Chapter 138
Elara's POV
The river valley stretched ahead, narrow and choked with undergrowth. I kept my breathing steady, my steps quick but controlled. Cole moved beside me in human form now, his eyes scanning the terrain with the same practiced efficiency I remembered from the Northern Territories.
Fifteen minutes in, he stopped. His hand shot up in a silent signal.
I dropped to a crouch, my gaze following his pointing finger. The ground ahead told a story I didn't want to read.
Leaves scattered in a wide arc. Broken shrubs, their branches snapped clean through. And on the nearest tree trunk, deep gouges in the bark—claw marks that bit into the wood at least five centimeters deep.
I moved forward, keeping low. My fingers traced the edge of one gouge. Fresh. The wood inside was still pale, not yet darkened by exposure.
"At least three pursuers," I said quietly. "She ran northwest."
Cole knelt beside me, his nostrils flaring as he tested the air. "Blood. Faint, but it's there. "
I pushed to my feet. "Let's move."
---
We followed the blood trail. It wasn't continuous—just scattered drops on moss-covered stones, smears on low-hanging branches. But it was enough.
The drops were getting farther apart.
I noticed it after the first ten minutes. The distance between each bloodstain was increasing. She was moving faster, pushing herself harder despite the injury.
My jaw clenched. Lynette—no, the girl in my old body—was running for her life. And I was the reason she was in this mess.
"Terrain's dropping," Cole said, pulling me from my thoughts.
I focused. He was right. The ground sloped downward ahead, the trees thinning slightly.
We reached the edge of a steep embankment. Maybe three meters down. The slope was torn up, dirt and leaves disturbed in a clear slide pattern.
I scanned the top edge and froze.
A scrap of fabric hung from a broken branch. Plaid pattern. Stained dark with blood.
I reached out and carefully pulled it free. The cloth was damp. Recent.
"Down here!" Cole's voice came from below.
I looked over the edge. He was crouched at the bottom, examining the ground.
"More blood," he called up. "And paw prints. She shifted."
I gripped the fabric tighter. "She's still moving. That's good."
It had to be good. Because the alternative—
I shut that thought down and climbed down the slope.
---
The embankment led to a shallow stream. Fast-moving water, maybe ankle-deep, cutting through the forest floor.
The blood trail ended at the water's edge.
I walked along the bank, searching. Nothing. No prints, no blood, no torn vegetation.
"She went into the water," I said. "Covering her scent."
Cole was already moving upstream, his eyes tracking both banks. The trees pressed close here, roots tangling into the water, creating dozens of potential exit points.
"She can't have stayed in long," I said, more to myself than to him. "Not with an injury. Hypothermia would set in. Five hundred meters, maximum."
Cole nodded once. "We split up. I'll take the right bank, you take the left. Check in every fifty meters."
"Agreed."
I moved upstream along the left bank, my focus absolute. Every broken twig, every disturbed stone could be a sign.
Three hundred meters in, I found it.
A patch of ferns, crushed flat. The stems were broken, bent in the direction of the deeper forest. Something heavy had pushed through here, recently enough that the plants hadn't sprung back.
"Cole!" I kept my voice low but urgent.
He was across the stream in seconds, barely making a sound as he jumped from stone to stone.
I pointed at the ferns. He crouched, examining the ground beyond them.
"Human footprints," he said quietly. "Shallow impressions. She's weak."
I looked where he indicated. The prints were barely visible in the soft earth, the kind of marks someone makes when they're too exhausted to lift their feet properly.
And beside the prints, on a patch of moss, were three fresh drops of blood. Bright red against the green.
My hands curled into fists. She was hurt, exhausted, and still running.
"We're close," I said.
---
We followed the footprints deeper into the forest. The tracks were erratic, weaving between trees, sometimes disappearing entirely on harder ground before reappearing a few meters ahead.
Cole suddenly raised his fist. I stopped immediately.
He tilted his head, listening. I strained my ears.
There. Faint but distinct. Heavy breathing. Low voices. The metallic clink of equipment.
Cole jerked his head toward a dense thicket. We moved toward it, placing each step with care. No snapped twigs. No rustling leaves.
Through the gaps in the undergrowth, I could see them.
Five men. In a small clearing. All of them wore tactical vests, military-style. Knives and handguns strapped to their belts. Built like soldiers.
The one in front was bent over a crudely drawn map, gesturing at it while he spoke.
"The bitch is definitely in this area," he said. His voice was rough, confident.
One of the others shifted, and I caught sight of his backpack.
Hanging from one of the straps was a piece of torn fabric. Plaid pattern. Bloodstained.
The same pattern as the scrap in my pocket.
My vision narrowed. These were the ones. The ones who'd been hunting her.
Cole's hand touched my shoulder. A light pressure, a silent question: What's the plan?
I forced myself to think tactically. Five armed men. Two of us. Cole could shift, but that would make noise, draw attention. And I needed information more than I needed bodies right now.
I leaned close to Cole's ear, barely breathing the words. "Wait for them to split up. We take one alive."
He nodded once.
The man with the map straightened. "Alright. Fan out. Check every cave, every hollow. If you find tracks, call it in. If you find her—"
One of the men suddenly lifted his head. His nostrils flared.
"Wait," he said sharply. "I smell something."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
The man took a step toward our position, his head tilted, scenting the air.
"Smells... unfamiliar," he said slowly.