Only Pyotr seemed shy about his abilities.
“Empath,” Konstantin had explained. “He can read someone’s emotions, even when they’re hiding it, or acting contrarily. One teacher said he was a living lie detector. Because of this, he prefers the company of animals, spends much of his time at the Menagerie. He’s the one who insisted we bring Marta.”
Monk stared at where the boy walked with the elderly chimpanzee. He had been studying the boy, watching how he interacted. The two seemed to be in constant communication, silent glances, a pinch of brow or pucker of lip, a swing of arm.
He watched Pyotr suddenly stiffen and stop. Marta did, too. Pyotr swung to Konstantin and spoke in a rush, a frightened babble, first in Russian, then English. His small eyes turned up to Monk, searching for some miraculous salvation.
“They’re here,” the boy whispered.
Monk didn’t have to ask who Pyotr meant. It was plain from the raw terror in his voice.
Arkady and Zakhar.
The two Siberian tigers.
“Go!” Monk said. They ran down the riverbank. Konstantin led the way. His sister, Kiska, as fleet-footed as a gazelle, followed behind him. Monk allowed Konstantin to pick the best path through the blueberry bushes, scraggly brush, and boulders that lined the riverbanks. Monk kept a watch on their back trail. He had to be careful. Streams of straw-yellow spruce needles flowed from the thick forest to the river’s edge and created patches as slick as ice underfoot.
Pyotr slipped on a patch and landed hard on his backside. Marta scooped him under a hairy arm and got him back on his feet. Monk herded them forward. Konstantin and Kiska widened the distance ahead of them.
They ran for five minutes, but exhaustion quickly began to slow them. Even adrenaline and terror fired you for only so long. Ten minutes more and they were slogging at a stumbling half trot.
The group closed together again.
There remained no sound of pursuit, no crash of branches or snap of twigs. No sign of the tigers.
Konstantin, panting and red-faced, glared at Pyotr and spoke harshly in Russian, plainly berating the boy for the false alarm.
Monk waved Konstantin off. “It’s not his fault,” he gasped out.
Pyotr wore a wounded yet still terrified expression.
Marta hooted softly, bumping Konstantin.
Kiska also scolded her brother in Russian.
Monk had been warned that Pyotr could not judge distances well, only intent. He had to trust that when the tigers got really close—
—Pyotr went ramrod stiff, his eyes huge.
He opened his mouth, but terror choked him silent.
No words were necessary.
“Now!” Monk screamed.
Turning as one, they all ran—straight for the swift-flowing river as planned. Monk grabbed Pyotr, hugged him tight, and leaped from the bank. He heard twin splashes as Kiska and Konstantin hit the water downstream a few yards.
Monk surfaced in the icy-cold flow with the boy clinging like a vine to his neck. He twisted in time to see Marta swing up into the branches of a tree, climbing fast.
Deeper in the forest…motion…swift…a flash of fiery fur…
Monk kicked for the deepest and fastest current. He spotted Marta leaping from one tree to another in the dense forest. Chimpanzees could not swim and had no natural buoyancy. She had to take another path.
Forest shadows shattered as a huge shape burst into view, low, muzzle rippling, paws wide, striped tail high and stiff.
The tiger leaped straight from the riverbank at Monk.
He back-paddled and kicked, dragged by the weight of his pack and the boy. Pyotr tightened his arms, strangling him.
The tiger flew, legs out wide, black claws bared, a scream of feral fury.
Monk could not swim fast enough.
But the river’s flow made up for it.
The tiger crashed into the water a few yards away, missing its prey.
Monk angled into a swift channel between two boulders. He got dumped into a churning hole, thrown down deep, then back up again.
Pyotr choked and coughed.
Monk twisted and spotted the tiger thrashing upriver. It spun in an eddy of current. Despite the myths of cats and water, tigers were not averse to water. Still, the beast paddled for the shore. It was not how cats hunted.
Cats were all about the ambush.
The tigers had plainly stalked them, following them quietly through the forest as they fled away, driven by Pyotr’s initial warning. The boy had been right. Following age-old instincts and cunning, the pair had tracked them, waited until their prey had tired before charging. Tigers were sprinters, not long-distance runners. They timed their charge so they could strike at the perfect moment.
Along the river’s edge, another tiger appeared, stalking back and forth, thwarted. The first cat hauled out of the river, waterlogged and drenched. It shook its laden pelt and sprayed water.
Monk got a good look at the pair. Though still muscular, they looked emaciated, starved. Their fur had a ragged appearance. He noted matching steel skullcaps, like on the wolves. One tiger’s ear was gnarled, shredded from an old hunting injury. Zakhar, according to Konstantin’s description. Born siblings, it was the only way they could be told apart.
In a single smooth motion, as if responding to a silent whistle, the pair turned and vanished into the darkness.
Monk knew it wasn’t over.
The hunt was just beginning.
He twisted and saw Konstantin and Kiska disappear around a bend in the river. Monk sidestroked after them. Pyotr shivered against him. Monk knew the boy was not trembling from the cold, nor even from fear of the tigers. His huge, panicked eyes were not on the riverbank, but on the flow of water all around him.
What was terrifying him?
3:35 P.M.
Pyotr clung to the large man. He kept his arms tight around his neck, his legs around his waist. Water flowed all around him, filling his world. He tasted it on his lips, felt it in his ears, smelled its sweetness and green rot. Its ice cold cut to his bones.
He could not swim.
Like Marta.
He searched the far bank as it swept past, searching for his friend.
Pyotr knew much of his fear of water came from her heart. Deep water was death to her. He had felt the quickening thud of her heart when they crossed on the boulders earlier today, saw the tightening of her jaw, the glassy wideness to her eyes.
Her terror was his.
Pyotr clasped tighter to the man.
But the true heart of Marta’s terror lay deeper than any sea. He had known it from the moment she had come to his bedside, laying a lined paw upon his sheets, inviting friendship. Most thought she had come to comfort him as he recovered from his first surgery.