Page 37 of The Last Sanctuary
This was a separate place, a thing of wonder and enchantment, of impossible dreams and stars close enough to touch.
It was magic.
Chapter Sixteen
Raven awoke to the sound of voices.
It seemed unimaginable, absurd even, to fall asleep right next to two hundred pounds of lethal predator, but she had managed it. It had been a deep sleep, too, rife with tangled dreams she could no longer recall.
The voices grew louder.
Adrenaline shot through her limbs. Instantly, she was wide awake. Her heart thumped. Her eyes sprang open. Turning her head, she searched the small clearing, scanning the empty ground on either side of her, the trees towering above her prone body.
Shadow and Luna must have smelled the bikers long before Raven heard them. The wolves had vanished into their den or had hidden themselves somewhere in the trees and heavy underbrush.
Twenty yards and a thicket of trees separated the wolf den from the public viewing area. According to her father, wolves were private creatures. He’d refused to cut down the trees, even when guests complained that they couldn’t see the star attractions.
Now, Raven was grateful for the concealment. She sat up slowly, her back aching, a crick in her neck. She ran her tongue over her furry teeth. Her mouth tasted sour. What she wouldn’t give for a toothbrush. Her scalp itched. She felt dirty, unwashed.
Sanitation was currently the least of her problems. She’d hoped the bikers would be gone by now. They weren’t. Her stomach sank.
She strained her ears to hear the voices over the rumbling of her empty stomach. She couldn’t catch more than a stray word, the murmur of low voices. There were two choices. She could remain hidden, or she could creep closer to overhear something useful.
Knowledge is power.One of her father’s favorite phrases. He’d taught her to stay alert, to maintain something he called situational awareness. Assess the situation, analyze the available information, then act.
The more she knew about these thugs, the better.
As soundlessly as she could, she rolled onto her stomach and crawled beneath several pine boughs. The syrupy scent of sap filled her nostrils. The air smelled earthy and damp. Twigs, sticks, and rocks dug into her knees and the palms of her hands. Leaf litter clung to her shirt and pants.
It was past dawn. The early morning air was chilly. Her breath puffed in white swirls. Goosebumps broke out on her arms. The pinkish sky was like glass, so clear and sharp she could almost see through to heaven, or maybe the future.
After several painstaking minutes, she reached a boulder and hunched behind it. Hidden in deep shadows beneath a pine tree, she was relatively concealed but close enough for a clear view of the path and the double fence two dozen yards ahead of her.
Between the trees, she glimpsed four burly bikers leaning against the guardrail. One smoked a cigar as they gazed into the hybrid enclosure. They wore pistols holstered to their hips, withhunting rifles or AR-15s strapped across their brawny chests. She recognized Vaughn, the leader, Dekker, the psycho killer, the guy with the ponytail they called Rex, and Damien, the sharp-faced redhead.
“I don’t see anything,” Rex whined. “We’ve been standing here for ten minutes and nothing. You must be seeing things, kid.”
“I saw it,” Damien said.
“It was night. You certain?” asked Vaughn.
“Absolutely,” Damien said. “The thing was white as a ghost and huge. The biggest wolf I’ve ever seen, even a genetically modified one.”
Vaughn’s grin widened. He patted Damien on the back in approval. “Good job, son.”
Damien smiled gratefully. A faint blush of pride spread across his pale, freckled skin. “Thank you.”
She shivered involuntarily. Damien was the one who’d surprised her at the bear padlock last night. She couldn’t quite figure him out. He hadn’t shot Phil, but he nearly did. He was much younger than the other men, barely older than she was. He looked like he belonged in the halls of high school, heading to band practice or theater or yearbook, worried about pimples and girlfriends.
Of course, age had nothing to do with psychopathology. He might be as cruel as Dekker. Or even worse.
There was a hardness in the slash of his cheekbones, the narrow jut of his chin. It was obvious he was eager to prove himself. That made him dangerous.
“Can we leave already?” Dekker asked in a bored tone. “I’m starving.”
“Mickey is making breakfast,” Damien said. “He found actual pancake mix. And there’s more where that came from.”
Next to Dekker, Rex blew out a ring of cigarette smoke. “Did you see how much food is here? This place is a gold mine.”
