twenty years ago. We keep our promise. What do you need?”

Achilles wanted to sob with relief. “A phone, please.”

“No cell service here. But I got a landline, so come on in.”