Doranna Durgin - Sentinels - Wolf Hunt

Sick. Damaged by the amulet, in spite of Gausto’s assurances. Not likely to survive out here in the open.

Run. Oh, run. Do it now. The instinct spoke strong in her—spoke smart.

Jet lifted her head, gazing around the foothills—the fingerlike extensions of raised earth, extending every which way—some low and long, some sharp and high. Here, in this spot, she saw no houses, no buildings. No humans at all. A power line in the distance; a windmill pulling a slow turn in another direction, a barely visible stock tank beneath it. Run, Jet. Do it now.

Jet started the bike, and her hands on the clutch and throttle felt like someone else’s—so fundamentally wrong, neat fingers and trimmed nails folding gracefully around the clutch lever on one side, the throttle and brake lever on the other.

And, as though they were someone else’s, they throttled the bike up and forward, feathered the clutch to a release point, and sent her off down the road.

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