Chapter 9: The Hounds Are Loosed
The respite lasted less than forty-eight hours.
Lilith was standing watch by the grimy front window when she saw it: the sweeping, unnatural beam of high-powered tactical flashlights cutting through the dense fog of the forest. The distant, rhythmic crunch of heavy boots on dead leaves echoed through the trees. They hadn't used helicopters; they had tracked them the old-fashioned way. Dogs.
A low, guttural baying confirmed her worst fear. The Vances had brought bloodhounds.
"Chloe, up. Now," Lilith commanded, her voice a sharp whip crack.
The girl jolted awake, panic instantly seizing her. Lilith grabbed her go-bag and shoved the heavy handgun into the waistband of her dark jeans. She grabbed an extra magazine, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs.
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They slipped out the back door of the cabin, descending into the steep, rocky ravine behind it. The fog was thick, a freezing, suffocating blanket that clung to their skin. But the hounds were getting louder. The beams of light were closing in, a tightening net of white hot terror in the dark woods.
"Keep moving," Lilith pushed Chloe forward, her hand firmly on the child's shoulder. But the terrain was brutal, the mud slick, and Chloe’s small legs were failing her. They were running out of ground, and they were running out of time.
