Stolen (Otherworld #2)(75)

Clay disappeared into the forest. I tracked the whisper of his footfalls. When he was partway around Winsloe's hiding place, Winsloe suddenly stood. I froze. Had he heard Clay? Tensing for the attack, I listened. All I heard were the normal chirps and rustles of the forest. Still, if Winsloe so much as pointed that gun in Clay's direction, I'd be through the bushes in a second, caution be damned. Winsloe straightened, rolled his shoulders in a stretch, then looked up into the trees, craning his neck and surveying the sky. Was Clay in position yet? If so, this would be the perfect time to attack. But I didn't smell Clay on the breeze, so he must still be working his way south. Damn! Winsloe rubbed the back of his neck, then checked his gun, gave a last look around, and stepped from the clearing, heading west.
I edged closer to the now-vacant clearing. When I reached the perimeter, I saw Clay on the southeast side, partially hidden in the bushes. Noticing me, he pulled back and vanished. Seconds later, he reappeared at my side. I looked at him. Now what? Our quarry was on the move. Scaring him and steering him in the proper direction would be ten times more difficult. An ambush would be our best bet, but that meant circling in front of Winsloe, conjecturing his path, and finding a well-hidden place to lie in wait. Difficult enough when we knew the terrain, near-suicidal when we didn't. From the look in Clay's eyes, he couldn't think up a decent plan either. Finally he snorted, brushed against me, then headed in Winsloe's direction. We'd wing it.
***
We emerged from the clearing into a thick stand of forest. Ahead, Winsloe's jacket bobbed among the trees. Moving carefully to avoid noisy piles of dead leaves, we crept after him. He didn't turn. He was moving fast. As we picked up speed, the forest thinned. Late afternoon sunlight pierced the thick canopy overhead, speckling the ground with ever-widening pools of light. The forest was ending. We broke into a slow lope. Winsloe disappeared in a flood of sunlight. A clearing. A big clearing. I sniffed the air. Water. We were coming to the river. I glanced at Clay. He grunted, telling me he smelled the water and wasn't concerned. Did Winsloe think he could lose us in the river? Swim away or douse his trail? It wouldn't work. We could swim just fine, doubtless much better than Winsloe. As for losing his trail, it was true that we couldn't track him through water, but we were so close that it didn't matter. Even if we lost sight of him, I could pick up his scent in the air.
Winsloe walked to the water's edge, stopped, and wheeled fast, flourishing his gun. Seeing nothing behind him, he turned to the river, looked up and down it, then began pacing the bank. Clay snorted impatiently. So long as Winsloe was thirty feet from the forest's edge, we didn't dare move closer or he'd have time to shoot before we brought him down. If he waded in and started walking, we could move alongside him, staying in the trees until the forest weaved nearer to the riverbank, bringing us close enough to attack.
Winsloe finally stopped pacing. He stood at the foot of a huge oak, tilted his head back, and shaded his eyes to look up at it. Then he grasped the lowest branch and gave an experimental tug. As he slung the gun over his shoulder, Clay shot from the forest. Winsloe didn't notice. With his back to us, he grabbed the branch again and hauled himself up. It was then that I realized what Winsloe was doing. Climbing the tree. Okay, so I'm a bit slow on the uptake. By the time I leaped from our hiding place, Winsloe was ten feet off the ground. Still running, Clay crouched and sprang. Only then did Winsloe see him. He glanced over his shoulder a split second before Clay's teeth sunk into his knee. Winsloe howled. He kicked with his free leg, knocking Clay in the side of the skull. Clay hung on. Blood sprayed his muzzle as Winsloe flailed, shouting and fighting to keep his hold on the tree. I was still several yards away, running full-out. I could see deep furrows in Winsloe's calf where Clay's teeth had ripped through his leg clear to the bone. As the flesh tore, Clay began losing his grip. He danced on his hindlegs, not daring to release Winsloe long enough to get a fresh hold. I covered the last few feet and leaped at Winsloe's free leg. He kicked at exactly the right moment, catching me in the eye. I yelped and fell back. As I got to my feet, Clay's grasp slipped to Winsloe's shoe. Before I could jump at Winsloe again, his shoe slid off and Clay tumbled backward. Winsloe swung his legs out of reach, scrambled to the next branch, and grabbed his gun. We bolted. A round of gunfire rang out, but we were well clear, hidden in the forest again.We stopped behind a thick stand of trees. Clay motioned for me to stay put, then turned and headed back for a better look at the situation. I didn't follow, not because Clay had told me not to-I'd never been good at taking orders-but because it was safer for only one of us to venture out. As much as I hated to admit it, Clay was the better stalker. If I tried to help, I'd only triple the likelihood of making noise and getting us shot.
