Read Online 3 Panthers Play for Keeps by Clea Simon - Free Book Online

think of was the body we had found less than twenty-four hours before. The shock of raw fear—that secondhand terror—still chilled me. I didn’t know what had torn her like a papier-mâché doll, but something had. And I had a horrible feeling that whatever had done that was now waiting, watching us, from the shadows.

Chapter Ten
    We stood there for what seemed like an eternity, although I could have calculated the time by the audible beating of my heart. Spot stayed on alert, and I stared for all I was worth, trying to decipher the mass of shadows in the brambles, to distinguish the shape of a potential predator from last year’s leaf fall, while we both stood as still as statues. It was the sensible response, one young animals know by instinct. Movement gets noticed, and getting noticed—if you’re prey—gets you dead.
    Unfortunately, I’m not a bunny. I’m a human, and as the seconds—or maybe they really were minutes—ticked past, I became aware of two distinct urges. The first was for a bathroom. And while I’m not above squatting in the woods, I know enough to not make myself look smaller—more vulnerable—to a predator. If I’m going to be jumped, I sure as hell don’t want it to be with my jeans down. The second urge was to strike out—or at least to talk back to whatever it was that was out there. I’m not saying humans are superior creatures. I’ve learned that much in my time with this supposed gift. What I am saying is that I was getting angry. Here I was, acting on another’s trauma reflexively, when the one thing I had going for me was my brain. Not that I could out-argue an alpha predator. But if I couldn’t find a way to think my way free of this situation, well, I deserved to die wetting myself.
    It was time to act.
    “Spot.” I kept my voice level but low. The command firm. “Come here, Spot. Heel.”
    There was a moment’s hesitation, more something I sensed than saw. He didn’t want to step beside me, where he couldn’t protect me. I got it. “Heel,” I reiterated, putting a touch more steel into my voice. He came and stood beside me but not willingly. Every fiber—every hair on his coat—was on alert. If I didn’t already feel alarmed, his resistance now would have clued me in.
    “Watch out .” It was a warning, the equivalent of a whisper. I got it, and reached down to lay my fingers in what I hoped was a comforting fashion on Spot’s head. But I was focused on the bush. Somewhere in there was something that had raised Spot’s hackles and should have raised mine. Something in there had attacked the woman we found. Something that was, most likely, an animal. And here I was, the animal psychic. Wasn’t it possible that I could reach out and make some kind of contact with it? That I could, if not communicate, at least eavesdrop on whatever it—he, she—wanted? Shouldn’t I be getting something?
    I tried to focus on what a predator would feel. What would make a large animal attack? “Fear?” Not for oneself, maybe, but for one’s cubs or kits. I mulled this one over, trying to envision little ones—a den of some kind. Not my scene; I couldn’t get a handle on it.
    “Hunger… ” That was easier, and I did my best to envision my own appetite growing, wild and ravenous. I got so far as to feel my belly grumbling before the silliness of the situation got to me. The absurdity—my fear, my other impulses. Nothing from the brush, though. If Spot hadn’t been on alert, I’d have been tempted to believe that it—whatever it was—had gone. Slunk off while I was doing my best to throw mind darts in its direction.
    This was crazy. My temper started to rise, and I tried to ride that: “Anger, rage?” That one wasn’t hard: I don’t like being scared. “Grrr… ” I rumbled out a growl, loud enough to cause a slight twitch in Spot’s ear. “Challenge… ” I pushed it further. This was getting a bit crazy. I was sick of being stuck here. I could see the