Sentinels: Wolf Hunt. Doranna Durgin

side of an ill-defined desert road…she was just as fettered as ever, this time by the sight of Nick Carter, sprawled ungainly in the dirt. A scant breeze stirred his hair, ruffled by wind and dampened by sweat here in this dry climate where the air sucked away perspiration before it ever had a chance to soak anything.

      Sick. Damaged by the amulet, in spite of Gausto’s assurances. Not likely to survive out here in the open.

      Run. Oh, run. Do it now. The instinct spoke strong in her—spoke smart.

      Jet lifted her head, gazing around the foothills—the fingerlike extensions of raised earth, extending every which way—some low and long, some sharp and high. Here, in this spot, she saw no houses, no buildings. No humans at all. A power line in the distance; a windmill pulling a slow turn in another direction, a barely visible stock tank beneath it. Run, Jet. Do it now.

      Jet started the bike, and her hands on the clutch and throttle felt like someone else’s—so fundamentally wrong, neat fingers and trimmed nails folding gracefully around the clutch lever on one side, the throttle and brake lever on the other.

      And, as though they were someone else’s, they throttled the bike up and forward, feathered the clutch to a release point, and sent her off down the road.