Dust

XXII

         

"Shouldn't we tell Sloane about this?"

    "No."

    "But she might be able to send back-up—"

    "Damien, no," I say, gripping the loaded gun at my hip. The flashlight I'd needed back in the arena has no point now; the moon is bright enough to light Damien's and my path. I hear his footsteps crunching leaves behind me, steady and cautious. My one good eye tries to look for disturbances—claw marks on trees, paw prints, evidence of rogues—but also for human footsteps that might indicate Gael, who is making me very confused at the moment. I don't know whether to be mad at him for our fight earlier and now for endangering his life, or to be praying that he hasn't been eaten alive. To lose someone else the same way I lost my father wouldn't be fair. "If Sloane knew about this, Gael could get his badge revoked."

    I hear a snort from Dame's direction. "According to you, he didn't deserve it in the first place."

    I want to turn and hit him, but refrain, since I have to be on high alert at all times. Werewolves are stealthy as much as they are ruthless, which is not a good combination. I can't be unprepared, if I plan to escape the forest with my life tonight. "I know I overreacted earlier, and as soon as I find Gael and get him the hell out of here, I'll apologize to him. You don't have to rub it in."

    "You're cute when you're mad, you know," Damien says.

    I stop walking, letting him slam into me, then bring down my heel on his foot. I look over my shoulder just to see him grimace, and smile as I pick up my pace again. "Never call me cute again."

    We continue walking, moonlight guiding us, the hairs on the back of my neck standing up at every noise I hear. It can be the flap of a bird's wings, the chirp of a cricket, or even just a small whoosh of wind; either way, everything makes me cringe. I'm waiting—waiting for something to pounce at me and end my life with one menacing bite.

    Okay, maybe I'm overreacting again—I don't know for sure that there are any rogues at all, so why I am stressing? I keep trying to tell myself to calm down, but no matter how many times I think it, I still feel on edge. It's been half an hour, maybe more, and we haven't found Gael. What if he's already a wolf's dinner?

    No, I need to be positive.

    A hand reaches out and grabs my arm, and for a second I'm ready to kung fu kick someone when I realize it's only Damien. I turn towards him, preparing to scold, but when I notice the apprehensiveness in his expression, I resign from saying anything. His eyes darting around, he pulls me closer to him and says, "Something's coming in this direction."

    "Well, what thing?"

    "I can't be sure," Damien replies, glancing down at me as he frees a knife from his boot. "Sorry, but it's not like I hear 'Hi, my name is Wolfy, and I'm going to eat you.'"

    I step on his foot again, cocking my gun, which is loaded full of silver bullets. I won't let another rogue take anyone else from me; it's not happening. Damien groans, rolling his eyes, but then he goes rigid and points at a bush in front of me. Getting the message, I angle myself at it, and I wait.

    The wind blows by, ruffling the bush's leaves like the feathers of a bird. I feel myself shivering, but am hot underneath my jacket; thus is how I know I'm more afraid than I'm letting on. By now, I don't need Dame's ears to tell me from where the something is approaching—I can easily hear the footfalls, the disturbance of grass as it is pushed aside like something meaningless. It grows nearer and nearer still, and I bite my lip, my finger tightening like a vice on the trigger of my handgun.