The Rising Read Online Free Page A

meaning my tawny fur would shine like a beacon against the black. I paced along the edge, in the grass, thinking. Then I heard a car. I’d been too preoccupied to notice it until it zoomed around a curve, less than a hundred meters away. I dived deeper into the long brown grass.
    The car slowed. I plastered myself against the ground, ears flat against my head, tail curled behind me. I could see the driver. Just a gray-haired guy scanning the roadside.
    What if he’d spotted me? Were there cougars on Galiano? Even if there were, seeing one would be a big deal. Vancouver Island had more cougars than anyplace else in Canada, yet people lived their entire lives there and never spotted one of the elusive cats.
    If this guy saw me and told someone, it could get back to the St. Clouds or the Nasts. They’d know I’d come to see my grandmother and even if I left now, they’d presume I’d made contact and they’d question her. At the very least , they’d question her. At worst? I started to shake.
    It took a moment for me to realize the car had moved on. It had never even come to a full stop, just a mildly curious driver who’d noticed a movement by the roadside. I chuffed in relief, my flanks vibrating with the sound as I lowered my muzzle to my paws.
    I had to be more careful. Damn it, I had to be a lot more careful.
    When I’d composed myself, I decided I wasn’t crossing that road. Instead, I would circle behind the studio to check the other side. The least exposed route was right along the top of the beach embankment, a narrow strip of long grass.
    Again, I screwed up. I’d completely forgotten that there was a path with steps leading from the patio to the beach. Every cottage had one. Luckily, this open strip was barely a meter wide, and I’d only be exposed for a few seconds as I crossed.
    I glanced out at the water. No sign of a boat. I peered at the studio. The whole back side was glass, for the artist. The glare of the setting sun against the window made it impossible to see inside. Still, there didn’t seem to be anyone there.
    As I crouched to scamper across, a scent wafted past. One that made my legs freeze. My grandmother’s scent, drifting from an open window. I glanced over and inhaled, feeling my sides shake.
    So close. God, she was so close. All I had to do was—
    No. Absolutely not. If this worked out, she’d know soon enough.
    I took another step. A gasp. I turned and saw a figure silhouetted against the open patio door. It squealed open, and the sound jolted me back to life. I dived into the long grass on the other side.
    â€œMaya!”
    My grandmother’s voice. I froze again.
    Her feet thumped as she ran across the tiny lawn.
    â€œMaya!”
    No. This wasn’t possible. I was imagining things. There was no way she could know—
    I remembered the story she used to tell me when I was little. To explain my paw-print birthmark and the fact that my birth mother had abandoned me on the hospital steps.
    She said my real mother was a cougar who’d had a late summer litter. She’d been an old cat and knew the signs that it would be a long, hard winter and her cubs wouldn’t all survive. So she’d begged the sky god for mercy, and he turned her smallest cub into a human girl and told the cat to take her into the city. She’d left me at the hospital, but before she went, she’d pressed her paw to my hip, leaving me a mark to remember her by.
    Had my grandmother known the truth? That I was a skin-walker? Was I wrong to think my parents hadn’t been aware of the experiments?
    My gut clenched. I turned to see her standing in the path, her hands to her mouth, her gaze locked on the dark patch of my birthmark.
    â€œMaya.”
    She dropped to her knees. I slowly walked to her. When I was close enough, she reached out and grabbed me around the neck, pulling me to her.
    â€œIt is you, isn’t it?” she