The Rising (3 page)

Corey scanned the quiet road. “There's no one around. Maya, why don't you go knock on the door. It's not like anyone's going to be watching the place.”

“Are you sure?” Daniel said.

Corey shifted. “Look, I know we need to be careful, but”—he waved a hand around—“we're in the middle of nowhere. It's the cottage of her grandmother's friend. How would we even know she was here? No one's going to expect this.”

“You're sure of that? Sure enough to bet Maya's freedom on it?”

Corey swore under his breath. “I didn't mean it like that.”

“I know,” I said. “You're right. We need to take a chance. But it's almost seven now. It'll be dark soon. Once it is, I can get to the cabin, get her attention, and get her to let me in.”

Daniel shook his head. “If she sees you through a window, she might react loud enough for anyone watching to overhear. I should—”

“I'll do it,” Corey said. “First, she knows me the least, so she'll have the least reaction to seeing me alive. Second, I'm the guy you can most afford to lose.”

“We can't afford to lose anyone,” I said.

“Let's not go through this again, okay? I don't need you guys to make me feel important. You and Daniel got us this far and you're the ones most likely to get us out. From now on, if someone needs to take a risk, it's me. Always me.”

We finally agreed that it would be him
this time
. It was true that Daniel and I had done most of the planning so far. We'd all grown up together in a very small school, where Daniel and I were the class leaders, not because we were awesomely perfect, but because we tended to take charge naturally and the others were happy to kick back and let us shoulder that responsibility. In a crisis, they'd done the same.

Yet everyone had played their part in this ordeal. Often, that role had been the sacrificial lamb. Hayley, Sam, and Rafe had all let themselves be captured so the rest of us could escape. And with every sacrifice they made, the pressure to honor it by saving them grew greater, and I felt less worthy of it.

So we waited for dark. And as we waited, I became more and more anxious. It was already driving me crazy, being this close to my grandmother, with her in there grieving for me. I kept thinking Corey was right, we were being overly paranoid and maybe, in that paranoia, losing our best chance. Maybe it wasn't just paranoia, either. Maybe we'd become cowards. Unwilling to take a risk if it meant we might be captured, too.

“I need to move,” I said finally as dusk fell.

We were sitting against the neighboring cottage, the long grass hiding us. Nobody had spoken in almost an hour and when I did, the guys both jumped.

“I just want to take a walk.” I glanced down at my trembling hands and clenched them into fists. “I'll be careful.”

Daniel looked at me, his head tilted, eyes dark, like he wanted to do something or say something. “Okay,” he said finally. Then, voice lowered another notch, “It'll all be over soon.”

You'll see her soon
is what he meant. I nodded and said I wouldn't be long, then crawled through the long grass to a stand of forest. Only when I was deep enough in did I rise and begin to walk.

Being in the forest only reminded me of
my
forest, which reminded me of my parents and our lives there and made me wonder whether we'd ever be able to go back. Almost certainly we wouldn't go back. Salmon Creek was lost to us. My forest was lost to me.

And it was only then that I truly understood what I'd had—a damned near perfect life. Days spent tramping through the wilderness with my dog, with Daniel, endless idyllic days when we had nothing more to worry about than planning the next school fund-raiser. Even that was hardly stressful—we'd put on an event and the town would open its wallets. The St. Clouds would make a huge donation, and everyone would tell us what an amazing job we'd done. Now I wondered if we could have slapped together a bake sale with tables full of stale Rice Krispies Treats and gotten the same results.

The scientists had wanted us to grow up healthy and confident. Most of all, though, they wanted us to be happy, so that when we discovered the truth, we'd be okay with it.

Would we have been okay with it? No. We'd never have forgiven them for the lie. But could we have reconciled ourselves to a life as research subjects and future Cabal employees? I should say no. Emphatically no. Yet I can see a future where that might have happened. If they'd raised us knowing what had been done to us and why. And if they'd given us a choice. Accept what we're offering or you're free to leave.

I grieved for the loss of my old life, and I worried about my parents and my friends, and I couldn't even walk it off because the patch of forest was so narrow. So I had to circle, which started to feel like pacing, and only made me all the more anxious. When my palms began to itch, I rubbed them against my jeans, still pacing, until the faint rubbing sound turned into a harsh rasp. I looked down to see the skin on my palms thickening, roughening. Hair had sprouted on the back of my hands. My cheeks itched, too, and when I reached up, I knew what I'd feel—the planes of my face changing, more hair sprouting. I barely had time to think “I'm shifting” when my knees gave way, like someone kicked them from behind. I fell to all fours, heaving, the air suddenly too thin, my chest too tight.

Not now. Please not now.

I closed my eyes, fingers digging into the dry earth, willing the transformation to stop. Pain ripped through me and I gritted my teeth against a scream.

This hadn't happened before. It never hurt before.

Because you didn't fight it before.

But I had to stop it. I should be able to stop it.

Only I couldn't, and the harder I tried the more it hurt, the pain so strong I nearly passed out. If I did, then I'd finish the transformation in my sleep, as I had before. Either I let it happen or I passed out and it happened in spite of me. Either way, it
was
happening.

I pulled off my clothing. I'd barely thrown it aside before I crashed to the ground and everything went dark. A moment later, I woke up. There was that usual split second of “where am I? what am I?” grogginess before I remembered and leaped to all fours.

I peered around. It was nearly dark now, but my night vision was excellent. I took a moment to adjust to the other changes—four legs, whiskers, a tail. It all makes movement a little odd at first, even the whiskers, pinging as they brushed the long grass.

