Enemy Lover. Bonnie Vanak

you heard the call of the wolf?”

      Startled, Damian whirled. He studied the touch of gray at the man’s temples and the faded, almost ragged clothes splattered with splashes of gray and black paint. The hollowed cheeks and the thin blade of a nose looked pale and wan in the brilliant sunlight. Not a very successful artist, for the man looked thin as a ghost.

      “A wolf, sir?” Damian asked.

      The man turned, his large dark sunglasses hiding his eyes. “The loup garou will never fais do-do in the bayou, mon frère. Have a look. Interesting, non?”

      The werewolf will never sleep in the bayou, my brother. Instantly on guard, Damian glanced at the painting. Near a wood cabin, a wolf howled at a full moon. A distant memory nagged at him. He glanced at the man’s gaunt face, but couldn’t place him. For a moment he felt dim hope. A former member of his old pack? Could one have survived?

      “Mon frère? The one who works hard never sleeps. Please, take a look,” the man begged.

      Hope died. Everyone in his former pack was long dead. He couldn’t afford to indulge in memories or he’d lose his focus. The living Jamie was his priority. The man had heard his accent and tried to strike up a camaraderie just to sell a painting. No Draicon from his pack would ever resort to begging. This man was just another starving artist hawking his wares.

      A familiar, haunting smell suddenly drew away Damian’s attention. The scent was fresh, straight from his boyhood.

      “You must have quite an imagination,” Damian murmured. “Excuse me.”

      He scanned the area. His gaze landed upon a wizened elderly man hauling a large red bucket over to a small wood table. The man set the bucket down. For a minute, something dark flashed in the vendor’s rheumy eyes. Then it vanished.

      “Crayfish,” the hawker yelled. “Fresh crayfish!” Drawn to the sight, Damian strode toward him.

      The slate-gray crayfish wriggled in the bucket, claws snapping in a bid for freedom. Damian’s mouth watered. Memories flooded him; memories of wading through the clear creek, picking up the crustaceans for a tasty afternoon snack. Suddenly his stomach grumbled. He needed energy from raw food. Fishing out money from his wallet, he paid the man, who dropped the crayfish into a plastic bag.

      “Fresh is best,” the vendor advised. “All the flavor’s in the shell.”

      Damian nodded. “I know.”

      Clutching the bag, he climbed the steps and headed for the Moon Walk, a stretch of pavement bordering the Mississippi. Damian watched a barge slowly labor upriver as he leaned against a tree growing in a square planter. No one was around. He opened the bag, and one after another he devoured the batch. Finally he reached for the last crayfish. A little bigger, it did not writhe and struggle, but remained oddly still. Perhaps it wasn’t as fresh.

      Damian raised it to his lips, and recoiled. The crayfish opened its mouth and hissed. “Draicon,” it whispered.

      Alarmed, he dropped the shellfish. A Morph. It began shape-shifting and multiplying even before it fell to the pavement. Damian fisted his hands, waiting to see what form it would take.

      An explosion of crayfish followed. Some scrambled away. Lightning-quick reflexes kicked in as Damian pounced, killing them. Damn, where was the host?

      Hearing a snicker, he whirled, but not before burning pain lanced his side. Better than his back, where the dagger nearly landed. The Morph rushed by. Human, the form requiring the least energy to maintain.

      Damian waved his hands. Daggers appeared in his palms. The creature lunged. Releasing an angry hiss, the Morph lashed at his chest with the knife. He sidestepped, twisted. He calculated, swift on his feet as he judged the creature’s abilities. Quick, but he was faster, and more alert.

      Then the Morph grinned a sickly, yellow-toothed smile. “Too late, Draicon. Your draicara is dying. Your spell failed to work.”

      Startled, he drew back. The Morph seized the advantage and swiped at him. Damian recovered as the Morph started to change. Talons grew from its fingers and fangs replaced the yellowed teeth. Exerted from the fight, it began to shift much more slowly than normal.

      Not so fast. In another animal form, the Morph would be harder to kill.

      He kicked out, knocking the Morph to its knees. Damian dropped his knives as he jumped atop the Morph, then slammed its hand against the pavement, knocking aside its dagger.

      As humans, they were easier to hurt. Damian pressed hard against the third vertebra of the back of Morph’s neck, exerting enough pressure to cause excruciating pain. Pain used up their precious energy and prevented them from shifting.

      “Tell me, you gutless coward. Why didn’t my spell work?"

      The Morph squealed but said nothing. More pressure. The creature moaned. “Stop, stop,” it pleaded. Spittle ran down the side of its mouth. Damian smiled grimly. “Talk.”

      “It slowed the dark magick, not stopped. Her blood … thickening.” The Morph twisted, trying to break free.

      With a low growl, Damian clamped down on the creature and dug his thumb deeper. Moans came from his enemy. “Okay, please, just stop, stop the pain,” it begged. “Dark magick inside her, turning her … to stone. Living stone, alive but dead.”

      Shock seized Damian, loosening his hold. The Morph tried to escape the punishing grip. Damian seized its arm and twisted it backward. “Details. Now. Or I’ll break every bone in your body and you’ll wish you remained my meal,” Damian threatened.

      The Morph sucked in a breath. “The porphyry spell … rarely used. We c-can’t absorb the victim’s dying energy. Gave her dark magick, and the more magick she used, the f-faster it worked. In weeks, sh-she’ll be encased in stone. Dead but a-live—damn, that hurts!"

      His mind raced. “You can undo it,” he said, twisting harder.

      “N-no,” the Morph wailed. “Can’t … no counter spell. Only the ancient Book of Magick.”

      He sprang up to release his victim, grabbed his daggers. Time to end this.

      The Morph recovered and staggered to its feet. Snarling, it sprang forward, features twisted with hatred. No pity. Damian twirled the daggers and threw. They hit home, straight in the creature’s heart.

      Acid blood spurted. Damian didn’t flinch, only watched the Morph collapse. Grimacing, he rolled the body into the Mississippi, watching it disintegrate into gray ash before it slid into the water.

      Dragging in a deep breath, Damian muted pain from his injuries. His magick was powerful and the wounds slowly scabbed over. He waved a hand, replacing his ruined Versace shirt, silk trousers and leather loafers with faded jeans, a black T-shirt and scuffed biker boots. Anonymous New Orleans garb.

      The Morph’s words rang of truth. Damian felt a sickening jolt to his stomach. He’d heard ancient tales of the porphyry spell. Victims exhibited lethargic tendencies at first. They ate anything to give them energy, especially sugar. Just as quickly as they ingested the food, it passed out of their systems. They cried sweet tears, their blood …

      Their blood turned sluggish, their skin gray, their internal organs eventually to granite. It was an agonizing end.

      “Merde,” he said softly.

      Damian raced back to where he’d bought the crayfish, searching for the vendor. The man had vanished. Hot anger spilled through him. He’d been tricked. The seller must have been a Morph.

      Jamie … dying. And Morphs openly roaming the city? What the hell was going on?

      Were they everywhere, cloaked as humans? Bad news. Even his powerful Draicon senses couldn’t detect them like that.

      He lifted his nose and inhaled, trying to track the vendor’s scent, when a teasing smell drifted toward him, floating