He at last released Rae, pressed a brief kiss to the top of her head, then bent to retrieve his clothes.
“Ezra, your dad was a brave man,” Zander said as he skimmed his sleeveless shirt down his body. Rae, behind him, couldn’t look away from the picture he made—loose shirt baring his arms, his firm ass below it, the shirt’s hem brushing the links of the tattoo.
“He was in much more pain than we thought,” Zander went on as he grabbed his underwear, then his jeans, hiding himself once more. “Your dad had been holding it together until Rae could get here, but he kept his pain from you so he wouldn’t upset you.”
Ezra frowned but all his belligerence had evaporated. “How do you know that?”
Zander shrugged. “It’s a healer thing. Trust me. He needed to go but he didn’t want to leave you worrying about him.”
Ezra’s eyes moistened again. “The old fool.”
Zander buckled his belt and sat down on the porch steps to shove his feet into his boots. “We’ll honor him with fire to the Goddess,” Zander said, patting Ezra’s foot next to him. “But right now, I say we all go into town and get pissing drunk.”
* * *
Zander liked Rae squashed against him in the cab of his truck as he drove back down the long, empty road toward civilization. Ezra sat on Rae’s other side, still grieving, but Zander could tell he was relieved that his dad was in the Summerland and that he’d gone free of pain.
The old coot had hidden a lot from his son, Zander had realized as soon as he’d touched Robert’s side. He’d understood exactly how strong the dying wolf had been.
Rae had been scared out of her mind but damned if she hadn’t stepped up and done her job. She could easily have thrown down the sword and fled, running off through the woods and driving away in Zander’s truck, stranding them. He’d left the keys in the ignition—who was going to steal it out here, a moose?
But no, Rae had lifted her chin, hefted the sword that was too big for her, and become the Guardian. You go, Little Wolf.
Even afterward, Rae hadn’t collapsed into a puddle of goo—she’d gotten Zander out of the house so he could go bear without breaking the furniture. She’d stayed with him as he’d suffered the consequences of his healing gift, soothing him with her touch and her presence.
Rae now stared down the road as they came out of the trees, back to the flattish plain. She said nothing as they slowed to drive through Nikolaevsk and then head into empty country again. Her face was frozen, her pupils pinpricks. Reaction was setting in, and shock. Zander needed to get her somewhere he could pour alcohol into her—after that he’d carry her home and put her to bed.
“Hitchhiker,” Ezra grunted. He motioned ahead of them to a bulk of a man walking down the side of the road.
“Piotr,” Zander said.
Rae blinked, coming out of her daze. “What?”
“Not a hitchhiker,” Zander clarified. “Piotr Ivanov.” Zander slowed the truck as he approached the man, now minus wife and son. “Hey, my friend. Need a lift?”
Piotr’s blue eyes lit up under his red hair. He was tucked into a light coat against the wind, a bright red thing against the green and brown landscape.
“Be grateful,” he said cheerfully. “Off to check the boat, I am. My good-for-nothing brother is not careful with it.” Piotr was second-generation of his transplanted Russian community, but while he spoke English perfectly, he would fall back into a thick accent and stilted sentences when it suited him.
“Zander’s taxi, at your service.” Zander grinned at him and waved his arm to the truck’s bed. “Hop in.”
Piotr made himself comfortable in the back and Zander drove on through the couple dozen miles to Anchor Point and around into Homer.
After the quiet of the open country, Homer seemed a jumping place. It was nine in the evening but the sun was still high and people were out to enjoy the lingering daylight.
Zander took Piotr to his fishing boat at the head of the marina but he didn’t drive away, hopping out to assist Piotr with the boat. Piotr was right to be concerned about his brother-in-law’s competence—the man truly didn’t know what he was doing sometimes. Ezra and Rae remained in the truck, both of them silent and subdued, not questioning Zander’s need to help his friend.
While Zander’s boat was for sport fishing, Piotr had the real thing—a trawler with nets and cranes. It smelled like the real thing too, all fish and diesel. Zander helped him make sure the vessel was secure, then they both piled back into the truck and headed into town to Zander’s favorite bar.
Not long later, they sat in a row on barstools at Hank’s Tavern—Ezra, then Piotr, Zander, and Rae at the end, the sword in the fishing-rod case at her feet. Rae’s high-necked shirt hid her Collar, and Collarless Ezra was bright enough to hunker down and keep his Shifter nature to himself.
Zander blessed the Goddess for sending Piotr walking down the road at the moment he did. No one could relax like Piotr when the work was done, and his exuberance was exactly what they needed. Piotr was very devoted to his religion, but he was also very devoted to his vodka.
“Set ’em up,” Zander told the bartender. “One shot each—of his favorite.” He jerked a thumb at Piotr. “On me.”
“Sure thing,” the bartender said. Zander and the bartender went way back, and everyone knew Piotr. “And for the lady?” The bartender winked at Rae.
Not so far back Zander would let him become too friendly with Rae. “For her too,” Zander said, giving him a scowl.
Rae glanced at Zander in trepidation. “I’ve never tried vodka.”
Piotr leaned around Zander to her, his light blue eyes brightening. “Never? Oh, young lady, you are in for a treat.”
The bartender poured it out, clear liquid in four shot glasses.
Zander lifted his. “To Robert Wilcox, a strong man. May he rest in peace.”
“To Robert,” Rae echoed.
“To Dad,” Ezra said.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Piotr said. He lifted his glass. “To Robert.”
They drank. Zander and Piotr slammed their empty glasses back to the bar and slapped their hands down next to them. Ezra drained his shot but made a face and gently set the glass down again. Rae took a tiny sip, and coughed. And coughed.