The initial charge was followed by the choked screams and panicked flight of a disoriented mob. Guests who had been networking seconds before were now trying vainly to survive. The flame pits filled with stumbling waitstaff and panicked producers, the tents were splashed with the blood of actors and agents, and the pool filled quickly with reporters and managers who sought safety in the water. But the cats followed them in. Some of the saber-tooths jumped while others slid into the pool like crocodiles. The water turned cherry-red as the cats bit into their victims and shook them violently from side to side. The guests flailed and gurgled, groping hands and looks of wide-eyed terror occasionally bursting through the surface. Before long the cats climbed back onto the tile, dripping water and blood from their dead prey. The bodies were dropped on the edge of the pool while the cats pursued the few who had managed to get as far as the driveway.
Soon everything was silence. As the flickering fires threw distorted shadows on the hedges, the cats speared the party-goers with their fangs and began carrying them through the hedges to the valley whence they'd come.
He watched from a hilltop that overlooked the preying ground. On either side were two golden warriors whose yellow-white eyes, like his, were focused on the attack. A brown creeper clung to the back of one of them, using its long, curved bill to dig insects from the fur of one of the subordinate animals. Their fur rippled in the wind, the three of them sniffing the air as it gusted by. They ignored the strange smells, of which there were many. Only the familiar ones mattered, and one in particular.
Like the smells, the landscape itself had changed. The hills were different. They were smoother, with many caves above ground and creatures dwelling inside them. There was more water than before, clear and bright and collected in small ponds like the one below. There were tiny fires everywhere, including lights that moved through the sky-
Suddenly, he detected something on the wind.
His great silver head turned slowly in the direction from which they'd come. It wasn't a smell he'd sensed but a presence. He'd sensed it before only it was nearer now, more powerful.
More dangerous.
He didn't wait for those below to finish. They would follow soon enough. Moving quickly and resolutely, but not with haste or fear-never with fear-he strode down the hill followed by the two at his side.
Soon they would be home. He could smell that too. And when they reached it, they would make a stand against the thing that hunted them.
Death.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The Chumash believed that Death was dangerous company, a tangible thing that stayed behind after it claimed a victim. They believed that it inhabited minerals and also infiltrated living things, piggybacking itself on the soul or in the mind. Sometimes it lulled the host outright, sometimes it drove them mad before killing them.
In the end, of course, Death always won.
Grand didn't believe that. But as he rode in the noisy chopper with the dead saber-tooth, he felt more than just the loss of the cats. The scientist was sitting in a sling-seat near the door and the animal was lying on the canvas, trussed and uncovered. Yet there was still a sense of menace about it It was almost as if the saber-tooth could rise again.
If a cat has nine lives, how many would a saber-toothed cat have?
The scientist looked around the cabin. Gearhart was riding in the cockpit. He had the copilot's headset pressed to one ear. There was only one guardsman in the back and he was looking out the window.
Suddenly, Gearhart turned and shouted into the rattling-loud cabin. "Professor!"
Grand slid from the sling and went to the cockpit.
"We've got a new destination," Gearhart said.
"Where?"
"The Hollywood Hills," the sheriff said. "There's been another attack."
"When?"
"Within the last half hour or so." He offered Grand the headset. "Lieutenant Mindar wants to talk to you."
Grand switched places with Gearhart. The severed tail of the saber-tooth swung and bounced on the sheriff's left hip as he moved. It almost seemed alive. Grand looked into the cockpit as he slipped on the headset and adjusted the microphone. This was the first time he'd used one of these while standing up. Usually he was sitting in the pilot's seat of his small plane.
"This is Jim Grand."
"Professor, this is Lieutenant Sam Mindar. Did Sheriff Gearhart tell you about the attack?"
"Yes. Do we know how many cats?"
"No. The police are talking to someone who apparently arrived moments after it happened. The person saw large animals and the police found gold fur on the hedges. They're organizing a search of the hills right now."
It took a moment for all of that to register. The Hollywood Hills were to the southeast of their position. Depending on where the saber-tooths struck, they were within ten miles or so of the La Brea Tar Pits. They must have kept moving through the night. Perhaps the females had broken off to rest.
"The LA Chief of Police wants to divert your Chinook to help with the air search," Mindar went on. "Sheriff Gearhart also said you know where the cats are heading. I need that intel now. They're moving into a densely populated region and they have to be stopped."
"I agree," Grand said. "But they have to be stopped with tranquilizers, not bullets."
"Professor, I've discussed this with Sheriff Gearhart. Sedatives are notoriously unpredictable-"
"I understand," Grand said. "Keep your guns as backup. I'm not asking for guarantees, just a chance."
"To do what?"
"Capture them."
Lieutenant Mindar was silent for a moment. "Professor Grand, I can't give you my word about how this is going to be handled. Now that the situation has entered greater Los Angeles I won't be in charge of the operation. I'll talk to the police chief about sedating the creatures but it would help if you gave me some good-faith information to work with."
"All right," Grand said. "Tell him I may be able to figure out the exact route the saber-tooths are taking through the mountains. When I do, I should be able to get ahead of them and lure them to wherever they want."
"How will you do that? If they've already eaten, food won't-"
"I won't be using food," Grand said.
"What, then?"
"I'll be using tar."
"The La Brea Tar Pits," Mindar said. "Of course. That's where the animals are headed."
"Yes, but there are many ways they can get there and you can't cover them all. Look, I've fought these cats close-up. I think I can get near enough to bait them and get out again."
"You'd risk that to save them?"
"Absolutely."
"Fair enough," Mindar said. "I'll do what I can. Please put Sheriff Gearhart back on."
Grand handed the headset to Gearhart and they switched places again. The lieutenant had sounded like a reasonable enough man. Perhaps this wouldn't be as bad as he'd thought. But as he stood beside the sling-seat and looked back at the dead cat, curiosity, concern, and fear moved his mind in countless directions. He picked one.
Maybe he'd asked the wrong question before.
If a cat is slain, how many lives does its spirit demand in exchange?
Grand didn't believe that, yet he couldn't help but wonder if he was doing the right thing. Of course it was right to try to save the cats. At least on an emotional and scientific level, and certainly on an ecological one. But what about on a spiritual level? Even if the cats could survive in captivity, was it fair to take away their predatory imperative? The world was different from the one they'd known. They couldn't roam free.