Beast by Donna Jo Napoli Read Free Book Online Page A

the loop with my teeth. And I am in the park. Nothing can hold me back any longer — I run at breakneck speed.
    Past elm, oak, and maple, without thought, running, running. I skirt around the chinar, poplar, and magnolia. I run like the maddened. The trees change to mainly pine and spruce—trees that signal I am nearing the foot of the mountains.
    I stop at last. The world seems to keep rushing by for a few seconds—then it gradually settles. This part of the hunting park is unfamiliar. I listen: Theonly noises beyond my panting are those of animals.
    I pant. Me. My long, wide tongue hangs from my mouth, cooling my whole body. This is me, this is Orasmyn, panting.
    The sun climbs; it is full morning. My stomach contracts painfully — I am famished. Reason tells me to find a good hiding place and stay there. Stay until this spell passes. Because it has to pass. I will not allow myself to believe it can last. Terror can undo a mind; terror can lead to irreparable mistakes. I will hide and wait out this spell.
    Yet I feel like an empty olive oil barrel. I need filling. And lions are fast. This much I just learned. I can race away at the first sign of danger.
    Birds catch my attention. Small dark gray birds with black masks at the eyes. I’ve seen these birds all my life, but I’ve never paid attention to them. A larger gray bird with a white belly lands on a branch high above the flock of small birds. A pair of charcoal gray birds preen one another on a low branch.
    Gray and black and white.
    The leaves range from light gray to black.
    The trunk of the plane tree they sit in is dark gray.
    My own fur is the lightest gray.
    I see no colors on earth.
    Yet the sky is blue.
    My eyes are drawn back to the birds. To their quick and bright black eyes. This feline eyesight thatis so impoverished of color is keen with respect to distance, for I detect each feather of the birds clearly, each small flutter.
    I would eat the entire flock.
    Raw. Filled with forbidden blood. That is something to think about. But not now. Not while hunger rules me.
    I leap to a low branch, teeter for a moment, and drop clumsily to the other side.
    I leap again, this time taking a few steps along the branch to find my balance. But as soon as I stop moving, I fall off.
    I circle the tree. I must get up there. It’s not the birds that urge me on at this point. The flock took to the air at my first leap. No, it’s the thought of the taziyan —the greyhounds—and the elephants — Kooma and the two others I have not seen. Somehow this thought has come to me right now—and it prevails over my hunger. The dogs and elephants will come to drive the wild cats toward the hunters. The ground is not safe.
    I leap again, from one branch to a higher one, to an even higher one, and flop down immediately, straddling the limb. The weight of my hanging legs jars me. A knob of wood presses sharp against my belly. I scooch forward and suddenly fall to my right, hugging the branch tight so that I dangle upside down. Nausea fills me. The first time I climbed on acamel’s back, I felt sick like this. It was a gigantic creature, from Bactria. Heights are not my strong point. But I cannot hang here forever.
    I drop, twisting in midair, whipping my tail around instinctively, but not fast enough. I land on one side and scramble to my feet.
    My stomach contracts again.
    Hide or hunt?
    The lion in me preempts the man. I must eat.
    My ears stand stiff. My back goes rigid. Something watches me. Something that smells totally new — a strong musk. My peripheral vision, which is keen indeed, cannot capture this something. I turn my head slowly, slowly.
    The lioness is perfectly still. Her shoulders and hips protrude, as though the rest of her hangs from that frame. She stares at me. Now she stretches her neck forward, and her torso seems to pull together, firm and high on the bone, as though she’s gathering energy. She gives a low, sad