Hunted [Wild Hunt Series: 1]

17: One of Them

Growing up, my family never kept cats. We couldn't have kept them cooped up in our homestead even if we wanted to, what with how often we were running inside and out and leaving doors and windows open. And if we had a feline friend to curl up beside our fire, it would've had to have been one mean-ass cat to deal with all the predators we had sniffing around for our chickens and cattle.

So when Shail dragged the hapless girl against his belly and bared long fangs my way, a sharp sense of worry spiked through my veins. How the hell do you take prey away from a predator? In the back of my mind I knew cats periodically gifted their owners with dead things, but I wasn't sure about big cats. Or crag cats.

So how was I supposed to get the girl away?

The answer, I thought, was a very cynical, "only if Shail lets me."

"Help!" the girl exclaimed in a pitchy squeal. Shail's attention shot down. His jaws clamped around around her torn shoulder, puckering the skin.

"Play dead," I told the groaning girl, running my hand over my braid.

Her panicked eyes met mine. Shail's lower jaw covered up her expression as she squirmed against him, pushing her fingers into his thick neck to no avail. "He's hurting me!"

"I know," I said, trying a tentative step forward. The cat's ears pinned back toward me. He growled through his tightening grip. "Be quiet."

"It hurts!"

Nothing I said kept her quiet. She struggled against her captor and her captor bit down harder and the cycle would go on and on until Shail decided to end it. I had to do something, but I didn't want to hurt him or her.

"Shail, stop." I declared, squaring my shoulders. He let go, but only so he could bat her down again when she tried to crawl away like a baby impala caught by a playful leopard. With little options left, I sawed off a hunk of branch from the brush around us, big enough to swat his shoulder with. Of course, whacking a cat with a stiff collection of plant material was about as effective as one might guess. He shut his eyes and hissed and with my body leaning as far back as I could, I kept thumping his snout. "C'mon boy. Drop her."

His patience fizzled into annoyance, and within seconds the branch had been swiped from my hand. Keeping my eyes trained on the cat, I scooted the limb back with my foot and picked it up again, prepared to spend as long as it took to annoy him into letting the girl go (or more likely, eating me instead).

About the sixth or seven time, the cat reached his boiling point. He dropped the girl flat on the ground, and bit down hard on the stick, wrenching it from my hands with a hiss. Before I could blink a hot pain blushed across my forearm and I fell back onto the ground a few feet from the girl. Shail was a hissing presence in my face and then the cat's ears swiveled forward, then down again. His head turned toward the forest depths. With one last snarl he twisted away from me. By the time I'd gotten onto my knees the cat had run clean through the brush and headed for the river.

The girl was gasping loudly in the dirt. Tiny specks of dust blew around her in the green light of the afternoon, and then, somewhere beyond her, past the massive trunks and angled roots I could observe with my eyes, something pushed through the undergrowth at a frightening, noisy pace. It didn't sound like it was coming directly for us, whatever it was, but it was coming.

I scrambled across to the girl, grabbed her by the less-punctured shoulder and hauled her to her feet. She slipped against me with a soft cry, shaking hands clutching at my own bleeding arm.

"Come on," I said, grimacing. Setting her hands off me, I turned away from her and squatted onto the ground. "You know how to piggyback?"

She nodded.