Winsloe climbing a tree posed a problem. A big problem. Next time, I'd be a lot more careful about asking for a challenge. I knew Winsloe was smart, but I hadn't expected him to keep so cool under pressure. Given what I'd seen of Winsloe-that cocky self-importance masking an easily bruised ego-I'd thought he'd panic when he realized his life was in danger. Maybe he didn't think it was. Maybe this was all still a game to him. Unfortunately for us, it was a game he was winning. Talk about ego-bruising. First, he'd tricked us and armed himself. Now he'd gone up a tree, the one place we couldn't follow. The tree not only provided him with safety, but it was the perfect vantage point for shooting. How could we even get close-
The forest exploded in a flurry of gunfire. I bolted from my hiding place, then stopped in mid-run. I shouldn't go out there. I was safer here. Clay was safer with me here. But what had happened? Was Winsloe shooting blindly? Or had he seen Clay?
Another rapid-fire round of shots. Then silence. I stood there, legs trembling as I listened. When Winsloe fired again, I nearly jumped out of my hide. That did it. I barreled down the incline toward the river clearing. More shots. I stopped on the edge of the clearing, hunkered down, and crept forward until I could see what was happening. Ahead was the old oak with Winsloe perched twenty feet up, squinting south, gun poised. Other than that, the clearing was empty. Empty and quiet. Suddenly a crackling of leaves broke the silence. I swung my head north. A flash of gold darted through the trees. Winsloe turned and fired, shooting at the noise. Clay was long gone. A waste of bullets. I realized that was the idea. Get Winsloe to empty his gun firing at phantasms. A good plan, and one I would have thought of… eventually.
I considered retreating to my hiding place, but couldn't do it. I knew it would be safer to let Clay do this alone, but I'd go crazy with worry if I couldn't see what was happening. Before long, Clay smelled me there. He came over and tried to prod me deeper into the woods, but I wouldn't budge. I lay down, put my head on my front paws, and stared into the clearing. He got the idea. I needed to watch, to be sure he was safe. He settled for a quick nuzzle, then grabbed the back of my neck in his jaws, not biting but pinning my head, telling me to stay here and stay down. I grunted my assent. He brushed his muzzle against mine, then disappeared into the forest. 
Winsloe emptied his automatic quickly, going through several reloads of ammunition. Then he pulled a pistol from under his jacket. He was more careful now, less willing to waste bullets on mere noises in the woods. So Clay had to be more daring. At first, he'd only come near the edge of the clearing, allowing Winsloe to see a flash of fur. Eventually, though, even that didn't work and he had to dart into the open. By that point, my eyes were firmly closed. My heart pounded so loudly I almost expected Winsloe to hear it. Eventually, though, it was over. The last shot was fired. After several minutes, Clay slipped from the forest. He stood there, in plain view, muscles tensed, and waited. Winsloe threw the empty pistol at him and cursed. Clay walked closer, slowly, presenting the perfect target if Winsloe should have another weapon stashed under his jacket. Nothing. Winsloe was done.
Now I had a plan. Good thing, too, or my ego would have been more than just bruised. This was my hunt, and I'd done almost nothing, made no plans, taken no risks. It was my turn. While Clay ensured Winsloe was out of firepower, I crept farther into the forest, found a likely spot, and started my Change.
Less than ten minutes later, I walked to the edge of the clearing and whistled. Winsloe's head shot up and he scanned the forest.
"Hear that?" he called to Clay. "Someone's coming. Guess you didn't kill every guard after all."
He leaned over the tree branch and peered down, but Clay was gone. Seconds later, Clay burst through the forest perimeter and looked up at me. His eyes flashed a question. Did I want him to Change too? I shook my head, knelt, and whispered my plan. As I talked, he moved closer, fur rubbing against my bare skin. Without thinking, I ran my fingers through his thick fur. As I finished, I realized what I was doing and stopped. My face heated. On rare occasions when the situation was reversed, and I was a wolf while Clay was human, I freaked out if he touched me. It was… well, it was too weird. This time, when I pulled back, Clay nudged my hand and licked between my fingers, telling me it was okay. And it was. Clay was Clay no matter what form he took. Yet another baby step toward accepting my own duality.
"Sound good?" I whispered when I'd finished outlining my plan.