James Rollins - Blood Infernal

As the canopy grew higher and the shadows thicker, there was no escaping the primeval feeling of the forest. It was as if they were traipsing through some natural cathedral.

It would also be easy to get lost.

The lion rubbed his chin against various tree trunks, as if leaving scent markings to help find their way back. Otherwise, the cub acted more like a kitten: kicking up leaf litter and bouncing through bushes. Still, when an owl hooted overhead, the lion jumped a foot in the air and landed in a rustle of leaves and cracking twigs.

The cat was plainly tense, too.

Or maybe he’s just picking up on our anxiety .

They marched for a little over a mile, climbing over logs, and weaving through beeches and the occasional silver pines, never moving in a straight line for long. If they kept up this pace, they should reach the site on the map within the hour.

After another ten minutes, Jordan discovered an old deer trail.

Should be able to make even better time on it .

“Over here,” he whispered, afraid to raise his voice — less because of any fear of alerting the enemy, and more out of a strange reverence for this forest.

They headed along it, moving more quickly now.

Then a twig snapped ahead and to the left of the trail, sounding as loud as a gunshot.

He pushed Erin behind him and turned toward the sound. The Sanguinists flanked him, while the lion stuck to Rhun’s legs, giving off a growling hiss.

Ten yards ahead, a giant shaggy dog bounded onto the trail and faced their group. Its black fur was more shadow than substance, the perfect camouflage for this forest.

Except for the unnatural crimson glow of its eyes.

A blasphemare .

The beast’s shoulders rose higher than Jordan’s hip. As it lowered its head and pulled back its ears, it revealed a long powerful neck and muscular body. It looked more bear than dog.

A well-fed bear.

Even its dark coat looked polished.

This was no stray animal.

Though it was freakishly large with a black coat, Jordan recognized the breed as a Great Pyrenees. Originally bred to herd sheep, they were usually gentle creatures, but they were fiercely protective of their masters and their territories.

Other shadows moved to either side of the trail, clearly letting themselves be seen.

He counted four more out there.

So a pack .

The first order of business was getting Erin somewhere safe.

Jordan shifted slowly, interlacing his fingers. He turned to offer Erin a hike up. “Get into that tree,” he warned.

Erin didn’t bother with any false bravado and gave a quick nod. She planted her boot in his hand and pushed off him as he shoved her higher still. Reaching up, she snagged an overhanging limb of a stout beech tree, pulled herself up, then clambered higher.

Jordan never let his gaze leave the dogs.

The pack stirred, but didn’t approach.

Jordan swung his machine pistol to his shoulder, while knives and blades bristled from the Sanguinists, silver shining in the dappled shade.

After a long tense stretch, the pack began to move in unison, as if obeying some silent whistle. The first dog stalked down the trail, aiming for Jordan. The others split off, flanking toward the Sanguinists.

“Remember that we are not to harm them,” Rhun warned.

“Okay, I promise not to bite him first .” Jordan kept his machine pistol up, pointed straight at the snarling dog’s face.

Unimpressed by the threat, the pack leader stepped closer, panting out foul breath, its muzzle rippling up into a snarl.

Jordan’s finger tightened on the trigger.

He had a choice to make.

Kill it, wound it, or make peace with it .

Jordan remembered his training as a soldier.

He lowered his weapon.

Obey your orders .

His heart pounded as he held out the back of his hand to the animal. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he whispered softly. “I promise.”

With a shift of muscles, the dog jumped at him, snapping at his hand, catching his fingers.

Jordan managed to yank his arm back. Blood dripped heavily from his fingertips.

But, at least, I still have fingers .

He watched his adversary closely. Maybe his blood was poisonous to the dog, as it had been to the strigoi back in the tunnels under Prague. The dog simply curled a corner of its lips and licked its chops.

No such luck.

The dog lunged at him, leaping for his throat.

Jordan dropped onto his back, brought his feet up, and caught the dog in the stomach. He kicked it up and over his head. By the time the dog landed and turned back around, Jordan was standing up and facing it again.

Saliva dripped from the beast’s fangs as it padded in a slow circle around him, its steps noiseless on the thick mat of dead leaves.

Jordan touched his palm against the butt of his machine pistol — then let his arm drop again.

Can’t shoot it .

“Good boy,” Jordan called out, stepping toward the dog again, his hands open, showing no threat.

From the corner of his eyes, he saw the Sanguinists fending off attacks from the other dogs with various nonlethal means of defense, which mostly involved running and leaping.

But how long could that last?

As if knowing its target was distracted, the dog launched himself straight for Jordan’s chest and knocked him to the ground. He managed to raise an arm to protect his throat, but teeth sank deep into the meat in Jordan’s forearm. Contorting to the side, he grabbed the dagger from his ankle sheath.

He had taken enough punishment in the name of peace.

The dog growled, grinding harder to the bone. Red eyes stared down into Jordan’s. He didn’t see anger or malice there, only a savage determination.

Bernard’s words echoed in his ears: harm nothing that you find on his mountain .

Their mission was to get Hugh’s help. Whatever happened to Jordan was insignificant compared to that. He let the dagger drop from his fingers.

Beyond the dog’s ears, he spotted Erin sprawled flat on a tree branch. Her brown eyes were wide with horror. She aimed her pistol at the dog.

“Don’t shoot!” Jordan croaked out past the pain.

To ensure she obeyed, he heaved to the side, rolling the dog under him, shielding it with his body. He had to protect the dog. If the dog died, the mission would fail.

But no one told the dog this plan.

The snarling muzzle unlatched from his arm and snapped at his face. Jordan yanked his head back.

Bad move.

Yellow teeth fastened on to Jordan’s exposed throat.

Erin screamed as the dog shook its head, its teeth ripping deeper. Blood gushed from Jordan’s throat and poured down the muzzle of the dog under him.

She kept her pistol trained but was still afraid to shoot, of hitting Jordan by mistake.

A frantic search told her that the three Sanguinists had their own troubles. Each one battled a dog of his or her own, and none of them could get free to help Jordan.

Below her branch, the beast growled and rolled, throwing Jordan under him like a rag doll. Jordan no longer moved, his head lolling from the monster’s jaws. She steadied her aim, having a clear target now. She remembered Jordan’s earlier warning.

Don’t shoot!

To hell with Hugh de Payens and his rules.

Her finger tightened on the trigger.

Then a flash of white speared through the shadows under the trees and struck the much larger dog in the flank, slamming the beast off Jordan.

Rhun’s lion.

Shadow and light battled in a tangle of limbs, then the dog rolled free, back to its feet, facing the cat with a growl. The cub looked so small. Still, the cat hissed and raised a paw, exposing silver claws.