Doomsday Can Wait (Phoenix Chronicles, #2)(30)

The memory of the children popping up one at a time in Ruthie's backyard made me want to punch something. I considered putting a dent in the Impala, but knew from past experience that I'd hurt, maybe break, my hand. Sure, I'd heal, but the kids would still be dead. Those kids were forever dead.

I rubbed my palm over my face, brushing away all the raindrops.

We reached the car and I opened the driver's door as quietly as possible. Sawyer hopped in. I put it in neutral and pushed the vehicle through a slight track in the trees until we emerged in another subdivision, just as I'd expected. Superior strength was so damn useful.

Only when we were far enough away that no one would hear the rumbling of the engine, did I turn the key and leave Lake Vista behind.

Sawyer sat in the passenger seat and hung his head out the window like a dog, mouth open, tongue lolling. If no one saw his long, spindly legs and huge paws, or peered too deeply into his too intelligent yet just short of feral eyes, he could pass for a dog.

We both needed a shower in the worst way. If anyone got a look at my gory wet clothes and my blood-covered ... I glanced at Sawyer—I'd been about to say pet.

"Companion," I murmured, and he huffed. Sometimes I could swear he read my mind. At least he could understand me even if he couldn't talk.

"We'll stop at a hotel, get cleaned up." And while there, I could shape-shift and find out what in hell had happened in Lake Vista. Then, depending on the tale, we'd either chase luceres or continue on to Detroit.

I drove southeast for an hour. I needed to put enough distance between us and the massacre so that we wouldn't attract immediate suspicion.

On Interstate 94, I found a nondescript motel used by truckers. A place where I could check in—after I'd covered the bloody hacked and slashed tank top with a jacket despite the heat—then drive around the back to my room, park directly in front, slip the wolf in through the door.

Once inside, Sawyer headed for the bed.

"Shower first," I ordered. "We don't need bloodstains on the sheets. I had to give them my license plate number."

Sawyer bared his teeth, but he went into the bathroom, then sat on the tile and stared at the bathtub until I turned on the water.

The blood had dried on his snout and paws. The hot water loosened it somewhat, but soap would work faster. I sighed and went to my knees. I was going to have to bathe him like a dog, then, I was going to have to dry him like one, too. From the expression in his eyes, Sawyer thought this was hilarious.

"Don't get used to it," I muttered as I tore the paper wrapping off the tiny bar of soap.

He might not get used to it, but he certainly enjoyed it, moaning a little as I worked the soap through his dark, coarse fur. He ducked his head beneath the stream, then shook droplets all over me.

"Hey!" I protested, but the tickle of the water made me smile until I realized what I was doing and stopped. Smiling after so many had died was a lightness I couldn't afford.

I shut off the water, grabbed several towels, and backed up so Sawyer could leap out of the tub. Then I rubbed him down as quickly and efficiently as I could.

As I scrubbed the brilliant white cloth over his ebony fur, he hung his big head over my shoulder, and his face brushed mine. He smelled like wolf and man—like a desert breeze across the mountains, like the smoke of a fire in the night.

I pulled away. No matter what he'd done to help the federation, the fact remained that he was the son of the Naye'i, the woman he'd conjured from smoke, and we needed to have a chat.

"Go." I pointed to the bedroom.

He lifted his upper lip, but he went. I guess I couldn't blame him for being annoyed when I talked to him like a dog, but honestly, when the paws fit, what did he expect?

I shut the door, then locked it, though I have no idea why. Sawyer couldn't open it as a wolf, and he was stuck in that form as long as he was away from Navajo land.

However, I'd seen Sawyer do unexplainable things. Who knew, maybe he could walk through walls. I didn't want to find out while I was naked and vulnerable.

I dropped my clothes. The wound on my chest wasn't gaping, but it wasn't gone, either. An ugly red slash remained that still hurt if I moved too fast or too far. Since I'd never been killed before, I wasn't sure how long it would last or how well it would heal. As long as I was alive, I guess I didn't care.

Before I got into the shower, I removed my gun from my duffel and set it on the toilet tank. Most things that might come through that door wouldn't be bothered by a gun, but better safe than sorry.

A half hour later, I dried off, then, after wrapping myself in a towel, picked up the gun, the duffel, and went into the room.

Sawyer lay on the bed watching TV, the remote next to his paw. On the screen, a hunting show played; his gray eyes followed a huge deer as it gamboled back and forth across an autumn field. When a shot rang out, he started forward, ruff rising, a growl rumbling from his throat, eyes fixed avidly on the buck as it leaped, ran a few yards, then slowly crumpled to the ground.

I guess a wolf was a wolf, even when it wasn't.

I stepped in front of the television. Sawyer leaned to the side, trying to see around me. I dropped the towel. He slowly leaned back, his interest in the deer lost.

I guess a man was a man, even when it wasn't.

Quickly I laid the gun on the nightstand, removed the wolf robe from the duffel, swirled it around my shoulders and shifted.