The Empath. Bonnie Vanak

bronzed human flesh.

      Naked man meets eager hunters with loaded rifles. Not good. Summoning clothing by magick would show his presence to the enemy like a lighthouse beacon. He didn’t have to use his power this time. Instead, he dove for the rotting tree trunk and the clothing stockpiled beneath the sprawling roots. Damian had laid similar caches all over pack territory for emergencies like this. He dressed, grabbed the whiskey bottle, gave a liberal splash over his bright orange clothing.

      Nicolas sank down against the tree and waited. He chuckled, glancing at the half-filled amber bottle. “I never drink anything less than twelve-year-old scotch, Damian, you cheapskate.”

      Shouting victoriously, the hunters crashed through the woods like clumsy oxen. He smelled cruelty heaving with every excited breath.

      They entered the clearing. Pale silver light from the full moon struck their camouflage outfits. Nicolas hiccupped loudly. He raised the bottle in a drunken salute.

      “Here’s to my shooting a twelve-point rack today!”

      Disbelief flashed over their faces. The men shifted their rifles, narrowed their gazes. “Get lost,” the shorter one in plaid asserted. “We paid good money to hunt on this land.”

      Ignoring them, Nicolas pretended to belt a few swallows.

      The fat one snorted, shifted his rifle. His potbelly sagged over olive trousers like jowls. “Listen mister, you’re trespassing. Get out, before we toss you out. We’re on the tail of a lone wolf.”

      Grinning at them, he dropped the whiskey and made to leave. And then the scent slammed into him like a locomotive.

      They were coming straight in his direction.

      He went absolutely still. Hair rose along the back of his neck. He flexed his muscles and stood. “Leave,” he growled. “They’re coming.”

      But the hunters simply gawked. “What the hell is wrong with your voice?” one demanded.

      “Run,” Nicolas warned.

      Too late. They entered the tiny glen, not bothering to cloak their numbers. Shuffling forward, they advanced, disguised as human beings. The enemy resembled young women, sullen teenagers, elderly people and businessmen in suits. But for their scent, they looked perfectly normal. The scent of rotting seaweed and raw sewage slammed into him. Damn. Hordes of them. Too many to fight alone. His mind strategized. Surprise remained his best defense. Magick would give him away. Silently he cursed, wishing for his daggers.

      If he remained blended with the hunters, perhaps the enemy would not see him.

      The human hunters turned, saw them. One tipped back his cap, scratched his forehead. “What the hell is this, a party?”

      He pointed to a stooped gray-haired man wearing round glasses, leaning on a wood cane. “You lost, Gramps? Nursing home is that way. It’s way past your bedtime.”

      The elderly one lifted his head. Smiled. Gleaming white teeth flashed. Crocodile teeth, sharp, pointed.

      “Jesus,” whispered the fat hunter. “What the hell is that?”

      “Early Halloween party,” his friend joked, his voice cracking. “Or cheap dentures?”

      Nicolas smelled the men’s fear. He knew his enemy smelled it, too. It stank like sour sweat.

      “Enough,” the elderly mage said softly. He signaled.

      They advanced as one unit, like a column of army ants. One by one they shape-shifted, clothing vanishing from their human forms, fur erupting on their bodies. Their magick, dark and powerful, transformed them far easier than Nicolas’s powers.

      Silent as fog, eyes glowing like hot coals, they prowled forward on four legs. One blinked slowly. Night vision registered the eyes turning black as empty pits.

      The eyes, always the eyes, told their true nature, no matter what their form.

      Wolf in him rose up, thirsting for blood, action. Caught between revealing himself to outsiders, and needing wolf to attack, he hesitated. Instinct urged him to run, wait for better odds. Humans had caused this evil. Still, he felt a flickering compassion for the hunters. He scanned the approaching enemy for the weak link.

      The humans’ fear turned to terror. “Holy mother of God,” the taller one screamed. “Wolves!”

      They fired.

      Gunfire crackled. Bullets fell before meeting their target. Jaws agape, the humans stared. Identical masks of fear tightened their faces. The pungent odor of helpless urine filled the air.

      In that instant, the Morphs attacked.

      Now. Daggers materialized in his hands as he sprang forward to engage them. Six Morphs jumped him. Razor-sharp teeth sank into his neck; claws swiped his legs and torso. Cloth shredded like thin paper. He grunted and swung out with the knives, stabbing their hearts. They died, screaming. He sliced, stabbed again, wincing as their acid blood splashed over him.

      Again. No use. Each time he struck one down, another materialized. Cloning themselves.

      A damn animal army.

      Warmth dribbled down his throat. Nicolas ignored the burning pain, struggled with his clothing to shift. The hell with the mortals. They were dead already.

      As he tore off his clothing, they fell on him, shifting once more. Fur erupted on their bodies; claws grew, shifting yet again. He cursed their ability to change into any animal form. Enormous brown bears roared. Four slammed him against the tree trunk. Pinned, his arms and legs useless, Nicolas could not summon his magick.

      “Good God Almighty,” one hunter screamed.

      Struggling in the Morphs’ grip, Nicolas felt blood drain, bones ache.

      The others turned to the human prey. Nicolas struggled harder, wanting to save the hunters’ sorry asses. Knowing it was too late.

      Jaws yawning open, saliva dripping from their yellowed fangs, the pack converged on the hapless men. Screams mingled with the sounds of tearing flesh. Blood splattered on the oaks, dripping viscous black. The hunters were all dead.

      The Morphs shifted into their true shapes. Bent over, skin sagging on bone, more animal than human. Wisps of hair clung to fleshy scalps. Pointed, sharp teeth grinned. Their fetid stench filled the air. They whined, drew in deep breaths.

      Absorbing their victims’ terror and dying breaths, the Morphs fed on their energy. The Morphs holding him back loosened their grip on his arms. Taking advantage of their distraction, he broke free and shifted. Wolf greeted them, eager for the fight, desperate to carve his claws into them. Surprised, his captors drew back. He lashed out with razor-sharp canines, snarling. He downed one, as the others came for him silently.

      There were too many. He had lost too much blood.

      “Stop,” an authoritative voice ordered. “Leave him be.”

      Blood trickled down his flanks, warm in the chilly air. Nicolas ignored the stinging pain and the burning in his side. He steadily regarded the Morphs’ secret weapon. Confident. Arrogant. Jamie presented a greater threat than the Morphs themselves.

      He snarled. Instantly the Morphs closed ranks around Jamie. They’d die protecting the human who’d formed them into an army. The mortal whose blood manufactured disease and death.

      He would not die as wolf. Nicolas shifted back into his human form to address the mortal. Because of Jamie, Damian was dying.

      Naked, vulnerable, he refused to cower. “Jamie,” he uttered. “Your time will come.”

      Low, amused laughter rippled through the air. Jamie pushed past the glowering bodyguards. “You can barely stand. We’ll destroy your leader, Nicolas. We already have, thanks to your help.”

      Nicolas remained silent. Disobeying pack rules, he’d taught Jamie magick and she used it to join the Morphs and increase her powers. From her