Forlot - Books 7-9

Chapter Seven

I gasped and scooped her up. There was a gunshot wound in the middle of her little, red stomach, and blood was seeping through it.

Tabceo had her feet up and said, "This is it. I am fading...fading from the world. Goodbye, cruel world..."

"No!" I protested. "You are not going to die! I will not let you!" I put two fingers in my mouth and whistled, and the wolves came to my aid.

"What is the meaning of this?" Grand Wolf demanded. He looked up at me. "Maria, what is it?"

"An animal was shot," I admitted to him as I lowered the injured bird. "This bird was shot in the stomach."

His eyebrows narrowed, he stared at Tabceo for what seemed like an eternity, like he was in a trance.

Finally, he said, "We need to go."

"What? You mean we have to move again?"

"If we do not want any other animals to get shot, especially anybody from the tribe, then we must move. Now."

I nodded. "Yes, Grand Wolf."

The old wolf opened his mouth, and I put the bird in it. He slowly closed his mouth, careful to not stab the poor bird with his teeth, and took off with her. The rest of the wolves gathered everything, and I waited for them.

Even though that I had just met Tabceo, I prayed for her to be okay. She did not deserve to die. No talking animal did. And whoever shot her...would pay.

Keeping Triste close to me, I heard voices behind me. No. One voice that was quite aways.

"Come on, guys," I told the wolves. "We need to hurry and catch up with Grand Wolf." I felt a light tap on my shoulder and glanced at Triste. "What is it, Triste?"

Triste was lying on his stomach and had his tail wrapped around my feet. He tilted his head up to me. "What is what, Maria?"

"You tapped my shoulder."

"I did not tap your shoulder. I swear."

He was not the type of wolf to lie to me, so I believed him. "Then who tapped me?"

"I did."

That voice...that childish voice...it sounded close.

I spun around and let out a horrified gasp. There was a human, a boy around my age, who had been standing behind me. He had short, black hair and wore what a medieval prince would wear. A purple, long-sleeved shirt and dark blue pants with black boots. He was holding a rifle, ones that people use to shoot and kill animals. As if that was not bad enough...

...I knew him.

"Lucas," I said with a blank expression. "Lucas Passion."

Triste got in front of me and growled.

"Who is that guy?" one of the wolves questioned. "He does not look like a guard or lumberjack."

"That is because he is neither," I said. "He is Prince Lucas. He is the prince whom I am supposed to marry when I am eighteen."