Chapter 12 Inga
INGA
Inga didn’t want Luke to know it, but after they finished talking and he went to bed, she lay awake, crying softly, trying to make sure he couldn’t hear her.
Inga wasn’t a weepy person, but everything he had told her seemed to have cut straight into her heart.
She couldn’t bear thinking of him like this, and others like him, and dogs like Rogue, all imprisoned by terrible people and being made to suffer.
It took her a long while to fall asleep, and when she woke to early sunlight, her eyes had an unpleasant sticky, puffy feeling.
But she no longer felt like weeping. What she wanted to do was find some people and kick their asses from here to the mainland and back.
She wished she’d known this yesterday. She would have loved to have shifted into a bear and gotten her teeth on that Brockton guy.
No wonder Luke had been so afraid that he was carrying a tracker. She squeezed her eyes shut again, feeling tears threaten, and blinked fiercely. The time for crying was past. They were going to do something about this.
Luke was asleep in the other bunk, making so little noise she was barely aware of him. She moved as quietly as she knew how, slithering out of bed, but she heard him stir and groan before her feet touched the floor.
“Morning,” he said hoarsely, rubbing his eyes.
“Sorry. I was going to let you sleep.”
“I haven’t really been sleeping.” He rolled over and sat up, ducking his head to avoid braining himself on the low beams of the upper bunk.
Like Inga, he had been sleeping in his clothes, in this case a rumpled T-shirt with a bait shop logo and the borrowed pants.
The T-shirt was a little loose on him—slightly underfed, he was narrower than her brothers—but it was still difficult to keep her gaze off the contours of his shoulders.
Inga resolutely turned her attention to making coffee.
“We’re going through food pretty fast,” she said. “We’re not going to run out of staples for a few days yet, but we probably ought to do some fishing to supplement what we’ve got here.” She darted a sideways look at him. “If you think you can stomach fish, that is.”
Luke gave her a brief grin. “Cooked is fine. It’s raw that I’ve had a lifetime supply.”
“No sushi. Check.”
He got up off the bunk and ran his hand over his jaw, where stubble shadowed the lower half of his face.
“I don’t suppose there are shaving things here.
One thing I didn’t do as a bear was grow a beard.
My hair was already like this; I was overdue for a barber.
” He ran a hand through it and looked around. “Where’s Rogue? Did you let him out?”
Inga, hunting on the shelves for a razor, looked around also, realizing she hadn’t seen the dog yet that morning. “Uh ... I guess he’s outside. Did you let him out last night?”
“I don’t remember doing it. I thought you did.”
The door was barred against potential bear incursions. Inga opened it, and sure enough, a slightly damp Rogue came trotting in with sandy paws, wagging his tail.
“I guess we did leave him out overnight. Sorry, fella.” Inga scratched his ears.
She still didn’t remember letting him out and not letting him back in, but maybe Luke had done it in the night, or perhaps she was just too distracted by Luke’s story to remember.
She went back to her search and found a rusty, dull-looking straight razor that looked like it had been there for a number of years. Luke winced when he saw it.
“I guess I’ll keep growing it for now.”
Inga was starting to think that there were a number of things she hadn’t taken into account.
She had one change of clothes with her, and Luke had a few different T-shirts from her brothers’ gear but just the one pair of pants.
There was no shampoo, and there used to be a bar of soap in the old shower setup, but she had no idea if it had survived animals and weather.
When she was planning to be out here for a few days by herself, none of that mattered.
It was like camping; she’d get scruffy and then go back to civilization and clean up.
Even being here with her brothers, she hadn’t cared.
It wasn’t like they made any particular effort not to be stinky and unshaven for her benefit.
But with Luke, she was all too aware that she’d been wearing and sleeping in the same shirt, and she didn’t even have deodorant with her. She wondered if Luke’s sudden urge to shave was the same impulse.
And that made her think of Luke’s quick kiss yesterday, the brush of his lips and the prickle of his stubble—the feeling of his skin when she had held his hand while he told her about his past—
“Coffee’ll be hot in a minute!” Inga announced, and all but rushed out the door. Rogue came with her, as if he hadn’t had enough outside yet.
