Page 76 of The Last Sanctuary
Despite the impressive size and the rich russet and black stripes of its fur, a tiger could make itself quite invisible when it so desired. Tigers moved in absolute silence. They cloaked themselves in shadows.
Vlad would sense her long before she laid eyes on him.
She wouldn’t see him until he wanted to be seen. Until it was too late.
He might have doubled back from these tracks and could be tracking her even now. Tigers were ambush hunters, masters of stealth and surprise.
Her heartbeat quickened. Her palms went damp. Anxiety hummed through her.
If Vlad was stalking her, she needed to know. She needed to follow the tracks for a while to see where they headed, whether they doubled back, whether a tiger was perhaps lying in wait for her even now.
Her father had taught her basic tracking skills. Hopefully, it would be enough. Head bent, alert to every sound, she traced the tiger tracks through clusters of yellowwood, beech, and white ash trees along the base of a steep slope to her right.
The forest was alive with brilliant fall colors. Golden yellow spice bushes and crimson sumac grew everywhere.
After several hundred feet, the tracks changed abruptly. Ahead of her, the dense forest broke into a clearing about forty feet wide and twice as deep. Vivid green ferns swished in the breeze.
Just before the clearing, at the base of two poplar trees, she spotted something odd. Cautiously, she approached. Beneath the tree, the underbrush was matted down like a heavy log had smashed the long grasses. A log, or a massive predator.
Vlad had been here. The tiger had lain in wait for something.
Her gut tightened. She paused, hesitating.
Wild tigers were nocturnal hunters, but Vlad was a captive tiger. Having just escaped said captivity, typical tiger behavior would likely not apply.
Plus, if she accidentally invaded the territory of his kill, he’d be more inclined to attack.
Vlad was capable of anything, at any time, against anyone.
Her pack felt like it weighed a thousand pounds against her spine. Cold tingled in her fingers. She felt exposed, vulnerable. She wanted to call the wolves to her, but making a sound was a dangerous and stupid thing to do.
Raven scanned the clearing again, searching for any sign of imminent danger. Her gaze snagged on something several feet into the clearing. A mountain laurel bush. Red droplets stained a clutch of green leaves.
Fresh blood.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Each droplet of blood was perfectly shaped. Not a smudge or a smear. Like beads of water, only thick and crimson.
More bloody droplets formed a grisly trail behind the bush and kept going.
Raven stared at the blood. Her breath caught in her throat. Her brain screamed at her to run. She didn’t run.
When she was ten years old, Zachariah had told her that it took less than a hundred pounds of pressure to crush a man’s windpipe. It took five pounds of pressure to block the carotid artery. A tiger’s jaws exerted a thousand pounds of pressure per square inch.
Humans were soft-skinned and thin-boned, as easy to break as snapping a twig.
She’d never forgotten it.
The trail of blood led to a spot a few yards beyond an aspen tree. On high alert, the rifle gripped in her hands, Raven crept closer, stepping softly among the ferns.
The stench of blood and death grew stronger. Gradually, the gruesome scene revealed itself.
Long red streaks in the trampled ferns and churned-up dirt. An empty shoe, turned on its side. A set of keys, glinting between two tree roots. A bloodied piece of khaki fabric that may have once been a shirt or pair of pants.
Her gaze followed the blood-soaked drag marks. Thirty yards into the clearing lay a wide circle of horror. A single arm, without a hand or shoulder attached. Bones, gnawed white. Blood drenched the ground in a ten-foot radius. So much blood.
Her belly heaved. Her guts churned. She felt sick, flushed and dizzy. Horror, shock, and revulsion flooded her senses.
