Disclaim, descant, decant: Having not heard back from Revenue Canada or my tax accountant, I'm now having to assume that I don't own the WB. But maybe I can own the next iteration, which would be really, really cool. And I'll share the boys with all of you. Promise. Rated for cursing and general ickiness. And you can turn a $12 bottle of red wine into a $25 bottle just by decanting it. That's my tip of the day.
Story thus far: Dean has dragged a reluctant Sam to a Civil War reenactment campaign in the Virginia Piedmont. An old family friend, weapons specialist and hardcore reenactor Beau McBean, has asked the brothers to investigate a Confederate ghost who's been hanging around various reenactment events and causing nasty accidents to happen. The ghost is accompanied by his very much alive canine companion, Buttercup, a family dog gone bad. As we join the boys, they have come under friendly fire from a Confederate picket while roaming the woods at night in search of the ghost.
--
For one horrific moment, Sam thought he'd wet himself.
Then he realized that he'd dropped into a small depression on the forest floor and it was damp and muddy. After the first burst of rapid gunfire, the woods fell into a ringing silence, though he could barely ascertain even that because his blood was rushing so loudly in his ears, his heart thudding somewhere up around his larynx. Turning his head, he spotted Dean's hand about an inch from his nose.
"Dean," he hissed, and his heart came right onto his soft palate.
In the darkness, he saw the sudden gleam of teeth bared in a known smile, heard the slight exhalation of breath as Dean raised his head a little. To Sam's other side, Beau levered himself up on his elbows. "Man," Beau whispered, like he was in church. "That was beautiful." His head angled to Dean. "What a goddamn rush."
Only when both men turned to him did Sam realize that he'd made a little sound, uncomfortably like a whimper.
"22nd Virginia Infantry, you golblamed twats!" Beau called out, an unmistakable thrill in his voice.
"'Zat you, Private McBean?" Came the unsteady response, and Sam reluctantly got to his knees, feeling the squelchy mud and stones beneath his hands as he did so. He rubbed his chest absently where he'd slammed against the rock. Damn, that would bruise. His cheekbone was bloody and stinging, and he guessed he was lucky that piece of bark hadn't smashed into his eye. Or a minié ball, for that matter.
Dean's attention was entirely on the far picket, where the lamplight flickered sporadically. Around them, the smell of old leaf and rot. The air was summer-night warm again, and Sam's night vision couldn't pick out anything that ought not to be there.
They walked cautiously back to the picket, and Sam was a little surprised that Dean wasn't cursing. The soldiers, almost all of them examining their guns with wonder etched deeply on their faces, made room for Dean as he joined their circle. He had that sort of bristling presence at the moment; just because he wasn't swearing didn't mean that he wasn't pissed off.
"Mind telling me just what you thought you were shooting at?" he asked, rattlesnake quiet.
The soldiers made a show of looking at each other. One of them, taller than the rest, a tell-tale t-shirt peeking out of his collar, looked at his booted feet before saying, "We were ordered to open fire." The rest muttered in agreement, even the kid, who was owl-eyed and solemn.
Dean's stare met Sam's over the heads of the others, then fell on the tall soldier again. "Ordered." Dean repeated, following the first rule of interrogation: just restate the last thing they said, don't even make it a question. Non-confrontational, despite the fact that everything about Dean at the moment said he was pretty much itching for a fight.
"Yeah, him," and pointed over his shoulder. At nothing.
Seeming to gather his wits, the tall soldier paled, which was a remarkable thing to notice in such poor light. He looked shocked beyond all reason. "Oh god. Oh god, boys," and stuttered into silence as Beau put a comforting hand on his shoulder.
Sam was already far back from the huddled group, purposefully keeping out of Dean's way. He wasn't going to interfere with Dean when he was about to tear a strip off someone. And with these guys, with soldiers, Dean was likely to get more information if Sam stayed out of it. A simple division of labor: bad cop, good cop. With tough guys, Dean got to be the heavy; little old ladies were all Sam's. It worked out.
It took him a moment to realize that there was a pair of glowing eyes on the far side of the group, steady in the woods, down low about knee height. And Sam remembered the growl, just before the gunfire. He edged around the men, only half-listening to Dean's terse, demanding voice. The eyes did not move, were trained on the soldiers, not on him. Intent, like a big cat watching a floundering broken-winged bird.
One of the men had attracted its attention, and it was on the hunt.
