Thirty-four
Brice ran, as fast as the forest would let him. He slashed through the undergrowth, throwing branches aside. He kicked forward, tripping on occasions, but always staggering on. Nothing was going to prevent him reaching that Proteus.
Light flickered through the tree-tops, and the whine of the craft’s engines deepened. Brice knew what that meant—it was about to touch down. And it would have light, and warmth, and food. It would have a shower.
The arc lights—and for them to burn through the trees so powerfully, that must be what they were—cast shadows all around, swirling in the storm, the bark and the leaves glistening with the rain.
And Brice stopped. Because the shadows were alive.
The creatures moved, hiding from the light. Rain coated their hides, and their claws g
