“Boy, you leave now, I’ll see you in hell before I let you back.”
The boy gave a frightened glance from his father to Galen.
“Make a new life,” Lucy said from the dock. “I’ll give you money.”
The boy’s eyes gleamed for a moment. Then the light in them dimmed. “Haven’t got nobody but Dad. When the money runs out, what am I gonna do, work at some McDonald’s?”
“Go to school,” Lucy suggested. She couldn’t take him in when they were on the run. Could she? She’d be putting him in danger. . . . But she could see him wavering.
“I ain’t much for school.”
“We’ll help you. You can stay with us.” How could she not offer?
But she lost him. He frowned and looked away. “I guess I know who I am.”
Lucy knew then. He couldn’t see any other life but what he had. He was trapped.
“Good boy,” the father said. “You don’t need no dog. What I was thinking to let you keep a dog on a boat anyways I’ll never know.” He turned to Galen. “Now git off my boat.”
Galen looked around at the boat. It was old, but that wasn’t the problem. It was not well kept, unlike most others in the little marina. Old rags were scattered around the deck. The fiberglass was porous from never being sealed, and greasy. The sails flapped where they hadn’t been properly stowed. “This boat does not . . . belong here. You sail it to another place.”
The guy started to protest, then eyed the fishhook. He swallowed. “Been meanin’ to go over to Richmond anyway. Slips are cheaper there.”
Lucy doubted that, but it didn’t matter.
“You go by dark,” Galen said to the father. He glanced to the boy and spoke carefully. “You come to that boat,” here he pointed, “if you choose other street before he go. Goes.”
The kid nodded, but Lucy didn’t hold out a shred of hope.
“I keep this,” Galen said, hefting the fishhook. He leaned down, slipped the rope over the dog’s head, and tossed it onto the pile of rags by the hatch. What was he doing? That dog was going to bolt for the Canadian border after how he must have been treated. Galen backed to the edge of the boat and stepped over the side to the dock.
“Come, hund.”
To Lucy’s surprise the dog got up, limping a little, and managed to leap over the line railing. He touched Galen’s hanging right hand with his nose. “Good hund,” Galen whispered. Then he lifted his gaze to the father. “You go . . . now.”
Lucy’s heart thudded in her chest. Galen took her arm and turned her up the dock. The hard guy five boats down looked on impassively. Lucy craned around. The dog was, miraculously, trotting behind them, though his gait was a little off.
“What do you mean, sayin’ you aren’t like me, you little creep?” the father hissed at the boy. “Now see what you done with that dog you had to have.”
“Sorry, Dad,” the kid mumbled. “Real sorry.”
“Now you take the truck over to Richmond. I’ll motor over, moor in deep water. Call me when you got a slip. It better be cheap. And don’t be long about it.”
Lucy hoped the kid took the dilapidated truck and drove to Oklahoma or Wisconsin or somewhere, but she didn’t hold out much hope. Maybe he couldn’t help being like his dad after all. Galen would say the Norns had already woven the kid’s fate. But she didn’t believe it. He had a choice. He just wouldn’t take it. But did he have a choice? There was nobody to show him life could work any other way. As she and Galen walked down to their own boat, the kid trotted up to the parking lot, brushing at his cheeks. She and Galen stepped onto the Camelot. She paused, in spite of the first pelting drops of rain, and watched the truck roar out of the parking lot. Then she unlocked the hatch and scooted below, just in time to avoid the downpour. Galen came down the ladder and beckoned to the dog, who hesitated for a long instant, then plunged into the cabin.
Galen felt better all around. His thigh was throbbing and his shoulder was even worse. But that was “okay,” as Lucy would say. He felt more like a man.
The hund sniffed his way to the aft cabin, exploring. The creature looked like a black, long-haired wolf, but more elegant, with feathered tail, hindquarters, and front legs and a ruff around his neck. He was young, not filled out in the chest yet. He was much like the dogs Galen had as a child. His mother had gotten the first from a great wicce in Suthfolc named Britta. He had grown up with that dog’s progeny, a long line of intelligent companions. They were tricksters and thieves, fiercely protective, easily trained to herd sheep and cattle or guard sleeping babies and grain harvests. Was this dog descended from those ancestors so long ago? Only the Norns could know for certain.
“What are we going to do with a dog on such a small boat?” Lucy asked, hands on her hips. She was more bemused than exasperated.
“This is a big boat, Lucy. The hund will live here well. We have much food. We will take him off the boat to shit.”
She rolled her eyes. “I might have known that word would be the same.”
He raised his brows.
She sighed. “I know. What else could we do?” A small smile drew her lips up. “You were fearsome. Mighty.” Then she frowned. “But you could have been wounded again. Very stupid.”
He liked the fact that she thought him brave. “That man wound me? No, Lucy.” And she worried for him. That was good too. The hund came up and nosed Galen’s hand.
Galen went down on one knee and took the hund’s ruff in both hands. Lucy and the others had called him a dog. Galen looked directly into the dog’s face. He got concerned, started to struggle, and then relaxed as though he were melting butter. “You are safe now,” Galen rumbled. “You are my hund.” He glanced to Lucy behind him. “And you are Lucy’s dog.”
The beast’s tail gave a little thump on the floor. Galen’s smile broadened. This was a good dog. The moment broke and Galen gave him a pat and rose.
“He came right with you,” Lucy said. “Why didn’t he run for the hills?”
“Ders are my friends, always.”
“Der? Dog? No, you call them hounds.”
“Swine, hors, lamb, all these.”
“Oh. Animals. Beasts.”
He nodded. Beasts liked him. They came to him naturally. “You will name this dog, Lucy. He be your friend.”
“Will be,” she corrected, looking doubtful. “Well, let’s get him some water. He probably has fleas.”
“No fleas.”
“How do you know?” She frowned at him.
“If other beasts are here, I know.” It was just true. He could always sense other life. It was part of his warrior’s senses. No one could waylay him from a hiding place.
She gave him a wide-eyed look and got down a bowl, not made of glass but of something she had told him was plastic. She filled it and put it on the floor. The dog lapped eagerly.
“Poor thing,” Lucy said, looking down at him. His fur was worn away where the rope around his neck rubbed. His skin was raw. “And that poor boy.” She sighed. “I don’t think he’ll ever escape his father.”
“Mayhaps not.” A father could twist a boy’s soul as a mother could not. Galen was lucky in his own father, who had been honorable and stern but loving. It was he who had made Galen a warrior and a leader of men, when he could not be something more.
Lucy knelt and examined the dog. She made soothing sounds. It occurred to Galen that this was the sound women made when they crooned to their babies. “He’s got some raw places, but no wounds. And nothing’s broken. Maybe he’s just sore from getting hit recently.”
“Ja, sore. Same word.” Watching her, there, caring for the dog as she had cared for him, made him remember her hands on his flesh. His loins tightened. His scamlan began to swell as well as his wpen. Odin’s eye, but she could raise him.