Page 45

Well. That was it, then.

The sides were steep and slick, with almost nothing to hold on to, and the warmth Jax had given me was already fading. Cold had begun to settle back into my clothes, seeping through every wet layer while the sky above the trees grew steadily lighter.

If I couldn't find a way out, I was going to spend dawn sitting at the bottom of a muddy ditch, waiting for someone wearing a red cord to find me.

Something moved above me.

I went still.

There was a heavy shift of weight at the top of the ravine, followed by a deep breath that could not have come from anything human. Leaves and small stones slipped over the edge and scattered down the slope.

Then a bear came over the rim.

It was a grizzly, larger than any bear I had ever seen even in photographs, its dark, shaggy fur silvered at the tips by the last of the moonlight. It descended the ravine in a controlled slide, moving with an unexpected care that only made its size more apparent, and stopped about ten feet away.

Its head turned toward me.

Small dark eyes settled on mine.

I had been bitten by frightened dogs, scratched by cats, and once kicked across a stable by a terrified horse, but I had never been as afraid as I was in that moment. Every instinct I had was telling me to get away, and there was nowhere to go even if my ankle had worked.

So I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I hummed.

At first, the sound was thin and unsteady, barely more than air in the back of my throat. I kept going until it settled into the same low, tuneless note I used with frightened animals on the treatment table, the one I had made with my hands resting on Bruno's chest.

I had no idea whether it would work on a bear. I wasn't even sure it worked on anything except injured animals trapped in unfamiliar rooms with nowhere to escape.

I hummed anyway, tears still running down my face, and held completely still.

The bear stopped.

Its head lowered slowly until its nose was almost touching the mud. It breathed out, sending a wash of warm air across my hands that smelled of damp earth and crushed greenery, then came toward me one heavy step at a time.

When its enormous face reached mine, it leaned close and breathed in.

I kept humming because the only alternative was screaming.

The bear opened its mouth, and I saw teeth nearly as long as my thumb. Then, instead of using them, it lowered itself carefully onto its belly in the mud. One enormous shoulder pressed beneath my good arm, and after a moment it nudged me.

Once.

Deliberately.

I stared at it.

"You want me to climb on?"

The bear sneezed.

With one useless ankle, climbing was an ambitious description of what followed. I buried both hands in the thick fur around its shoulders and dragged myself onto its back, inch by inch, until I could hook my arms securely around its neck.

It waited until I was settled before it stood.

The bear carried me out of the ravine with astonishing care, hauling us up the slope in three powerful surges before moving into the trees. It kept its pace slow and steady while I lay against the broad heat of its back, my injured foot held clear of the ground.

I was still afraid. For the first minute or so, I was intensely aware that I had voluntarily wrapped both arms around the neck of an animal that could kill me without effort. After that, exhaustion took over. Fear required energy I no longer had, so I pressed my face into its fur because it was warm and I was freezing.