Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57143 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 190(@300wpm)
“Which unit?” she murmured.
“12B.” He nodded at the last townhome on the right.
“Shall we knock?”
“I think that would be best.”
They got out of the Yukon. She had no idea what she looked like, but her legs were clad in jeans, so an illusion was in place. She’d changed before getting into the MII helicopter. She wore her hunting clothes now, a pixelated camo tracksuit and running shoes. The fresh pouch of Celeste’s milk was resting in the oversized pocket of her jacket, being kept warm by her body heat.
Next to her Augustine was the picture of a young Austin professional: a blue polo shirt, khaki cargo pants. He’d lost ten years and four inches of height and gained fifteen pounds. His face turned round, with brown stubble and wavy dark hair brushed back, a broad nose, and a wide smile.
She glanced down where two French bulldogs trotted by her, one tan and the other black. He’d changed their appearances, but he could do nothing about their gait. They stalked forward, paw over paw. The black Frenchie raised his muzzle to the sky and inhaled, sampling the scents. His lips trembled.
She would’ve laughed if she wasn’t so focused on their target.
They approached the unit. Augustine raised his hand to the door.
Feedback flooded her, flowing through the bond from Akela: the sound of the wind through the window in the back, the scent growing fainter, the lack of sound.
“She’s gone.” Her voice was a low growl, and she didn’t care.
“What?”
“She fled.”
The illusion dropped without warning, and the two bulldogs vanished, revealing two grey wolves, one white and the other a dark grey.
Their bonds strummed with magic. The wolves had caught the scent trail. She dove into the bond. It was like jumping head-first into a swift river. The magic current pulled her until the line between her and the wolves blurred and they became a group, a whole. A pack.
The trail ignited before her mental vision—a glowing, ragged thread leading up, into the overgrown hills.
Akela raised his head. His eyes burned into her. Whiskey shivered with anticipation.
Go!
She sprinted across the parking lot, running at full speed.
“Diana!” Augustine screamed.
She leaped over the curb and rocks and dashed into the brush. The two wolves darted ahead, weaving between the trees. Oaks and cedars flew by. Her muscles warmed, turning loose and pliant. Her world expanded, her ears catching distant sounds, her eyes registering the flickers of life among the trees. Odors flooded the trail, pushing in from all sides: the nutty, fir-tinted signature of squirrels, the musty, old-gym-bag stink of raccoon, the sharp tang of a female mountain lion, the rats, the rabbits, the birds…
She sent commands down the bonds to the wolves. At this distance, this close, she didn’t even have to whisper.
Silent, quiet, hidden. Track.
The thread shone brighter. They were gaining on their target.
The wolves crested the hill and plunged into the ravine below, and she followed, so light on her feet, she was nearly flying. She jumped over ragged chunks of limestone, dodged trees, and slipped through the brush, fast and sure. There would be no backup. No human could match her speed, not in this terrain with twilight creeping in. If Augustine tried, he would break his legs.
That was perfectly fine. This was a family matter.
They crossed the shallow valley and started up another hill. The trail vibrated, solidifying. The thread was solid now, like a fluid glowstick, veering between the tree trunks. Her enhanced hearing caught the rapid thumps of feet in boots striking the ground. Their prey was near.
She pushed a command down the bond. The wolves split, darting to the sides. They bounded uphill. A slight burn nipped at her legs, the first sign of fatigue. She dismissed it and kept running, pushing up the rocky slope.
The air flung a new scent at her, the foul, rotting, nauseating stench of putrid vomit. Llama spit. They were likely passing by a ranch.
The trail faltered, dimming and diffusing into the stench. Kensley had realized she was being tracked and was trying to disguise her trail.
Diana almost laughed.
The wolves slowed, padding through the chaotic violence of the llama spit. The solid glowing line of the trail had turned into a faint cloud, but the two hundred and eighty million olfactory receptors in wolf noses had given them the kind of sensitivity the human body couldn’t overcome. They sorted through the llama scents, picked the one that didn’t quite fit the pattern, and were off again.
Within moments, the trail solidified back into a solid glow, then changed slightly. A different human scent—Kensley, altering her signature again. It didn’t matter. Both Akela and Whiskey had locked on, and the three of them chased the glowing line through the clump of cedars up the slope and to the left.
The ground leveled out again. She caught a flash of a clearing through the trees, a group of live oaks, thick and twisted, with a dozen trunks growing from almost the same spot, rising up, then curving nearly parallel to the ground.