I pause two heartbeats. Then it hits. We’re in the rough vicinity of where we found the dead tourists. It’s also where Cherise and Owen found the settlers. I hadn’t realized it because we took a different route then.
I murmur an explanation to Petra. She hasn’t asked for one. Anders jokes about being a good soldier and not questioning orders. I suspect Petra is even more accustomed to that, having been in the line of work where you complete your task without always understanding the rationale. Sometimes, she’d have been better off not knowing. Plausible deniability.
We slow our pace while Dalton studies the undergrowth. When a distant rumble sounds, our gazes swing up, and my first thought is plane. It’s only a matter of time before someone comes looking for the missing tourists, and we feel that ticking clock. There’s no plane, though. Just darkening clouds to the south.
“Please don’t roll this way,” I murmur.
Dalton grunts his agreement. A storm would disturb the scent trail. For now, those clouds seem to be staying in place, the rumble of thunder equally distant.
I’m turning back to the path when Storm’s head snaps up. Her nose rises, sniffing the air. There are two types of scents a tracking dog can follow: ground and airborne. The former indicates a past trail—sloughed skin and hair wafting to settle on the ground. Airborne, though, means you’re picking up an active scent-emitting target.
“Is it a person, Storm?” I ask. “Person?”
She knows this question. We’ve had to train for it, hour upon hour of presenting her with both human and animal scents, until she could reliably tell the difference. She keeps sniffing, nose raised, and lets out a tiny whimper.
Yes, human.
Dalton’s scanning the undergrowth. His grunt says he doesn’t see a breaking point—a spot to indicate someone left the trail here. That only means they might have gone in farther down. He paces, looking for a spot to get through the dense brush. He finds one and motions for Storm’s leash. I pass it over and he takes the lead, cutting a path into the forest for us to follow.
Ahead, Storm strains at the leash. She’s well enough trained that no scent will have her tearing into the forest. The leash only signals that this is work.
We’ve gone maybe twenty feet when a sound makes my stomach explode with panic. My knees lock and my throat dries up.
A snuffle. The low snuffle of what sounds like a bear. That panic explosion assures me that while I may seem to be coping with what happened earlier, I am not past it. My psyche has done me the favor of tucking that trauma aside so I can proceed with my day … until I hear this wet snuffle.
Thankfully, no one notices my overreaction. Dalton is in front of me, Petra behind, and she only bops into me before stopping. A noise in her throat says she catches the same sound. Dalton has, too, and he’s stopped, gun rising. In the front of the pack, Storm has gone still. Or so it seems until I see her back quarters quivering.
Something moves twenty feet ahead, on the other side of a bush. Brown fur shimmers, and my heart thumps double time. My grip on my gun slides as my palms sweat.
Dalton scans ahead. I do the same. We won’t be caught off guard this time. There’s no sign of a second beast, but it’s dense forest, and we can only make out that fur-shimmer of the first.
Dalton passes the leash back to me. I’m to stay where I am while he investigates. A wave tells Petra to circle wide and cover him. As I take the leash, he glances back and our eyes meet. He catches something in mine that makes him do a double take, and I cover my fear with a reassuring nod.
He returns my nod, and then his gaze is back on the bush, now shaking as the bear brushes against it, stil
l snuffling, the occasional snort mixed in. Then a grunt that tells me it’s eating.
The beast is distracted. That’s good. Stay distracted.
Dalton pauses and then chooses his direction. Petra fans out farther. I wrap the leash around my hand and then take a careful step in the other direction. Another step. Another. I’m trying to get a visual on the bear’s head without attracting its attention.
One more step, my gun raised, as my gaze sweeps the scene, making sure we aren’t missing a second bear—
I stop, heart slamming as I catch sight of something on the ground. A brown lump. My mouth opens to get Dalton’s attention, but there’s no way to do that without alerting the feeding bear. I swallow hard and step to the right, ducking to peer under the foliage.
A long length of tan tops the dark brown lump. My brain tries shoving the image into bear shape, but it doesn’t fit. I blink, and then I realize what I’m seeing. A boot and a leg and, above it, the dark hump of a body. Someone lying in the clearing. Lying on their back, while a bear is ten feet away, feeding—
I clamp my jaw shut against the urge to warn Dalton. My stomach twists, but I know I can’t say a word. I also know, as horrifying as this is, that it doesn’t actually matter what the bear is eating. Not at this moment.
I stare at the boot and I struggle to remember what Felicity and Edwin had been wearing.
With Storm on a tight lead, I step forward until I can make out the shape of the bear’s head as it yanks back, a sickening wet noise as it rips into its meal, snorting and …
I see hair not fur. Bristly hair and upright ears and a snout longer and smaller than a bear’s.
“Hie!” Dalton shouts, and I swear I jump two feet in the air. “Hie, hie!”
He rushes forward, a dark shape charging at what I now realize is a boar. The beast tears past us. Storm whines and dances in place, but I don’t release her.