How would they know exactly where? Because Crane doesn't chase blind, she cut in. He hunts. There's a difference. Hunting means he already knew which direction we'd run before we ran it.
Ezra's stomach dropped because that meant something worse than luck. That meant planning. That meant a man who'd spent years staying uncaught by never once underestimating the people trying to catch him. How many? He asked.
Can't tell yet. Enough that I don't like the sound of it. Chaitton stirred, eyes fluttering half open, voice a thin rasp. Leave me. Take the herd.
Get my sister. Not happening. Ezra said flat. Final. Save your breath.
Ezra. I said not happening. Ayanna was already moving, bow in hand, scanning the narrow canyon mouth like she was measuring exactly how many bodies it would take to hold it. And finding the math didn't favor them. One entrance, she said.
That's the only good thing about this place. They can't flank us here. They have to come through single file. Small mercies. I'll take that over none.
The hoof beatats grew louder, then stopped, which was worse somehow than if they'd kept coming. Because stopped meant somebody out there had a plan, too. And plans meant patience. And patience was the one thing Ezra didn't have enough of left in his whole exhausted body. A voice called out from the dark, unhurried, almost pleasant.
The kind of pleasant that curdles the second you really listen to it. Colton Ezra's blood went cold at the sound of his own name. Spoken by a man he'd never officially met, but had spent 11 years hating with everything he had. Crane, he said, not a question. You know my name.
I'm flattered. Pause. Deliberate. Theatrical. I know yours, too.