Except it wasn't a lynx or bobcat, Sam saw as he drew a bit nearer. It was a golden lab, all burred and marked with dirt, a wild feral look to it, flanks so lean Sam could see bone structure. Sam moved further away from the men, back behind the dog. His foot surprised a stick, and the dog turned suddenly, aware of Sam standing not twenty feet behind it.
The moon had come out, so Sam had more than enough light to see the dog snarl, noticed the foam dripping to the forest floor. Stiff legged, the dog shuffled towards Sam, the growl so low as to be virtually inaudible. Sam backed up slowly, a thousand bits of information coming to mind, like he was shuffling a deck of 'worst case scenario' cards: rabid dogs. Back up slowly. Make yourself look bigger. Climb a tree. Play dead. Make a lot of noise. Open up an umbrella. Realized he was actually thinking about what to do in case of a bear attack.
His back met a tree trunk, and he lifted his attention from the dog to the tree, trying to see if it was climbable. Luckily, this was a dog, not a bear. Bears could climb trees; he remembered seeing a picture of Winnie-the-Pooh doing it. Sam, he told himself, this is no time to be basing important decisions on children's literature. He tested the lowest branch – a stick, really, growing out the side, the only hand hold he was likely to get – and it came away in his grip. So much for climbing the tree.
The growl was louder now, and they were a good hundred feet away from the men, so far away that Sam could no longer hear Dean's voice. If he shouted, they would come, he knew. Dean, he tested the idea in his head, come help me, please. I've been cornered by a Labrador retriever. So, that was out.
The dog's eyes were following the stick as he waved it around, meaning to be threatening in a stick-waving kind of way.
"Nice dog," he said softly, hoping like shit that Dean wouldn't hear him. Noticed something. "Want the stick?" he asked suddenly, understanding the light in the dog's eyes. "Stick?" The growling had stopped, and the dog came down on its front legs, tail going a mile a minute. Downward dog, Sam thought, completely pointlessly.
Sam threw the stick as far as he could. He had a good arm and a clear shot; that dog was gone.
The game was fetch, though; the dog was going to bring it back. No rush, maybe, but he returned to the lamplight at a run, straight into Dean's hard stare.
"Dog," Sam explained hurriedly on a note that carried the thin edge of hysteria.
--
She had no idea where the fucking stick had gone. Goddamn sticks. She always thought they would taste better than they did. That tall one had her number, all right. Dumb, dumb, dumb, she berated herself. Fall for it every fucking time, don't you?
Her new master patted her on the head, which almost made her feel better, though it didn't really, because it made her realize that she'd let him down. She'd been able to smell it on them. Something that had that wild wonderful him scent, that smelled like her master, that he needed back.
All he asked of her was that she go get it. Well, get it and rip apart a few of those stupid people as well. They ran around like goddamned squirrels half the time, and those fucking things ought to have been banned from the beginning.
She could feel how badly he needed it, and she wanted to make him happy. He was so unhappy. And she was so hungry she thought she might start gnawing on her own leg if she didn't hunt something fast and warm-blooded soon.
The warm-blooded bit wasn't to be, no matter how hard she wished for it. He led her down to the river and she ate some frogs nesting in the mud, crappy little creatures, all jumpy-crunchy in her mouth. They weren't quite the same as Alpo, but they would do for tonight.
--
A strange kind of equilibrium had been attained with that one word.
Sam might not think it a fair exchange, Dean reckoned, but by crashing out of the woods screaming the word 'dog' like it was a demon from the third circle of hell, Sam had just put Dean in the position to hand Sammy his ass.
Dean could be big about it. He didn't need to rub it in on the drive to find the 22nd Virginia Infantry-recommended motel. He could wait, patiently, for the right time to discuss it gently with his brother. Or, should circumstances warrant, to hit Sam over the head with it like it was a rubber mallet at a Strength-o-Meter carnival sideshow. Either way, okay. Up to you, Sammy. How're you gonna play it?
Sam looked a little subdued, that pasty-faced kid way he got, especially with his cheekbone all bloody and bruised. Not quite so cocky, now, right? But instead of saying what first came to mind, Dean only scanned the road for the 'vacancy' sign that he was hoping for, left Sam in the car as he checked in – special rates for the reenactors, apparently, Beau had said – and scammed his way into a suite with a kitchenette and separate sleeping quarters. Nice lady in her mid-forties wasn't going to charge him any extra for the General Lee suite. This was turning into a goddamn holiday. Next thing you know, she'll be telling me about the – outdoor pool, of course. Oh, perfect. Sammy, I hope you brought your swimming trunks. Your big brother's taking you on a little vacation.