Sliding through that grass was a lot easier when I didn't need to crawl. And safer when I blended with the golden stalks. When I neared the neighboring cabin, I poked my head through the grass and let out a soft growl.

Corey peeked out first. He saw me and jumped back. Then Daniel appeared, hand on Corey's shoulder, murmuring, “It's Maya.”

“I knew that,” Corey whispered, looking abashed. “But why is she . . . ?”

“I'm guessing she didn't have a choice.”

Daniel crawled over to me. As he did, I instinctively retreated. He'd never seen me in cat form—I'd only shifted twice so far. While I'd been around humans both times and hadn't felt any monstrous desire to devour them, I still scrambled away when Daniel approached.

But his scent filled my nostrils and I didn't smell a threat or—worse—dinner. I smelled Daniel, a scent I still didn't quite comprehend when I was in human form, but now it felt like a warm wave washing over me, relaxing me, telling me everything was all right, Daniel was here.

Even when I backed away, he kept crawling forward, as if I wasn't a hundred-and-twenty-pound big cat with two-inch claws and fangs.

“You okay?” he whispered.

I tried to say yes. It came out as a soft
chrr-up
, like my bobcat, Fitz, makes when he sees me.

Daniel smiled. “That sounds like yes, so I'm guessing you can understand me.”

Another chirp.

“You've got some good camouflage there,” he said. “A good nose. Good ears. And a good escape vehicle if you're spotted.”

I realized what he was thinking. That I could scout the cabin before we sent Corey over. I chirped and tried motioning with my head that I'd circle the studio. I was sure there was no way he'd understand me, but he nodded.

“So you're okay with that? You'll take a look around before Corey goes in?”

I bobbed my head. He reached over to pat me, then stopped himself with a chagrined smile.

“Sorry, I probably shouldn't do that. But it's the only chance I'll get to pet a cougar.”

I leaned against his hand and he buried his fingers in my fur, then he took a long look at me.

“It's pretty damned amazing,” he murmured.

It was. Whatever else the St. Clouds had done to us, this was amazing. We sat there for a minute. Just sat together, me leaning against him, feeling the warmth of his hand, listening to his breathing, slowly calming me down until I was relaxed enough to pull back and jerk my muzzle toward the cabin, telling Daniel I was ready. He gave me one last pat and returned to Corey.

I
SET OUT THROUGH
the long grass. The wind was coming from the north, which was behind me. I couldn't pick up any traces of human scent on the breeze. That meant there wasn't anyone outdoors for at least a kilometer. No one directly upwind, that is. To the northeast or northwest? Possibly. So I covered a swath from the road to the water. A very faint scent came when I approached the beach—the smell of people mixed with that of burning wood. Someone with a bonfire up the beach. No one lurked nearby watching the studio—at least not in that direction.

I wanted to cross the road to check over there, but it was paved, meaning my tawny fur would shine like a beacon against the black. I paced along the edge, in the grass, thinking. Then I heard a car. I'd been too preoccupied to notice it until it zoomed around a curve, less than a hundred meters away. I dived deeper into the long brown grass.

The car slowed. I plastered myself against the ground, ears flat against my head, tail curled behind me. I could see the driver. Just a gray-haired guy scanning the roadside.

What if he'd spotted me? Were there cougars on Galiano? Even if there were, seeing one would be a big deal. Vancouver Island had more cougars than anyplace else in Canada, yet people lived their entire lives there and never spotted one of the elusive cats.

If this guy saw me and told someone, it could get back to the St. Clouds or the Nasts. They'd know I'd come to see my grandmother and even if I left now, they'd presume I'd made contact and they'd question her. At the very
least
, they'd question her. At worst? I started to shake.

It took a moment for me to realize the car had moved on. It had never even come to a full stop, just a mildly curious driver who'd noticed a movement by the roadside. I chuffed in relief, my flanks vibrating with the sound as I lowered my muzzle to my paws.

I had to be more careful. Damn it, I had to be a lot more careful.

When I'd composed myself, I decided I wasn't crossing that road. Instead, I would circle behind the studio to check the other side. The least exposed route was right along the top of the beach embankment, a narrow strip of long grass.

Again, I screwed up. I'd completely forgotten that there was a path with steps leading from the patio to the beach. Every cottage had one. Luckily, this open strip was barely a meter wide, and I'd only be exposed for a few seconds as I crossed.

I glanced out at the water. No sign of a boat. I peered at the studio. The whole back side was glass, for the artist. The glare of the setting sun against the window made it impossible to see inside. Still, there didn't seem to be anyone there.

As I crouched to scamper across, a scent wafted past. One that made my legs freeze. My grandmother's scent, drifting from an open window. I glanced over and inhaled, feeling my sides shake.

So close. God, she was so close. All I had to do was—

No. Absolutely not. If this worked out, she'd know soon enough.

I took another step. A gasp. I turned and saw a figure silhouetted against the open patio door. It squealed open, and the sound jolted me back to life. I dived into the long grass on the other side.

“Maya!”

My grandmother's voice. I froze again.

Her feet thumped as she ran across the tiny lawn.

“Maya!”

No. This wasn't possible. I was imagining things. There was no way she could know—

I remembered the story she used to tell me when I was little. To explain my paw-print birthmark and the fact that my birth mother had abandoned me on the hospital steps.

She said my real mother was a cougar who'd had a late summer litter. She'd been an old cat and knew the signs that it would be a long, hard winter and her cubs wouldn't all survive. So she'd begged the sky god for mercy, and he turned her smallest cub into a human girl and told the cat to take her into the city. She'd left me at the hospital, but before she went, she'd pressed her paw to my hip, leaving me a mark to remember her by.