Noah scrambled to get low to the ground. Time passed in slow motion once again. His reaction was immediate and he hit the deck before a thought pass could through his brain.
None of the de Gottardi/Little people had raised a rifle. This had come from somewhere in the distance.
Simultaneously, he thought, That shot wasn't for me, as he watched one of the men twist and drop at a weird angle. Noah imagined he could see a fine spray of blood, but he wasn’t sure if it was real or not.
In front of him, Will quickly crouched low, his own rifle now swept upward and poised. His finger was ready to pull the trigger as he used the nose of the barrel to scan the area, ready to kill anything that moved.
Though it all happened in a split second, his actions offered multiple confirmations that the shot was from someone other than the de Gottardi/Littles.
Noah had just been shot at by two different warring factions in the last thirty minutes, and he’d had about enough. His gun, already in his hand, was aimed outward and he was on his belly, his eyes scanning the world through the notch of the site.
He saw nothing in front of him. Nothing moved in the quadrant the shot had come from—if he’d been correct in his assessment. Split-second analysis wasn’t always correct, though.
From the corner of his vision, he heard a growl of rage. Several of them, in fact. He watched surreptitiously as faces contorted and jaws moved outward. The remaining three who'd stood near Will leapt into action, none so fast, or so wildly, as the white-haired woman. Her rage permeated the air around her.
Then she was gone.
Her clothes were already peeled as her body changed, the White Wolf took one giant leap before she disappeared into the depths of the tall grass, leaving only a trail of moving grass behind her.
The other two followed quickly and Noah had to force his attention away from the fantastical scene before him and focus on the task of preventing his own sudden death.
Only Will Little remained in human form.
Noah felt his blood pumping through his system. His ears pounded in the same cadence, still ringing from the gunfire. There were two shots, he thought as he catalogued his memory from his position pressed low into the sharp twigs and leaves and dirt.
He considered the option of rolling over and dropping back down to the trap door. He would save himself, but then what use would he be to the others?
He also might get himself trapped. In fact, he would most likely get trapped beneath the houses, lost and unable to find his way safely out.
As more growls reached his ears, he realized stealth was now a thing of the past. So he watched until he caught sight of ears and snouts peeking just above the grass. All the wolves ran in one direction. They clearly knew where the shooter was, and he steadied his aim that way, watching for any movement that wasn’t them.
Beside him, Christina's sweeping gaze caught his and he realized that she was likely thinking all the same things he was. She didn't nod at him; the movement would have been too big and might have drawn attention to her. But some subtle shift in her muscles told him she agreed with his plan.
Together, they turned to face the other direction, weapons swinging as they softly rolled in tandem. Any good attack would come from multiple sources at once. They needed to watch the side the wolves weren’t keeping an eye on.
Noah tried to steady his breathing. His lungs fought hard to drag in as much air as possible, but without sound or movement. Noah needed silence. He needed a steady hand.
The adrenaline would keep his vision clear.
Maybe too much. It seemed as if every little blade of grass rustling in the wind demanded to be shot. As he ran a quick visual sweep, he realized that the scene had stilled.
Will and the wolves were gone. The sound of their war cries still hung in the air, but they were off in the distance, chasing their quarry.
Noah and Christina, fully human, had been left where they started, on the foundation of the house, hoping for the leaves to be adequate cover.
Forcing a long, slow breath, he dragged the air softly through his nose, his chest fighting the beat of his caged heart, his eyeballs twitching side to side, as he watched.
Maybe it was luck.
Maybe random timing was the only reason he saw the very slow movement as the head of dark hair rose above the tips of the wheat.
The shape in its hand too much resembled the shape of a gun, blackened into shadow so it didn’t reflect light and give away the shooter’s position.
Making a small adjustment, a pull of one shoulder, a slight shift of his hips, he executed a low, soft roll, affording a mild change in his aim.
Noah breathed in through his nose. Stopped. And pulled the trigger.