In fact, he went for a swim while Sam took a shower; having access to a decent pool was such a freakish luxury. Dean loved an unplanned swim, even in a chemical-shocked pool. He had spent the last few summers pulling the Impala over to the roadside beside whatever river or lake had beckoned, stripping down to his skivvies and running or jumping in without giving himself time to get used to it. Floating on his back, diving as deep as he could, where the water went winter cold. Loved glacier-fed streams high in the mountains for the intensity of the shock. Came with the territory when you had a vintage car with roll-down air conditioning, the looking for water.
Strolled back to the motel room barefoot, smelling of chlorine, slapped a clean and refreshed Sam with his wet towel and a wide smile before spending a full half hour under the hard jets of a motel shower with superior water pressure. By the time he got out, Sam had managed to scare up some late dinner in the form of room temperature beers and microwaveable Kraft dinner straight from the motel's 24-hour commissary, a meal only marginally more edible than home-made beef jerky and weevil-riddled hardtack. Dean knew of only one person who was a worse cook than he was, and that was Sam. They ate out of coffee mugs.
For the first time in a long time, Dean felt like watching TV in his underwear while Sam typed distractedly on the laptop, looking for background information. They finally had something for him to research. He continued tapping away as Dean scanned rapidly through Starsky & Hutch, the Price is Right, and some grainy Western.
"Dean?" Sam prompted, and Dean jerked awake, still sitting in the chair. Man, he was getting old. "You should go to bed. You'll get a terrible backache sitting like that."
Despite the fact that they could have had separate rooms, they both flopped down in the larger of the two bedrooms, the one with two queen sized beds. Neither turned the lights on, both able to see perfectly well by the neon sign located immediately outside the window that flashed 'Gray & Blue Motor Hotel' in amazingly mundane shades of gray and blue.
"Hey," Sam said finally, always the one to start. "You awake?" Dean grunted, not really wanting to encourage him. "Why d'ya think they do it?"
"Do what, Sam?" He knew perfectly well what, but he'd make Sam work for it.
"You know, dress up and play make believe?"
He was getting cocky in the dark, perhaps forgetting the dog. "I don't know Sammy. Makes them feel close to their ancestors, I guess."
"Yeah, but, you know, playing a Confederate kinda makes you an asshole, doesn't it? I don't see any African Americans out there in uniform."
Oh, it was going to be one of those conversations with Sam. "I know, Sam. You're right. Beau and his buddies, they know who won the war. They do, most of the time. Most people get their Civil War history in the usual ways. You read books and watch documentaries and all..."
"Took that school trip to Antietam one time, when we lived in Mechanicsville," Sam added. "And I think most of those guys out there would call it the War Between the States, Dean." He laughed quietly and dropped into a perfect imitation of Beau's Natchez Trace accent. "The Recent Unpleasantness."
The warm beer had softened the edges for Dean, so he laughed. Sam wasn't entirely wrong; men like Beau lived with one foot in the past and a hundred and fifty years might as well have been last week. "You're right," he agreed. "But these guys live out the history in a different way from books. I don't know," he fumbled around for the words, thinking of Beau and the way they talked about bivouacking with live ammo in the same breath as driving to the Piggly-Wiggly for a soda. "People remember things in different ways. Aren't we all just making it up, sometimes? Remembering what we want?"
There was a huge silence and Dean wondered if Sam had drifted off – hell, he had almost drifted off – but then he heard the rustle of sheets and he glanced over to see Sam put both arms to the back of his head, staring up at the ceiling. "I guess it's just such an appealing story, being the underdog, the rebel. They probably just want a little taste of something that's not punching a clock or cleaning furnaces." He turned so Dean only saw the shadow on his face. "Not so different from you, Dean." But it was soft, and it was a question.
"Maybe. I sure as hell wouldn't spend every fucking weekend eating jerky and drinking bad homemade hootch. I get enough excitement." Enough excitement most weekends, he might have added. But the abyss was always there, he'd just had a sample of it, having had nothing but time on his hands these past few weeks. He'd go talking-to-an-imaginary-friend-named-Napoleon crazy, given nothing but that.
"You ever heard those stories, about how some families, especially in this area, split apart during the war, took different sides?"
Oh, Sammy, please go to sleep, Dean thought. Trust him to concentrate on the intellectual aspects of getting your ass fired on by Civil War reenactors egged on by a ghost. "What do you mean, Sam?"
