Doranna Durgin - The Right Bitch

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The Right Bitch

Doranna Durgin

Sabre whooped with enthusiasm, barreling through the woods' thick undergrowth, his nose full of

magicsmell and his ears full of Taliya's distant encouragement, with his brain too hot on trail to think. So

hot he almost missed the answering trail cry to the south, a slightly clearer voice than his own and closing

in fast. It made no sense; he didn't care. Not with the quarry so close, his sweaty, unwashed

humansmell strong with forbidden magic.

But suddenly the trail doubled, adding more humansmell to the magicsmell, and Sabre understood.

Two smugglers, joining forces, both being trailed.

Sabre called out, wild and strong. Confident.

The second dog sounded again, nearly in his ear, and charged onto his trail, cutting him off. He got a

glimpse of flying black ears, smelled the blood of bramble-torn skin, and then saw nothing but dog butt,

right in his face.

Bitch-butt.

Shiba, he realized instantly, checking his speed so he wouldn't plow right into her. Shiba, whom his

linewoman mentioned far too often, and with far too much attention to the discriminating nature of her

nose. And when would everyone forget about that vaunted critter episode?

She might have a nose, but she couldn't match his speed. "Oowh! Oowh!" he bellowed, demanding and

impatient, finally—and rudely—shoving her aside to fly by at top speed.

Show-off speed.

The kind of speed to run him straight into trouble. Into—

Sabre yelped as a whip lashed across his head, popping a welt on one sensitive ear; he flung himself

aside, yipping like a pup as the lash landed again. "Git on, you cur!" the man jeered, and Sabre tumbled

down, rolling aside, hearing Shiba gone wise and silent—in retreat—leaving him to—

"Watch out!" the other human cried, too late for his partner to respond to the black and silver blur

heading his way. Shiba uttered not a sound as the lash fell across her back, but leapt up to grab the stout

leather whip handle, as intent on it as on any trail-prey. Beyond her, the other human took flight again.

"Shiba—call!" commanded her lineman—not so far away, now—and Shiba barked treed for him,

dropping the whip.

"Sabre! Call!" Taliya shouted as Sabre climbed to his feet and shook off, sending bits of leaves and dirt

and grit flying. He managed a half-hearted bark and ruefully pawed his stinging ear.

Shiba made enough noise for both of them. He got his first good look at her, then, as the linemen

approached from their separate directions. Beautiful, she was—well-muscled, long-limbed, a graceful

neck and lovely arch to her tail. Where Sabre was heavily marked with black—his blueing so thick it

looked mottled instead of ticked, his head and chest heavy and masculine—Shiba stood a sturdy but

clean-lined bitch, her back and head glossy black, her ticking so perfectly distributed that it appeared

silver-blue from even a short distance.

Sabre felt an immediate and intense dislike.

And she was the one standing on tree, backing the man against a stout oak, while Sabre stood

spraddle-legged and dazed as the linemen arrived, more or less simultaneously. She wore

bramble-guard, a leather chest plate and canvas body jacket. She probably hadn't even felt the whip.

Sabre gave a small sneeze of frustration and pawed his head again. He never wore bramble-guard . . .

because he could never stop himself from chewing it to bits.

"There should be two," Taliya said breathlessly, leaving Shiba's man to handle the magic smuggler as she

kicked the whip well out of reach and dropped to her knees beside Sabre. Her long, tawny braid fell

over her shoulder to brush the top of his head. "There, now, son. Got you a good one, didn't he?"

Despite himself, desperately wishing Shiba's sharp brown gaze pointed elsewhere, Sabre whined in

response. Hurts. And when Taliya soothed him, he wagged his tail in silly submissive little jerks and

whined again. Couldn't help it. Never could, where Taliya was concerned.

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