The spider led them around a massive chunk of stone, water-carved grooves cut deep into its surface. The wind bounced off the rock, creating an eerie howling that echoed back at them from multiple directions. On the other side, the terrain opened up into a wider area scattered with smaller rocks and thick brush.
The krevasta stopped dead, its entire body going rigid. It glanced from Zeke to the path ahead and back again, its red eyes wide as its legs scrabbled against the stone.
A second later the temperature crashed.
It didn't drop gradually; it plummeted like someone had opened a door to the void. The moisture in the air began to crystallize, not quite snow but ice crystals that hung suspended in the wind. Raaze cursed and wrapped his arms around himself, not trying to hide his reaction to the cold anymore. His breath came out in white clouds, his lips turning blue.
Even Zeke felt the cold biting into his skin like thousands of needles. Frost formed on the rocks around them as they watched, turning the already treacherous footing into a skating rink.
"This isn't possible," Kraath said, his usual calm cracking. "Weather doesn't work like this."
The wind slammed into them like a combat shuttle. Zeke staggered back, his boots sliding on the rock as ice crystals turned into needles, driving into any exposed skin. He squinted against the assault, eyes watering so much he couldn't see three feet ahead. The world disappeared into a white hell of screaming wind and flying ice.
"Kraath!" Zeke shouted, but the wind tore his voice away. "Raaze!"
Shapes moved through the white storm—Kraath and Raaze, just visible through the driving ice. The krevasta hugged the ground but even it was fighting now. Its claws scraped for grip on the icy rocks.
Then, a sound cut through the chaos like a knife, seizing every muscle in his body.
It was a scream. High, terrified, and...
"Michelle!"
Zeke ran that way without thinking.
Behind him, Kraath shouted something the wind ate alive. Stone cracked somewhere ahead—a deep grinding that he felt through his boots. Water roared, building into something massive.
Michelle screamed again. Closer. Raw terror ripping from her throat.
Then the flood hit with a sound that swallowed the world.
Sleet drove into Michelle’s face like tiny needles as she dragged herself onto the rock outcrop. Her broken leg sent white-hot agony shooting up to her hip with every movement, but she managed to flop to her side before the pain made her vision go gray at the edges. Her shirt was soaked through, the fabric plastered to her skin and doing jack shit to keep her warm.
Behind them, the flood tore through the valley—a wall of brown water and debris that didn’t give a damn what got in its way.
Six ferals scrambled past her onto higher ground. Scarface bled from the cracks she’d drilled into his armor earlier. The cold had made them worse somehow, spider-webbing wider with each movement like the whole thing might shatter if he breathed wrong. Tank shook water from his dark hair, scanning the treeline with that creepy predator focus they all had. The Newcomer Leader stood with his pack mates, all of them breathing hard, red eyes catching what little light filtered through the storm clouds.
Nobody asked if she was okay.
Well, duh. They were ferals, not a rescue squad.
Scarface reached down and grabbed her upper arm, fingers digging deep enough to leave bruises. He hauled her upright without ceremony. Message received loud and clear… flood or no flood, she still belonged to him.
Great. Just freaking great.
The sleet turned to thick snow that stuck to everything. Her breath came out in white puffs, and the cold bit straight through her soaked clothes, settling into her bones until her teeth wouldn’t stop chattering.
“Move.” The Newcomer Leader pointed uphill toward a ridge that disappeared into white nothing. “Higher ground.”
That was it. No discussion, no committee meeting to debate the best route. They weren’t human. They were predators, and right now, survival was the only thing on the menu.
The formation changed without anyone saying a word. The Leader took point, his two pack mates spreading out to the flanks. Tank dropped back to watch their six, scarred face turned toward the valley they’d just escaped. Scarface kept his death grip on her arm, positioning her in the center where she couldn’t run.
Not that she could run anywhere with her leg like this.
They climbed through snow that went from wind-scoured ice over exposed rock to knee-deep drifts that grabbed at her legs. Her makeshift splint held, just about, but each step was pure fire shooting up her calf. The walking stick she’d been using was gone, lost somewhere in the scramble to escape the flood. Now all she had was Scarface’s grip to keep from face-planting when the ground turned slippery.
The wind picked up, a howl that raised every hair on the back of her neck. Visibility dropped to ten yards. Everything beyond that was just... white.