"You know, a father or a brother signs up for the Confederates, and the son or another brother goes over to the North?" He must have looked over again, because Dean could hear his voice get a little clearer, but Dean had already closed his eyes. "You know, happened a lot. Two brothers facing each other across a battlefield."
"Yeah," Dean breathed, thisclose to being asleep.
"It'd be weird, don't you think? Can you imagine such a thing?" And Sam probably went on, probably at length, but Dean had already fallen deeply asleep and was finally, blissfully, impervious to his younger brother's curious musings about fratricide.
--
It was a mess, but that was somewhat fitting, given that the battle the two armies were trying to reenact was Wilderness, the beginning of U.S. Grant's six-week attempt to get around Lee's flank.
In 1864, the two generals engaged in a series of running battles over a hundred-mile crescent, only ending at Petersburg, where both men settled in for a siege. At Wilderness, the two armies met on familiar ground: Chancellorsville, fought over the year prior. During the Wilderness Battle, troops clashed in unimaginably dense underbrush littered with the bones of the year before. Units were lost, soldiers fired on their own troops, and the fighting was close and bloody. In two days, Lee lost seventeen thousand men, many of whom burned to death as fires caught in the underbrush.
So what the hell, Sam thought, folding the brochure in half and stuffing it in the back pocket of his jeans. Maybe they should just smack each other over the head with their rifles and call it a day. What reenactment could be complete without men trapped in burning underbrush? His cheek hurt from the night before and his brother wasn't cutting him an inch of slack, despite the fact that Dean had been up at dawn and still smelled like chlorine. Very farb scent, Dean.
The gates were due to open to the public in half an hour and the call had just gone out to de-farb the camp. Everyone was scrambling to stuff plastic coolers under camp cots, toss watches and polyester mosquito netting into canvas gunnysacks, to rid the camp of any signs of the present century. The hospital tent was set up with saws and limb baskets, General Lee's camp huge and somehow cheerful, the small first-person interpreter playing Lee for this event already on top of his dancing gray horse.
Needless to say, Beau's 22nd Virginians were relaxed, were cooking coffee to tar, not having to put away any farbware because they didn't have any farbware. Not unless you counted the two young men in faded dark jeans and threadbare cotton button up shirts that shared a tin of coffee between them, trying to appear as though the dense liquid didn't taste like engine oil. Sam knew he and Dean were so farby that Beau's men almost wanted to make them wait beyond the roped area, where the public milled in a long line-up, families with their coolers and BBQs and industrial strength tubs of sunscreen.
Beau's men were tucked back in the woods, apart from the main part of the camp, where they would soon form up to a line and the Union troops would take their places. Preparing to answer public questions – 'hate the pilgrim baiters' Beau said to Sam, 'those assholes that try to provoke you into an argument' – the troop decided how'd they play it. First-person all the way, no 'my time-your time' crap, no take off my hat to drop my character ploys. Hardcore all the way. There was no reasoning with them, Sam thought.
"Gotta a few spare bits and pieces, Dean. Sure?" Sam caught the tail end of the conversation that Beau was having with his brother, and he just about spit out his coffee. Actually, it would be nice to have an excuse to spit out his coffee.
"Nah," Dean replied, but Sam could tell from his body language that he was hoping that Sam hadn't heard. No way he was going to let this slide, not with the dog hanging over him like a fucking albatross. "We'll wait by the crowds, see if we can tell what's going on."
Riddicker came up beside them, smiled grimly. "Keep a weather eye on the goldurned Yankees. The dog seems a might partial to them. Loaded up?" he asked the rest of the troop and everyone nodded. Fuck, that had to be a bad idea, carrying live rounds during this sort of thing. There were kids here, for crying out loud. Sam tried very hard not to roll his eyes, but Dean spared him a glance as he turned away with a sigh.
"Something to add, Sammy?" Like he had a stick. Fetch. Too close.
Sam shook his head. Beau looked back and forth between them, then pointed to where the gates had just opened, families streaming in, picnic blankets and aluminum frame chairs held like battle flags. The sun was already hot; the day in this shallow valley was going to be a furnace.
"Hey, why don't I introduce you to Mira," Beau said to Dean, as though Sam wasn't even there. "She can tell you about the Fredericksburg dig."
Sam was going to ask more about that, since it seemed that Dean already knew what the hell Beau was talking about, but the men all stared to move at once, grabbing weapons and locking up crates with period-appropriate locks.
