Free Out of This World by Charles De Lint

even know what language they’re speaking.
    I haven’t dared peek out yet to get a better look, so I don’t know if they’re human or cousins. I’m hoping for human. I’ve got a little advantage in terms of strength and speed against a human. But a cousin who can sniff me out? Not so much, though I did pretty good holding my own against that pack of dogs back in the barrio.
    Oh, who am I kidding? The only way I escaped in one piece was pure blind luck, and since luck isn’t something you can count on, I’ll have to play it smart.
    Like hiding from strangers until I can figure out if they’re friendly or a threat.
    The voices are abreast of my hiding place and my heart sinks a little when I get that ping of recognition that tells me they’re cousins. And if I can sense them, then they must be able to sense me. I swallow hard and tighten my grip on the pipe, ready to come out fighting.
    And then … nothing happens.
    As the voices start to move away, I finally peek over the wall.
    The receding figures are a quartet of tall, human-shaped figures. But I know they’re not human.
    They wear dusters over jeans and boots, and walk with an easy swing to their steps, black braids bouncing on their backs. I don’t see any weapons except for the staff that one of them is using as a walking stick. Something flutters from the top—a tangle of ribbons and bird feathers.
    If I were Cory or Auntie Min, I’d be able to tell exactly what their animal shapes are. But I’m not and right now I don’t care. Just so long as they keep moving.
    Except then one of them stops. He lifts his head and sniffs the air, and I hold my breath until he finally turns away again and catches up with his companions. He says something to them and they all laugh.
    I watch until they’re out of sight and I can’t hear their voices anymore. Then I drop behind the wall again and sit on a stone. I turn to put the wall at my back and come face to face with a man squatting on his haunches not three feet from me.
    A wordless gah jumps out of my mouth and he puts a finger to his lips. Somehow I manage to remember the cousins that passed by a moment ago, and don’t vocalize my surprise any more than that one sound.
    I scuttle sideways along the wall, putting more distance between us while I get a good look at him. I lift the pipe, ready to whack him.
    The way he snuck up on me is creepy enough, but he’s also so strange looking: short and bulky, with a wide, dark brown face, a thick matt of long hair and a full beard, both braided with buttons and shells, ribbons and thin tendrils of vines. He’s probably not much more than four feet tall, standing up. His raggedy clothes are a collection of muted browns and greens, and look like they came from the discard bin in an alley behind a thrift shop. His feet are dirty and bare.
    He regards me with curious eyes, the piercing blue of a husky’s. They’re cool in a dog. Way too intense in a man. If he even is a man.
    â€œWe have to go,” he says.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThe hounds. They know you’re here. They were just playing with you when they went by—pretending they didn’t notice, but how could they not? You reek of an otherworld.”
    â€œWhoa, whoa,” I manage to get out. “Say what?”
    Hounds. That sounds way too much like the guys who jumped me in the park and then chased me here.
    He stands up and beckons me to come. “Quick now.”
    â€œI’m not going anywhere with you.”
    I hear the sound of a hunting horn. It’s not close, but it’s not far, either.
    â€œSuit yourself,” the raggedy man says. “But whatever you decide, make sure it includes running away from here as fast as you can.”
    Without another word, he jumps over the wall at the back of the building. The horn sounds again. This time it’s answered by another, coming from the opposite direction.