The Rising by Kelley Armstrong

and—
    I caught a movement to my left and looked to see someone standing about fifty meters away, by the edge of the woods. A teenage guy in a suit. Staring at us.
    Brendan.
    I’d forgotten about Brendan.
    Could I make it to him? Just long enough to pass on a message?
    What message? What could I possibly tell him in thirty seconds or less that wouldn’t just make matters worse?
    Not even thirty seconds—two of the searchers were heading straight for him. Walking fast, as if they’d just realized they had a Salmon Creek kid on the loose.
    I ripped my gaze from Brendan. He hadn’t recognized me. Couldn’t. Not from this distance. Not with Ash. Not when I was supposed to be—
    â€œMaya?” Brendan called.
    I didn’t look over. Ash did, then swore. He pulled his fist from my hand and grabbed my wrist instead, yanking me along as he broke into a jog.
    â€œMaya!” Brendan yelled.
    â€œWhat the hell are you doing?” I said, tripping as I tried to pull free from Ash’s grip.
    â€œHe can’t help you and I’m not letting you do something stupid—”
    â€œLike breaking into a run and letting him know it really is me?”
    He cursed as he realized his mistake and slowed.
    â€œToo late now,” I muttered, grabbing his elbow. “Run!”
    We raced into the parking lot as shouts and cries rang out behind us.
    I didn’t hear Brendan’s voice again. I think they must have gotten to him, bustling him off before he was absolutely sure of what he’d seen. Who he’d seen. I hoped so. Really hoped so. I didn’t want to think what they’d do if he insisted that he’d spotted me.
    We should have thought of that—what would happen if someone saw us and we couldn’t warn them to keep quiet? We were so desperate that I think Ash was right—we were being reckless, however hard we tried not to be.
    We escaped the park. If you have enough of these encounters, eventually that’s all it comes down to. Was anyone captured? Anyone hurt? No and no. Then it’s not worthy of comment. We’d had a good enough lead on our pursuers, and by the time they got vehicles to come after us, we were gone.
    We returned to Stanley Park. We’d left our bag of extra clothes and supplies hidden there. The guys would come back.
    We returned around seven, after two hours on buses, transferring and retransferring just in case we were being followed. I expected the guys to be at our campsite when we returned. When they weren’t, we settled in to wait.
    We’d been there for about thirty minutes in silence, which only added to the hours of silence since we’d escaped at the park. I’d tried several times on the bus to strike up conversation with Ash. It was met either with suspicion—what does it matter where I’ve lived?—or sarcasm—hobbies? sports? yeah, did I mention the varsity baseball and country club? By this point, I began to suspect “what’s your favorite color” would be seen as intrusive. So I stopped trying.
    â€œWhat’s it like?” Ash said finally as we sat on the logs around our nonexistent campfire.
    â€œHmm?”
    â€œShifting into a mountain lion. What’s it feel like? Hurts like hell, I bet.”
    When I didn’t answer in the next two seconds, his face darkened. “I was just curious. Skin-walkers are supposed to be extinct. Not a lot of people I can ask.”
    â€œI was trying to decide how to describe it. I know you’re not happy to be here, Ash. I don’t know what you expected. Not me, that’s obvious. Maybe you’re pissed because you came all this way and I don’t seem grateful. I am. I really am. But I can’t figure out a way to show that without pissing you off all the more. You’ve got your back up and there’s no way I’m getting it down.”
    â€œDo I?” His eyes narrowed. “Huh. Let me ask you