"Everyone got water?" Riddicker asked, cleaning up the coffee, throwing the dregs into the bush. He dropped his voice and leaned towards Sam, who could smell him. Okay, chlorine was better than this, Dean. "You don't have to finish it," like Sam was a slow and difficult child.
Sam smiled, swallowed the last mouthful and passed the tin mug to Riddicker. "Thanks," he replied, and had to hurry to catch Dean and Beau, who were already walking away from the encampment towards the crowds.
"I was luring the dog away," he called after them, and Dean turned, put on a pair of sunglasses, his smile indicating that he was a million miles away.
"Whatever," he agreed, too amiably.
"Who's Mira?" Sam asked, falling into step beside them as they meshed with the crowd, avoiding small kids and sunburned parents.
"My sweetheart," Beau with an expression of saccharine joy that gave Sam the creeps. "Pretty as a picture and smart as a whip."
"You have a girlfriend?" Sam blurted out, stopping.
"Apparently," Dean wasn't even trying anymore. He pushed Sam lightly from behind and dropped his voice, glaring at Sam's surprise. "Archaeology student at James Madison."
They'd fallen behind Beau, who had come up to a softly rounded young woman with the longest hair Sam had ever seen, held back in a ponytail, a pair of khakis already smudged with dirt, her face flushed with heat and maybe something else as Beau took off his cap and bent over her hand, kissing it soundly. "My dearest Miss Bell-Hopkins, how good of you to grace our humble struggle."
He turned, a happy grin spreading beneath his blond beard. "Gentlemen, this is Miss Mira Bell-Hopkins, of Fredericksburg. My darling girl, these are the Winchester brothers, Dean and Samuel."
Mira pulled her hand away, clearly charmed, and whacked Beau on the shoulder. "I never trust anything he says when he's in uniform," she said cheerfully. "Beau told me you'd done this before," Mira said, directing her comment to Dean while shading her eyes from the sun. She pulled out a pair of sunglasses from a large bag. "You don't look the type, must say."
Dean shrugged, but Sam could see a mist of sweat sheen Dean's temples, the back of his neck already reddening because he was too stubborn to wear sunscreen. "Was more interested in how he made his hardware."
"Well, gentlemen, I must away now, I'm afraid. My magnolia," and Beau kissed her hand again. "Perhaps we can rendezvous anon. Wish me godspeed in battle. Boys," and he sauntered off through the appreciative crowd, more than a little full of himself.
Sam watched Mira watch Beau walk away, knowing that this was the best way to know how in love someone was. Beau, however odd, had found himself something.
Above the din of screaming kids and overly harsh parents, the hawkings of the program sellers and the droning of what he assumed were a group of reenactors playing out a scene in the tents closest to them, Sam heard his brother clear his throat. "So you're working on the Fredericksburg dig this summer."
Mira smiled, and turned to the brothers. "Fourth year of the dig. By the Sunken Road, our section. Real history," she said, winking.
Sam laughed. "You don't buy all this?" Gestured with one hand to include the entire camp – tents, kids, Southern belles, missionaries, horses, cannons, and soldiers.
A sudden fusillade of cannon fire alerted them to the fact that proceedings were getting underway, and the sharp scent of gun smoke wafted over the crowd. "Come on," Mira urged. "We'll never get a good spot." She turned to Sam. "Not unless you'd rather go taunt the interpreters."
Ouch, Sam thought. That actually smarted. "Only if I was stuck with them on a deserted island with nothing better to do."
Mira possessed one of those laughs that made people turn around to see what was so funny. "Well, I'll get you settled. I can't stay the whole day; I promised the gang back at the dig that I'd take the afternoon shift. There's been too much vandalism lately. Stuff getting stolen. Shitty world when people take stuff from an archaeology dig." She turned, took a bottle of water out of her bag and unscrewed the cap. "Follow me." And tipped the bottle up to her mouth as she shouldered her way through the crowd.
Sam ruffled a hand through his hair, already damp with sweat. Where could you buy water around here? Mira had the right idea. Beside him, Dean had actually taken off his sunglasses to pierce him with a sharp stare. Ask her something? Take off in the opposite direction? Is that what that glare meant? Jesus, Dean, it would be nice if you'd take the time to hone those ESP skills of yours.
"I got something to ask Beau before he gets started," Dean said abruptly, jerking his head towards Mira's retreating form. He lowered his voice. "Find out what kind of vandalism. Find out what things have gone missing. Do, you know, some research."