The crisp early-morning air helped steady her, at least enough to push away the more vivid sense-memories of Luke’s touch. She still felt the craving, but it wasn’t as overwhelming.
Inga ran her hand through her hair and went down to the water’s edge, where she used the outhouse, rinsed her hands, and then walked over to the spring to wash her face and hands properly in fresh water.
She kept an eye on the old dock, but there was no recurrence of any ghosts.
She was starting to wonder if she had imagined it.
Still, Rogue also looked at the dock when she did—maybe just following her gaze, maybe sensing something she couldn’t see.
It was a gorgeous morning, promising another beautiful late-spring day.
The high rocky headland sheltering the bay cast a long shadow and kept her from being able to see the sun quite yet, but it was up, bathing the hills in soft gold.
Clouds edged with pink and gold flecked a vividly blue sky.
It was the kind of day that made a person glad to be alive.
Inga wondered exactly what they might do with this perfect, beautiful day.
Knowing now why Luke had been so nervous about the helicopter, she didn’t really like the idea of getting too far away from the cabin.
There was a lot of work to do around the place anyway, dealing with minor winter storm damage.
Or they could shift and go fishing in the bay—well, she could, she reminded herself.
The idea of a shifter who didn’t want to shift was still deeply weird to her. At least she understood his reasons now.
Movement drew her attention back to the blue sky, just in time to see a feathered shape fold its wings and dive into the water. As it rose again with its beak clamped on a wriggling fish, she realized it was one of the griffins, hunting for its brood.
The griffin vanished in the general direction of the nest, and Inga heard excited squeaking and chirping.
She kept one hand on Rogue’s back to make sure he didn’t get too interested.
By the time she got there, the excitement was mostly over and the babies were squabbling over the remains of their breakfast, while one of the parents guarded them.
Luke was outside, sitting on a rock with his hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, watching the griffin nest.
“I heard the commotion and wanted to make sure nothing was bothering the nest,” he told Inga quietly. “They don’t seem as nervous about me today.”
“I don’t think anything’s more important to them than food.”
The adult griffin hissed at Rogue, who flattened his ears a little and lay down at Luke’s feet.
“Actually,” Inga added, “if we go fishing later today and catch anything, I bet giving them any scraps we don’t want would be a sure-fire way to make a friend for life.
If you actually want them following you around, that is.
” The baby griffins had noticed her and set up a chorus of chirping, beaks wide. “That’s the mistake I made.”
“They’re cute, though.” Luke pursed his lips and made a credible imitation of the baby griffins’ chirping, which made the adult cock its head to one side, and the babies fell silent before launching into a wild flurry of chirping and squawking.
The other adult came swooping in with a fish, which distracted the whole nest once more. When they could talk over the noise, Luke said, “Do they have names?”
“I haven’t given them any.” Inga frowned at the nest. “I really wasn’t planning on this. They’re stowaways.”
“Technically, I sort of am, too.”
Inga made a be-my-guest gesture toward the griffin nest. “If you want to name them, feel free. I’m terrible at naming things. Remember, the boat that got lost was called the Dingboat.”
Luke laughed. “Maybe you should name them.”
“No, seriously, if you leave it to me they’re going to be Idiots One through Four.”
“Which is Idiot One?”
Just then one of the babies overbalanced in the act of fighting with its sibling, and fell off the rock on which it was currently perching onto its head. Completely unhurt, it rolled over and squawked as if it thought this was the universe’s fault.
“That one,” Inga said.
Luke laughed again, and she was beginning to realize that she loved listening to him laugh. He seemed a little lighter this morning, as if talking about his problems last night had relieved the burden somewhat.
“We need a name theme,” he said. “What’s something famous there are four of?”
“Beatles?”
“John, Paul, George and ... no, I might be able to call one of them Ringo, but I don’t think I can seriously go around referring to a ball of squawking fluff as John. Anyway, some of them might be girls.”
“Stooges?”
“Inga, there are very famously three of those.”
“No, there’s another one. Harpo, Chico, Groucho, and, uh—”
“Those are the Marx brothers. The Stooges are Larry, Moe, and Curly.”
“Oh,” she said. “Right.”
“Anyway, there are five Marx brothers, I think, though I can’t remember the others off the top of my head. What’s something that comes in fours?”