Page 81 of The Forest of Lost Souls

“You wouldn’t be chickening out.”

“Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t.”

“Principles can cost you everything, and maybe for nothing.”

“It’s more pride than principles. If I went yellow on you, my dogs would know.”

“Your dogs.”

“For a long time, no one’s opinion has mattered half as much as what my dogs think of me. Maybe that sounds crazy to you.”

“Sounds dead-solid sane,” she says.

More than her beauty or the courage she displayed when dealing with four armed killers or her grace under pressure, those few words endear her to him. He wants her as a friend. His mirror has assured him that nothing greater than friendship is possible, but friendship is a kind of love and a priceless blessing.

Little Bear River, where steam billows from the water, cannot be reached in the direction they have been headed. With the three dogs, they retrace their steps to where Vida was swarmed by tech ticks. Before heading west, she retrieves her leather jacket, uses her knife to scrape the widgets off, and puts on the coat.

From the small backpack she shed earlier, she extracts the cardboard tube containing the pencil portrait of her uncle and secures it in a side pocket of the larger backpack that she now carries. Whatever she might be called on to endure, she is more likely to get through it if Ogden is with her.

The crossbow is a burden, but one she must bear. She might need it. Even if there is no adversary against whom she’ll have to defend herself, the instrument is emblematic of her fate, a symbol of her mission, an attribute of her soul. She carries it uncocked, with no quarrel in the groove.

The leash of each German shepherd is connected to the master leash. Although the dogs lead as if drawn by a scent to which they have been sensitized, that isn’t the case. They have no spoor to follow. Sam Crockett chooses the route. Although he instructs the dogs with an occasional word, with a tug of the leash, he seems to influence the pack also by psychic means of which perhaps even he isn’t fully aware. They negotiate the wilderness viatrails smoothed by all the elements and by the many creatures of the forest and the fields, making way up and down the least precipitous slopes, by flat ridgetops and flatter vales wherever possible, as if Nature herself guides them in a metaphysical alliance.

The trails are often wide enough for Vida to proceed in step with Sam. Whether she is at his side or following, she glances back from time to time with the expectation that they are being pursued. If the forest and the journey are as mystical as they seem, not only bright spirits have come into these woods but also those with dark intentions.

66

A PHONE CALL

Whether the visitor was Azrael, angel of death, or an avatar of Rhadamanthus, judge of souls in the underworld, or nothing more than an albino mountain lion in a mellow and curious mood, Regis wants his mug of black coffee to be spiked with the strongest spirits in Vida’s modest collection of alcoholic beverages. Having gone without sleep the previous night, he needs a steady input of caffeine. In addition, now that he has revealed so much to Wendy, is preparing to betray Boschvark in order to win this radiant woman’s approval, and has been visited by a four-legged omen of death, he also requires a courage-boosting double shot of whisky.

Wendy pours the Scotch into the coffee and brings the mug to him, where he sits at the kitchen table, and he says, “I know you probably disapprove.”

“No, not at all,” she says with evident sincerity. “Morally, you’ve come such a long way in a short time. For what lies ahead, it’s understandable you’d want a bit of confidence from a bottle. When we’ve been together long enough, I’ll be all the fortification you’ll need.”

Regis wants to get up and take her in his arms and kiss her with all the passion he can muster, which is more passion than anyone would think when judging by the look of him. However,his stress level is so high that he’s afraid he might have one of his Vesuvian nosebleeds. He dreads the thought of their first kiss being ruined by a volcanic eruption of blood.

His burner phone rings. Only Boschvark has the number.

Grimacing, he retrieves the phone from an inner pocket of his sport coat.

Wendy says, “What’s wrong?”

“It’s him. I have to answer it. Answering it is required.”

“So answer it,” she says.

“This won’t be anything good.”

“You won’t know until you answer it.”

“It’s never anything good.”

“Then don’t answer it.”

“He probably knows what I’ve told you.”

“How could he know?”

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