Out of This World by Charles De Lint Read Free Book Online

stupid as to forget that I’ve only bought myself a moment’s respite. I might be able to get one or two more of them, but there are too many for me to ever get out of here in one piece.
    My options are so limited. I could run for Papá’s house, andI might even make it, but I don’t think anything will stop the dogs from busting in and going after my family. Except there’s nowhere closer, nowhere to hide. Unless …
    It’s a crazy idea, but what if I escape into the otherworld?
    I’ve never even tried it before, but I’ve watched Cory do it, and it’s not like he uses some kind of magic incantation. It seems to work the same way as shifting into my otter shape. You just have to will it to happen, though I doubt it’s all that easy on the first attempt. You probably have to concentrate pretty hard, the way you do when coming out of your animal shape and you want to be wearing clothes.
    The pack can follow me, of course—that snarling gang of dogs observing a safe distance from the end of my chain while keeping me penned here. But I remember Cory and Auntie Min talking about how the otherworld holds endless layers. If I can get over there in the first place, and then keep shifting from that first world deeper into the others, I’ll bet I could lose them.
    The chain’s getting heavy. I stop swinging and hold it loosely at my side. When one of the dogs gets bold and starts moving toward me, I flick the end of the chain in his direction. The dog yelps even though I missed by at least a couple of feet. As he retreats I see that he has the same tattoo on the upper part of his front leg. No, not a tattoo. It’s a brand, like in a cowboy movie where they burn the mark on the cattle.
    So whose brand is it? The first guy mentioned somebody named Sandino.
    I hear a scuff in the sand behind me and whirl the chain again in a big circle. This time the end connects with one of them and the high-pitched yelp is for real.
    Part of me is aware of the danger I’m in, and part of me istrying to figure out what these marks on the dogs mean. I tell myself to stop getting distracted. Right now, the only thing I need to concentrate on is getting over to the otherworld.
    I lower the chain and put all of my focus on what it was like to be there. What it felt like and smelled like. How clean the air was.
    But when I reach for it—nothing.
    I push and push. Still nothing.
    I hear one of the dogs sneaking up behind me again. Up goes the chain and I whirl it around, except this time it stops dead, then yanks me forward. I wasn’t expecting that. The chain flies from my hands and I stumble, turning as I go down. I land on my hands, gaze fixed on the dog who’s shifted into a man holding the chain.
    Like the first guy, he’s got this big grin on his lips. Mean eyes mocking me. I hear an echo of that dismissive comment his friend made.
    Just a girl .
    So I do the last thing he’s probably expecting. I come up off the ground and charge him.
    He doesn’t have time to use the chain. He doesn’t have time to do a damn thing before I barrel into him. He goes down with me on top and the impact knocks all the breath out of him. I hit him hard and fast, my fists drumming against his face.
    Now the rest of the pack surges forward.
    For most of us, moments of stress trigger our change into Wildlings.
    I guess it doesn’t get much more stressful than being attacked by a pack of rabid, snarling dogs. As I’m about to go down under them, I reach out for the otherworld one more time.
    One of the dogs hits me in the back and we both pitch forward, except instead of landing on the loose sand of the playground, we’re on dry rough grass and dirt. I can still hear the other dogs howling and snarling. The one on my back snaps at my neck and yanks a mouthful of hair upward, pulling my head with it.
    I don’t even bother to try to fight it off. I suck in the pure air of