Read Wren and the Werebear for Free Online Page B

–Marty
    Her heart began to beat faster as the video loaded. Pulling on her headset, she plugged the audio cord into the phone instead. The cell phone screen popped up with a shot of a forest.
    Taking a deep breath, she pressed play.
    The video was choppy, one of the button cams every tracker had to use. Although Chief's movements were smoother than most, it still took a minute for Wren to get used to the up-and-down motion as he walked forward through the woods. The only audio she could hear was the sound of his breathing, his step crunching leaves underfoot, and occasionally a bird cry.
    It was hard to hear him breathe, to see him walking through the forest through his eyes. Knowing that soon it would be over. Wren shook the thought away and kept watching the video.
    Redwoods lined the path through the forest, their trunks stretching up forever into the sky. At one point Chief stopped and looked up, the camera tilting back far enough that Wren could see the sky, bright blue through the treetops.
    Was that the last time he saw the sky? How did he feel at that moment? Was he happy? Wren’s jaw clenched and tears pushed against the backs of her eyes. No. This was research. She needed to be objective.
    Chief continued on.
    The woods grew thicker, the shorter oaks clumping in densely ahead of the path. Wren could see the trail he was following in the muddy parts of the forest floor: bear tracks. She could hear his breathing quicken, and hers did, too. She held the screen closer to her face, her heart beating fast. She wished he would look around more. Now that the path was narrow, there were plenty of spaces that a bear could be hiding.
    A branch moved, and Wren started back in her seat, her heart skipping a beat. Then the squirrel leaped out of the tree and darted away through the brush. She exhaled, trying to regain her calm.
    Chief moved forward again. Clouds must have come over the tops of the trees, because the light was fading too quickly for sunset. The camera struggled to make sense of the light its lens was receiving. It focused on the nearest tree branch, then farther away. Wren frowned and leaned forward, her nose almost touching the screen.
    There. There was a shadow or something, back behind the small grove of redwoods. Chief turned away and it was lost from sight. Wren wanted to scream at him to turn back, to look! Rule one! Surroundings! Check your damn surroundings!
    He walked forward on the path. The birds had stopped chirping and all was silent except for his breathing.
    A rustling noise came from up ahead, and Wren watched as Chief's gun lifted up into view, pointed directly ahead of him in the direction of the sound. Better safe than sorry. He walked forward, slowly, slowly—
    The attack came from the side. A roar nearly burst Wren's eardrums, and she jerked the cell phone screen away from her at the loud noise. All Wren could see was the dark shadow of a paw slashing down at Chief's arm before darkness enveloped the screen. The roar faded just enough for Wren to hear him screaming, his voice choking on something liquid, maybe blood.
    Then the screen went black. The connection was lost.
    Wren's hand shook as she set down the cell phone on her lap, pulling the headphones out of her ears. For a moment, she could only stare out of the window at the black expanse passing below the plane. All around her, people tossed and turned in their seats, trying to sleep during the flight. She bit down on her lip and tried to keep herself from crying.
    She knew Chief from way back—back when his name was still Tommy Laredo. They'd done their first year at the Center together, but Tommy had skipped past all the usual requirements and graduated early from training.
    He's been the best shot in the entire class, bar none, and the best at tracking even the faintest of animal prints. Preternaturally good. The rest of their class used to say that Tommy was so good because he had shifter blood in him. Then they said he had Indian