Kelley Armstrong - Stolen

My Change finished, I pulled myself up to my full height. The hound wheeled and ran, not so much intimidated as confused, seeing a canine and smelling a human. The rottweiler stood his ground and waited for me to take the next step in the dance of ritualized intimidation. Instead, I leaped at him. Screw ritual. Now was no time to stand on ceremony. Tracking dogs meant pursuing guards, and pursuing guards meant guns. I preferred to take my chances with the rottweiler.

My sudden attack caught the dog off guard, and I sank my teeth into his haunch before he tore away. He twisted to grab me, but I darted out of reach. When I lunged again, he was ready, rearing to meet me in mid-jump. We crashed together, both struggling for the crucial neck hold. His teeth grazed my lower jaw. Too close for comfort. I broke away and sprang to my feet. The rottweiler scrambled up and leaped at me. I waited until the last second, then feinted left. He hit the ground, all four legs flying out to stop his slide. I dashed behind him and vaulted onto his back. As he fell, he twisted, jaws snapping onto my foreleg. Pain shot through me, but I resisted the urge to jerk away. I slashed at his unprotected throat, teeth ripping through fur and flesh. The rottweiler convulsed, bucking to throw me free. My head shot down again, this time grabbing his mangled throat and pinning him to the ground. I waited until he stopped struggling, then let go and ran.

Already the baying of a hound reverberated through the night air. The ground vibrated with running paws. Three dogs, maybe four. The hound had rediscovered his courage in a backup team. Could I fight four dogs? No, but experience had taught me that one or two would run from a werewolf, as the hound had. Could I handle those that remained? As I wondered this, someone shouted, making the decision for me. In the time it would take me to challenge and fight the dogs, the guards would be on us. My options narrowed to two: Throw the hound off my trail or lead the dogs away from their handlers. Either way, I had to run.

The best way to lose the hound would be to run through water. Winsloe had mentioned a river. Where was it? The night air was so damp, everything smelled like water. I'd run about a half-mile when the humidity content in the westerly wind tripled. As I veered west, I found a path and took it. Speed was now a bigger concern than laying a difficult trail. On the open path, I ran full tilt, head low, eyes narrowed against the wind. I dashed across a spongy patch of ground, covering it in three strides. As my front paws hit firmer earth, the ground beneath my back legs suddenly gave way. Grappling for a hold, I dug my front claws into the soil as my back legs pedaled air. Behind me, my hindquarters disappeared into the darkness of a deep hole. I recalled what Winsloe had said about Lake running for the river: "… if he takes the easy route, he'll find himself in a bear pit." Why couldn't I have remembered that five minutes ago?

The hound's baying crescendoed, then split into two voices. Two hounds. Both getting very, very close. My right rear paw struck something on the side of the pit, a stone or a root. I pushed off it, getting enough leverage to launch my hindquarters almost out of the pit. Cursing my lack of fingers, I gripped the earth with my front nails, sank my rear claws into the side of the pit, and managed to wriggle my backside out. A dog yipped behind me. I didn't turn to see how close it was. Better off not knowing.

I ran for the river. An earsplitting yowl sounded to my left, so close I felt the vibration. I veered right and kept going. The thunder of running paws shook the ground. I hunkered down and picked up speed. I was faster than any dog. All I had to do was keep out of their reach long enough to outpace them. So long as I didn't hit any more traps, I could do it. The sound of running water grew until it drowned out the panting of the dogs. Where was that river? I could smell it, hear it… but I couldn't see it. All I could see was the path extending another fifty yards. And beyond those fifty yards? Nothing. Meaning the ground dropped off to the river. How much of a drop? A small riverbank or a hundred-foot cliff? Was I willing to take the risk, keep running until I fell off the edge? The water sounded close, so it couldn't be too steep a drop. I had to take the gamble. Not slowing, I raced toward the trail's end. Then, less than thirty feet away, a shape flew from the forest's edge and landed in my path.

All four of my legs shot out, like brakes on a car careering out of control. I caught a glimpse of fur, a flash of canines, and braced for the attack. A tawny underbelly sailed over me. Stupid dog. They never did have any sense of aim. I wheeled around to meet my assailant on the backlash and saw only a flicker of tail fur as he raced away. Huh. Well, that was easy. As I began to run for the riverbank, a roar of fury split the night air, and I again skidded to a stop. I knew that roar. Inhaling, I caught my attacker's scent and realized why he hadn't attacked me.

Wheeling, I saw Clay fly at a pack of five dogs. I tore after him. Before I could cover the fifty feet between us, both hounds and one rottweiler turned tail and ran. That meant we only had to fight two dogs, a rottweiler and German shepherd. Perfect! Hey, wait a minute-Clay was running after the cowards, leaving me with both remaining dogs. Goddamn it! Couldn't he just let them go? Of all the egotistical-The rottweiler turned on me, cutting short my mental tirade. As I spun to face him, the shepherd lunged at my haunch. The rottweiler sank its teeth into my shoulder. I toppled backward, trying to knock him off. The shepherd leaped at my throat, but I saw the flash of teeth and snapped my head down to protect my neck. As the shepherd pulled back, I grabbed his ear between my teeth and wrenched, shredding it. He yelped and stumbled away. The rottweiler grabbed my shoulder again and shook me. My legs struggled for a foothold. Pain ripped through my shoulder. My traitorous knee joint flared, doubling the agony. As my good rear leg scuffed the ground, I dug in, got some leverage, and rolled, jerking the rottweiler off his feet. We tumbled down, somersaulting together, snapping at anything within biting distance. Then, in mid-roll, the rottweiler flew off me. Literally flew. One second his teeth were plunging into the thick fur around my neck, then next he was hurtling skyward. Blood sprayed my eyes. Blinded, I lurched to my feet, tossing my head to clear my vision. The first thing I saw was the rottweiler hanging from Clay's jaws. Then I noticed a movement to my right. The shepherd. It dove at Clay. I spun, catching it in mid-flight, and tore out its throat before we even hit the ground. Its body was still twitching when I heard the shouts of the guards.

I ran for the riverbank. Clay cut me off and shoved me toward the woods. As I snapped at him, I saw the bodies of both hounds lying farther up the path and I understood. Clay had gone after the fleeing hounds to ensure they couldn't double back and pick up our trail. With the hounds dead, we didn't need to head for the water.

We dove into the underbrush and circled north, coming within thirty feet of the guards as they jogged toward the river. They didn't stop, nor did the rottweiler loping beside them. They were making enough noise to cover ours, and the southeasterly wind kept our scent from the dog.

I followed Clay through two miles of forest, heading northeast. When he stopped, I sniffed for the stink of a road but smelled only forest. As I searched the breeze, he brushed along my side, rubbing close enough for me to feel the heat of his body through his fur. He circled me, then paused at my injured shoulder, licked it twice, and circled again. This time he stopped at my left back leg and nudged it out from under me, forcing me to my haunches. He snuffled my torn kneecap, then started to lick it. I jerked up, straining forward, motioning that we had to keep running, but he knocked my rear legs out again, less gently this time, and went back to work on my knee before moving his attention to my shoulder. Every few minutes, he'd move his muzzle to my cheek, breath whooshing hot against my face, nuzzle me, then return to cleaning my injuries. As he worked, my ears pivoted constantly, listening for the guards, but they didn't come. Finally, Clay prodded me to my feet, brushed along my side one last time, then headed northeast at a slow lope. I followed. A half-hour later, I picked up the distant scent of a road. Time to Change.