Page 70 of Beasts of Mine

“You destroyed something of mine fifteen minutes ago,” I reminded the amber-eyed leopard, crouching to inspect the fruit despite myself while his eyes followed my hands.

You have more, the amber-eyed leopard replied, glancing toward Cat before returning his attention to me.

I slowly turned toward Cat.

Cat immediately became very interested in the forest.

“Wonderful. You're coordinating now,” I told both leopards, picking up the fruit while Cat's ears moved suspiciously and the amber-eyed leopard looked far too pleased with himself.

The darker leopard was the only one who seemed unwilling to participate in whatever conspiracy had formed around me. He sat near the rear support with his paws crossed and watched the entire exchange with the patient expression of someone observing children he had decided not to claim responsibility for.

“You're still my favorite,” I told the darker leopard, pointing toward him before slipping the fruit into my food bag while the amber-eyed leopard made an offended sound beside me.

For now, the darker leopard replied, dipping his head once before closing his eyes again with infuriating calm.

I paused.

“That sounded threateningly confident,” I told the darker leopard, studying him while he answered with nothing more than a lazy flick of one ear.

By the middle of my second day at the field camp, the three of them had somehow become part of the routine. Cat was always somewhere nearby. Sometimes I found him resting beneath the platform where the shade stayed coolest. Other times he sat near the entrance to the marked trail, facing the forest with the patient attention of something that could apparently spend an hour listening to sounds I didn't even know existed.

Once, I found him nearly thirty yards from camp studying a set of fresh tracks pressed into a muddy patch beside the trail.

I moved closer.

He immediately stepped in front of me.

“What made those?” I asked Cat, leaning sideways in an unsuccessful attempt to see around his much larger body.

Nothing you need to follow, Cat told me, shifting with me so that his shoulder continued blocking the tracks while his attention remained on the trees ahead.

“That wasn't my question,” I told Cat, moving in the opposite direction while he matched me without effort.

It was my answer, Cat replied, planting himself directly between me and whatever had crossed the trail.

I frowned at him.

“You know, being mysterious is significantly less charming when I'm holding a camera,” I told Cat, trying once more to look past him while he remained completely immovable.

Go back to camp, Evie, Cat told me, his voice calm but firmer than usual as one ear angled toward the vegetation behind me.

That finally caught my attention.

“Something dangerous?” I asked Cat, lowering my voice while I glanced toward the thicker growth.

Not if you go back, Cat told me, keeping his golden-brown eyes on the trees instead of looking at me.

I went back.

I wasn't stupid. Curious, yes. Professionally willing to make questionable choices on occasion, certainly. But not stupid.

The darker leopard became my unofficial guide. He appeared whenever I headed toward the stream and repeatedly redirected me onto routes that turned out to be easier, drier, or less heavily traveled by animals. He never hurried me. He would simply appear ahead, look toward whichever direction he apparently considered better, and wait with increasing patience until I accepted that he probably knew what he was doing.

In the late afternoon, instead of letting me head directly toward the blind, he turned onto a narrow path I hadn't noticed before.

“Where are we going?” I asked the darker leopard, ducking beneath a low branch while he moved ahead through the vegetation with irritating confidence.

You'll see, the darker leopard told me, glancing back long enough to make certain I was still behind him.