Sam shrugged, and waved vaguely farewell. "Watch out for snipers," he said, only realizing that it was probably in bad taste by the time he caught up with the archaeology student.
--
"Okay, Beau," Dean started, completely ignoring the fact that Beau was just about to take a leak against a tree. Custer smiled, continued to unbutton his pants. You had to plan ahead when wearing this kind of gear, Dean knew. "What gives?"
The Confederate private didn't answer until he was finished, by which time a happy family of DC suburbanites had looked askance at them, huddled by the copse of trees, the distant sound of drilling on the field accompanied by shouts and the occasional blast of bugle. Their teenaged daughter had said 'gross' out loud, which was probably just the first time in a long day of endless opportunities. The family was followed by a tiny pink drunk who wobbled in and out of a straight line before her mother scooped her up in her arms and hurried her off to a more family-friendly area.
"Gives?" Beau repeated, being privy to the same interrogation techniques as a Winchester.
Dean smiled, despite the fact that he knew what Beau was up to. "An archaeology student? Really? Not working on an Egyptian dig, is she? Or even something from the Moundmakers. No, she's a Civil War archaeologist."
"Archaeology student," Beau amended, fixing his bayonet. "Still has graduate work to do."
"Uh huh," Dean stared hard at Beau's glass-colored eyes. "Any perks to this particular gig?"
Beau grinned, revealing teeth that were alarmingly period-appropriate. "You mean, aside from..."
Dean nodded. "Yeah, aside from that." He crossed his arms, felt the sweat slide down the side of his face, down his back. He knew how hardcore Beau could get, and knew that Beau had certain knowledges that went far beyond the typical reenactor's. Knew exactly what kinds of opportunities an open battlefield pit might present.
For the first time, Beau looked uncomfortable. "You can't blame a guy," he protested. "Just a few little things, when she lets me help out."
"A few little things?" And if Beau noticed that Dean was using the questioning strategy against him, he didn't mention it.
Beau shrugged. "You know. A buckle, some horseshoe nails, some coins. A ring or two."
"Grave robbing." Didn't even make that one a question.
Beau smiled suddenly. "Not technically a grave."
Dean raised both brows in disbelief. "What? You gotta have a gravestone to make a grave? Awful narrow definition, Beau."
And another fusillade sounded, the whinny of horses, and Ruddicker's booming voice calling the 22nd to action. Beau smiled again, and it was thin as poorhouse soup. "Destiny's calling," he said, stepping out of Dean's reach.
As he moved through the trees to join his troop, Beau turned back, his gun held slackly in his hands, eyes glowing, totally in the moment. "Hey, Dean Winchester, you still carry it with you?"
Dean thought about not answering that, looked away to the teeming field, the cannons and the horses and the shade umbrellas emblazoned with soft drink manufacturer's logos. "Course," he replied, one hand in his pocket, fingering his car keys. "I don't lose shit like that."
Beau grinned in response, and then the cannons started up in earnest, and he ran onto the field of battle, leaving Dean standing alone in the wilderness wondering what kind of trouble had found him this time.
--
That one, Buttercup thought, her mind twisting like a terrified mouse held between the paws. She was down on her haunches, could feel the hunger wind its way from her belly into her mouth, causing saliva to spill. Beyond the screen of trees, crowds clambered about, running and confusing, all sorts of food dropping to the ground. Could have had her pick – hotdogs, sandwiches, goldfish crackers, a bunch of fucking grapes, a half-eaten stick of pepperoni.
Knew it was there, it was maddening it was so near. Confusion all around, but clarity when she focused on the one, the one who had what her master needed.
He sat beside her, no less watchful, one hand on the raised hairs along her shoulders and spine. They were silent in the woods, watching the two men. She could tell her master was confused, was scared. She could tell he sensed it too.
Close. I can smell it. That one.
TBC
Thanks: to the crew, especially Lemmypie, who is my total hardcore darling. I never, ever have to twist her arm to read anything, no matter how shabbily written it is. She befriends reenactors to get the goods, and dresses her kids up in CW gear just for fun. How's that for dedication from your beta, eh?
a/n: 'Pilgrim baiting' originated in Mystic Seaport historical site – it's when an audience member starts heckling a first-person interpreter's routine, a well-known phenomenon in the field of museum interpretation. Okay, taking off my museum-worker's hat now. Shutting up.