Franco skidded to a halt at the edge of the chasm, loose pebbles scattering into the abyss. He couldn't hear them hit the bottom.
Behind him, Maud, Gerta, and Cassia slowed to a walk. They had him. The hunt was over. They began to circle, their growls low and full of sadistic pleasure, savoring the kill.
Franco was bleeding from a dozen cuts. His body screamed in protest. But his mind, in this moment of absolute crisis, became a sliver of ice-cold calm. The world slowed down.
He scanned the cliff face below him. It was a sheer drop, but about fifteen feet down, he saw it: a small, jutting ledge, and a thick curtain of green vines clinging to the rock.
A chance. A stupid, insane, one-in-a-million chance.
Gerta, tired of the game, lunged, her jaws aiming for his throat.
Franco didn't retreat. He met her charge.
And leaped.
He threw himself off the cliff, into the empty air.
Gerta's jaws snapped shut on nothing. She scrambled to stop at the edge, roaring in frustration down into the chasm.
Franco fell. The world rushed up at him. He ignored the primal scream in his head that told him he was dead. He reached out, his hands grasping, clawing.
His fingers closed around the thick, coarse vines.
The impact nearly ripped his arms from their sockets. A jolt of pure agony shot through his shoulders. He slammed against the rock face, the impact knocking the wind from his lungs and filling his mouth with the coppery taste of blood.
But he held on.
He hung there, dangling over the abyss, hidden from the view of the lionesses above by the overhanging rock.
Maud sniffed the air at the cliff's edge, but the strong updraft from the canyon scattered any scent. Convinced their strange quarry had plunged to its death, the lionesses let out a few more frustrated roars and trotted off to find easier prey.
Franco listened until their footsteps faded. Then, the adrenaline drained away, leaving him weak and trembling. A cold sweat broke out over his entire body.
He had stayed in his human form deliberately—the cheetah's paws were useless for gripping, all soft pads and non-opposable claws, but his human fingers could hold fast. His shoulders screamed in their sockets. Every muscle in his back, already torn from the lionesses' claws, burned like fire. He looked up at the dark lip of the cliff above and began to climb.
The scene shifted.
Back at the termite mound, Sean and Roy huddled in the darkness. They had made it back, but they were alone.
Night fell, and the savanna came alive with the sounds of things that hunted in the dark. Roy's stomach growled, but for the first time, he didn't complain. He just stared at the black, empty entrance, his body trembling.
Sean was terrified. The memory of his birth mother, cornered and killed by a pack of hyenas, was a fresh, raw wound in his mind. He was afraid that his new father had met the same fate.
But he forced the fear down. He had to be strong. For Roy.
He crept to the entrance, just as he'd seen Franco do, and sniffed the air. Nothing. Only the scent of dust and the distant smell of hyenas. No trace of his father.
Roy began to cry, soft, hopeless sobs. Sean went to his brother and licked his tears, purring a low, steady rhythm, trying to comfort him.
If Dad doesn't come back, Sean vowed to himself, a silent, solemn promise, I will protect you.
Miles away, under the cold light of the moon, Franco was climbing.
Every movement was a fresh wave of agony. His back was a mess of deep, bloody scratches. His muscles screamed. The vines bit into his palms, rough and unforgiving. He had to pause every few feet, pressing his forehead against the cool rock and gasping for breath. The human body was strong, but it was also fragile—no fur to protect it, no claws to grip. Just willpower and fear.
After what felt like an eternity, he hauled himself over the edge of the cliff and collapsed onto the ground, his body a single, throbbing bruise.
The night wind was cold on his bare skin. He wanted to just lie there and let the world fade away. But the image of his sons, alone and terrified in the dark, forced him to move.
He stood up, his legs shaking. He closed his eyes, and with a faint shimmer of gold, he was a cheetah again.
The fur helped with the cold, but it made the wounds on his skin feel sharper, more sensitive.
He was hurt. He was exhausted. But he was alive.
And he was going home.
He took a limping step, then another, pointing himself in the direction of the termite mound. His eyes burned with a fierce, unwavering light. He would get back to his sons. No matter what.
