Alaskan Fire by Sara King

Author:Sara King [King, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2012-01-30T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 18: The Third-Lander Within

On August 28th, Blaze was pulling her very first ripe tomato off of its vine, staring down at it in flabbergasted awe, when Runt came running inside the greenhouse, wide-eyed, hand clutched protectively around a growing bruise around his throat. “The demonkin is awake. He’s asking for you.”

As if on cue, from the open lodge door, she heard a loud roar of, “Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaze!”

He probably smelled the silver. Blaze unconcernedly began walking down the greenhouse aisles, checking on her rabbits. They had bred like, well, rabbits. Even now, the cages were overflowing with all of them, and it had only been three weeks since the greenhouse had been constructed.

“Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaze!” the wereverine roared again. The Visqueen vibrated with the anger in his voice. Blaze opened a cage to change the water-dish.

Runt glanced over his shoulder nervously. “I shouldn’t be here.” And then poof, the little bastard was gone, leaving her to deal with the wereverine on her lonesome.

Blaze had been rehearsing for this. She knew the wereverine wasn’t going to take kindly to her use of silver, so she’d taken great pains to place little pockets of silver ammunition, silver nitrate, colloidal silver, and silver ingots wherever she could think to stash them. This time, she had no intention of going anywhere unarmed.

The heavy weight of the Desert Eagles bouncing against her hip giving her comfort—even then chambered with alternating silver slugs and silver nitrate hollow-points—she continued unhurriedly meandering through her greenhouse, listening to the wereverine rant.

When something heavy went hurling into a wall, however, Blaze paused at a poblano plant with a frown. Sure enough, she heard another roar, and something else went flying into another room with a crash.

“Oh God damn it,” Blaze growled, throwing aside the pepper and rushing to exit the greenhouse.

Inside, Jack was still lying in bed, but both the heavy rough-hewn chair that Blaze had been using while monitoring his condition and the rough wooden bench beside his head were both scattered pieces down the hall. He was in the process of lifting the coat-rack, hefting it over his shoulder, aiming at the pile of broken furniture down the hall. “Blaaaaaaaaa—”

Blaze grabbed the coat-rack and yanked it from his hands, surprised she could do so.

Jack turned, startled. When he moved, it was only with his upper body. His legs and abdomen remained more or less motionless.

“What the hell do you want?” Blaze snapped, slamming the coat-rack down, well out of reach.

Jack sniffed, his eyes going to the holster on her belt, but he surprised her by whining, “Food. Please.” There was a feralness to his eyes that was disturbing, like he was on the very edge of losing control.

And, if what Runt had told her was true, that was not something that Blaze wanted to see.

“I can make you some eggs,” she said. “The hens started laying.”

Jack whimpered. He collapsed back to the bed, shaking.

“Not enough?” Blaze asked, more than a little unnerved by the way his body seemed to be shrinking before her eyes.

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