Page 94 of Break Out the Girl

Beside me, London’s legs move like pistons in an engine. Strong, fast, unstopping. I race beneath the branches, but he just tears a path for himself, his faun-hands seemingly oblivious to pain.

Rory swoops down from the canopy and is off in another direction before I can even fathom the turn. She’s tuned into something.

What?

Then I smell blood…tears.

It’s not Sky, but Rory has gone in that direction. No doubt to help.

The suffering of the unknown girl makes me thank the Gods that Rory’s new form makes her virtually invisible. Whatever happens today, she won’t be caught. If London and I are taken down, she’ll be alright.

My scent receptors snag a new scent.

Sniff.

Fuck…danger.

DANGER!

I skid to a violent halt, my claws digging deep trenches into the forest floor. My ears swivel and rotate as I lift my muzzle further into the air.

“Tally?” London pants, slamming into a mossy log beside me. “What?” He stops, eyes widening. “Bad vibrations.”

Agreed.

He cocks his head on one side. “The mutant doggies we saw earlier—it’s them isn’t it?” London slings an arm around my body and leans close to my ear. “They’re heading this way, but don’t worry, I’ll heebie their jeebies.”

I step in front of his body, making him pause before launching off. Flaring my nostrils, I sort through the overlapping layers of odors in the air. The scent-matrix is so fucking tangled, but currently the predominant note is the rancid stench of the monstrous hound-shifters.

But under that, I detect the merest trace of a completely different profile. It’s cold and acidic with the metallic sting of intense magic.

François.

The basilisk is near, but not at full strength. Is he hurt?

Pack.

My fur bristles. I sense someone with him. Human and almost familiar. Not Sky though. Nothing like her.

“Um, tick-tock, Burt. You look like you’ve gone into a nose-trance.”

Decisions.

OK. I incline my head so that London will follow me, then veer at an angle. If François is out here looking for Sky, we shouldn’t be on the same search grid, that makes no sense.

Before I’ve gone a dozen feet, a deafening crashing sound explodes from the briar bushes directly ahead of us. London lets out a bleat, his hands flying up to the nearest branch as he swings himself up and above the danger.

I flatten my weight, ready to spring, my jaws parting to tear into whatever mutated guard dog is about to break through the brush.

The thicket splits open and fifteen-feet of basilisk shoots toward me— with someone riding his back.

Like the snake is a fucking donkey.

François swivels into a sudden stop, the rider getting flung off in the process. My eyes dart between where the stranger landed in the bushes, and the snake, whose slitted eyes stare at me darkly.

“Shane!” London shrieks, leaping down from his perch, and instantly wrestling his embrace around the monster. The scales ripple, as de Vaux shudders at the affection. I’d laugh, but once again I’m drawn to the person crawling out of the brambles.

A hollow-cheeked man in a threadbare jacket—and a matte-black shock collar locked around his neck.