Maya Banks - Golden Eyes

A long hiss escaped the jowls of the cat as she hunkered down amongst the rocks and thick shrubbery. Low chirps echoed across the fog-laden ground, and even the human inside the beast could not call back the frightened sounds.

She panted, her breath forming puffs in the frigid morning air. The burst of speed she’d needed to escape her pursuers had drained her. She lacked the energy to go much further, but it was imperative that she find safety.

Her gaze focused on a ponderosa pine several yards away. Cheetahs were ill-equipped to climb trees, but there were enough low-lying branches that she could scramble toward the top and hide in the dense foliage.

She sprang from her hiding spot and ran for the tree on stealthy paws. Fatigue burned every muscle, but she couldn’t succumb to the need for rest. Not yet. They were coming for her and they would kill her.

With sagging energy, she jumped to the lowest branch. Her claws dug into the bark as she fought for balance. Her ears twitched and shot upward as a sound in the distance caught her attention. Higher she climbed, desperation bleeding over into her movements.

When she’d gained enough height to not be easily seen from ground level, she stretched over the limb and flattened her lithe body as much as possible.

Even as she swallowed against the involuntary chirps of fear, she felt the change radiating over her body. Pain, welcome pain, locked into her bones, seized her muscles, and shot like fire through her limbs.

She clung to the branch, desperate not to plummet to the ground. Paws became human fingers. The spotted fur rippled away and was replaced by pale, naked skin. The soft tuft of hair at her nape became long strands of honey gold hair.

For the first time in months, she was human again.

She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around the rugged tree branch. Time was something she didn’t have, but she needed the rejuvenation her human form would bring, if only for a few minutes. The cheetah was spent.

Perhaps she slept. She had no clear idea of how much time passed, but she was alerted by a rustling in the distance. Voices. Familiar voices.

They were coming for her.

Fear swelled in her throat, blocking out her breath. Panic raced in her veins and prickled like razors over her skin. They wouldn’t take her prisoner this time. They would kill her.

Pulling every thread of strength within her, she concentrated on becoming the cheetah. She would run once more.

Her human side cried out in protest, but she gave free rein to the beast, allowed it control as her body conformed to the parameters set by her mind.

She blinked to adjust to the difference in visual acuity. The landscape sharpened, and she focused on the most expedient route away from danger.

Slowly she inched further out onto the branch, her intention to leap to the neighboring tree. She slid on her stomach, her claws gripping the wood as she prepared to spring.

A light sound riled her instincts, and she shot forward. Pain seared through her hip, and she was left gripping the air. Seconds later, she hit the ground with a resounding thump.

“Fuck! She jumped the string. I didn’t get a good shot.”

The voice was too close. Agony wracked her body. She lifted her head and glanced down her body to see an arrow protruding from her haunch. She panted heavily, trying to squeeze oxygen back into the lungs that had been severely jarred by her fall.

If she hadn’t jumped, the arrow would have sliced through her heart and lungs. She’d be lying on the ground bleeding out.

She struggled to right herself, to heave her aching body from the hard terrain. Then she looked up to see the hunter standing just thirty yards away. Notching another arrow. Terror lent her adrenaline, and she rocketed away, the hunter’s curses ringing in her ears.

Duncan Kennedy hoisted his rifle over his shoulder then shifted his backpack into place. He stepped away from his truck and surveyed the wooded area he was about to venture into.

With a shake of his head, he tucked his chin down, buttoned his jacket, then headed out. He felt ridiculous, but his job as sheriff was to check out sources of possible threat, and he’d had three reports from locals of strange, wild animals roaming the area outside his small Colorado town.

The first he’d ignored because old man Hildebrandt had been known to spin a yarn or two. But then Silas Maynard had reported seeing an animal that he swore looked just like a tiger. A day later, Mrs. Humphreys had called to tell him she’d seen an honest to goodness lion, not a mountain lion, and then she’d heard shots.

Hunting season didn’t start for several more weeks, but Duncan knew that didn’t hinder overzealous hunters. He’d get out, do a little tracking, look around, and hopefully quiet any fears of strange beasties running around the mountains.

He walked a straight line behind Mrs. Humphreys’s house, his gaze darting along the ground for any fresh sign. He wondered if the shots had been people merely target practicing and if the animals were just mountain lions or even a large bobcat.

Not that he really thought he’d find the answers, but he would do his job and reassure the people of his town. Even with their quirks, he wouldn’t want to live anywhere else. His parents had died when he was young, just in high school, and the townspeople had stepped in, taken care of him, and later made sure he could go to college. He owed them more than he could ever repay, and returning here to act as sheriff after gaining a degree in law enforcement seemed the least he could do. These were his mountains. His home. These people were his family.

The terrain had begun to slope more sharply upward, and his breath came a little harder as he climbed in elevation. He stopped and dug a bottle of water from his backpack and rested for a moment as he sipped.

He reckoned he was about a mile from Mrs. Humphreys’s now. He’d go another at the most. She’d said the shots sounded distant, not close. He capped the bottle of water, tossed it back into his pack, and resumed his hike.

When he topped a slight rise, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. A group of men, one holding a compound bow, the others carrying rifles, moved stealthily through the craggy underbrush.

Duncan crouched and took out his binoculars so he could zoom in on the group.

They appeared to be tracking, their heads down as if following a blood trail. Anger tightened his muscles. Friggin’ poachers.

He noted their appearance, took mental notes of their characteristics. No way he’d approach them blind. He was outnumbered, and more than one wildlife officer had been killed when crossing an illegal hunter.

Instead, he pulled his rifle around and uncapped the scope. He brought the gun up and stared through the crosshairs until he found his target.

He re-sighted a good twenty yards in front of the men and squeezed off a warning shot. They jumped back and sprawled on the ground, guns and bows flying everywhere. Duncan grinned. City slickers.

After a few seconds, they warily rose then scrambled for their guns. They took off in the opposite direction, and Duncan could hear their thrashing all the way to where he hunkered down.

Duncan waited. He pulled out a snack and ate it in silence. Half an hour later, the poachers hadn’t returned, so Duncan made his way down to the area they’d been scouring.

After a few minutes of searching the area dotted with their boot prints, he found the first sign of blood. Son of a bitch. They had been tracking a kill.