“I want a dog,” I call up to Dalton.

He shakes his head without turning.

“Hey, you’re all about me wanting things. Maybe I’ll just grab one of the ferals and tame it. Is that okay?”

He doesn’t even dignify that with an answer.

“How about the dog we spotted on patrol a couple days ago? The one you and Brent have been trying to put down? Beth told me it took a chunk out of your leg last spring. Careless, sheriff. Very careless.”

I get a flashed finger for that.

“But I do admire its attitude,” I say. “I think that’s the one I want. I can muzzle it, if that makes you feel safer.”

“Speaking of muzzles, you do know we’re listening for trouble, right?”

“You’re listening for trouble. I’m pestering you with stupid requests. Because I know how much you love that. I’d also like a hot tub.”

He snorts a laugh. One of the locals had started a petition for a hot tub. Dalton’s reaction was a wondrously imaginative line containing six expletives and a single noun. I’d offered to write it up as an official response and pin it over the petition in the town square. Anders dared me to do it. I still might.

We continue in silence, and I’m considering asking about a bird I saw yesterday, when I catch a glimpse of something in the forest. There’s a second when I think it’s the dog, because that’s the kind of place this is, where I’d tease Dalton about a feral dog … and it would promptly appear to bite his other leg.

I peer into the forest, and see a man. He has pale skin, light hair worn slightly long, and an old-style army jacket. That jacket is distinctive, and I’m certain I haven’t seen it before.

“Eric?” I whisper. Yes, it’s Eric now. As Diana pointed out, we’ve moved beyond surnames and titles. I ride up alongside him. “I saw someone. I think … I think we’re being followed.”

I describe our tracker. When I do, he relaxes and his lips twitch in a smile of relief.

“You know him?” I whisper.

“Yeah.” He looks at me. “I’m going to ask you to stay right here. I won’t go far, and I’ll stay where I can see you, but I need to speak to him, and he’s not good with strangers.”

My gaze must flick toward his gun, because he says, “Nah, nothing like that. He’s uncomfortable with outsiders, but absolutely no danger.”

He dismounts and passes me Blaze’s reins. He gives the gelding the apple from his pocket and then strides into the forest. I slide off Cricket and pass her my apple as I make a concerted effort not to watch him go. I’m curious, of course, but I want to be respectful.

“Jacob?” Dalton calls.

I nod, understanding now.

Dalton calls Jacob’s name a few more times. He adds, “I’m alone. I’d like to talk to you.” Finally, “Have it your way. Pain in the ass.” He says the last with a mix of exasperation and affection. This isn’t just someone he vaguely knows. There’s a relationship here, and when he comes out, I say, carefully, “Jacob. That’s the guy Brent was talking about.”

“Yeah.”

He climbs on Blaze, and I think the conversation is over, but as we start riding again, he says, “He’s a good scout. Grew up out here. Few years younger than me. I’ve known him … well, I’ve known him a long time.”

“And you’re worried about him.”

“Nah.” He pauses. “I’d just like to tell him about Hastings and Powys. Pass on the news. Ask if he’s seen anything. We missed our last meet-up, and I was a little worried. But you saw him, so he’s fine. Just being a pain in the ass. He heard us talking, and he was curious enough to see who the new voice is, but he’s sure as hell not coming out to say hello.” He rides a little farther and then says, “And I’m going to need to ask you to respect that, Casey. If you do catch a glimpse of him, please don’t try to introduce yourself. He’s not Brent.”

“If you tell me he wouldn’t want to meet me, I’d never try.”

His voice dips with his chin, as if in apology. “I know. Thank you.”

Five

Exploring today’s cave is not like walking hunched over through Brent’s cavern. It’s shimmying on my stomach through passages so narrow I’m sure I’ll never get to the other side. It’s shivering against a bitter and damp cold that gnaws at my bones. It’s filthy, wet jeans that have burst at the knee, and I’m pretty sure I feel blood trickling down my leg. And the smell.God, the smell.Of cold, and of death. When I put my hand down and feel stones crackling under my fingers, I shine my headlamp on them to see they’re actually bones from some tiny creature. There’s another smell, too. Guano. Better known as bat shit.

It’s cold and it’s wet and it stinks and it’s absolutely filthy. And I love it. Every time I squeeze through a tight passage, there’s a moment of animal panic, where my shoulders or hips catch and I’m sure I’ll be trapped in there forever. Then I make it through, and the relief … God, the relief. A shuddering, shivering relief that amuses the hell out of the others.

“Uh, you do understand the basic laws of mass, right?” Anders mock-whispers after I breathe that sigh of relief on surviving another chute. “If I go through first, there’s no way in hell you can get stuck.”

“Yeah, yeah.”