“Morning can’t be far away,” he said quietly. “It can’t be long now.”

“Hope so,” Bear mumbled.

The ground dropped away into a shallow ravine, and the mist that had collected there stole the last of their vision. They moved through it blindly, fearfully, anxious to get past. “Damn,” Bear muttered. When they climbed out again on the far bank, they were back on level ground. But the mist was even thicker here.

Bear grunted. “Hope this isn’t going to continue all the way to . . .”

He gasped sharply. The Klee had materialized right in front of him. He had just enough time to bring up the barrel of the Tyson Flechette before a backhand blow sent him tumbling head-over-heels into the ravine and out of sight. Hawk and Sparrow were already falling back, scrambling away like frightened cats, when Cheney burst out of the darkness and flung himself on the Klee. His body weight and the ferocity of his attack staggered the monster but did not knock it over. The Klee straightened as Cheney tore at one arm, and then shook free of the big dog. When Cheney came at it again, it was waiting. Cheney was airborne when the Klee braced itself, stopped the dog’s momentum with one arm, and delivered a devastating blow to the shaggy head with the other. Cheney went down and did not move. Sparrow screamed in horror and fury, leveled the Parkhan Spray, and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. The weapon was jammed.

The Klee brushed her aside as if she were not even there and came for Hawk. HE IS JUST A BOY and not much of one at that. Eleven or twelve years old, scrawny and awkward. Uncomfortable in his own skin and never certain that he is where he should be, he is stumbling toward his teenage years with uncertain steps. He spends most of his time with his parents, who are still alive, their presence a constant reassurance in a world where little else is. He is living on the Oregon coast somewhere remote and wild, away from other families, but away, as well, from the things that hunt those families. He knows about these predatory things because his parents have told him about them. Incessantly. He must be cautious. He must think before doing anything. He must never go out alone unless he is in sight of his house. He must carry a weapon everywhere he goes. He hates that part; weapons frighten him. Yet he must remember that danger is never very far away.

“Even here,” his mother tells him, her voice firm and insistent, “you are not safe. There are terrible things hunting you, and you must keep watch for them.”