by Dani Harper
Connor stood and scanned the surrounding land. The forest, the fields, the coulees dropping away to the river valley. He surveyed them until gradually a silvery thread appeared before his eyes. Farsight had come to his aid at last.
He had Bernie’s trail.
Zoey paced the house, rubbing her arms as if she was cold. In truth, she didn’t know what she was. She couldn’t seem to feel much, except anxiety for Connor. He’d asked for some time alone in the farmyard, and she could certainly understand that. She was tired and knew she should be hungry, but although she warmed up some soup, she couldn’t bring herself to eat it. Nor could she sit down and rest. Her mind and heart were with the man she loved. And so she kept returning to the living room to watch Connor through the windows. She’d seen him kneel by every last animal, saw him touch each and every one. Was he saying good-bye? Praying for them? What did Changelings do? Whatever their custom, she thought of her own loss when Fester died, and thought how much worse this must be for the gifted veterinarian. His heart was already sore from the loss of his human friend. But the animals had been his friends too. She remembered the night she first walked through the farmyard with Connor, remembered how he had introduced her to each animal that lived there. They were all individuals to him. And they obviously adored him, couldn’t get close enough to him.
Oh Jesus—she suddenly remembered Lila and the puppies. Her puppy. She dashed out the front door, but paused at the top of the steps when she spotted movement on the far side of Connor’s truck. Connor himself emerged from the backseat, pulling something with him. Then in a blurred motion almost too fast to follow, he spun away.
He Changed. He must have. Because in the next instant all she could see was a massive black and silver blur moving between the trees.
And then it was gone.
“Wait,” she mouthed although Connor was no longer in sight. Something was niggling at the corners of her awareness, something huge and dark. Suddenly her physical sight was overwhelmed by her inner sight.
She was flying high overhead, eagle-like, following a wide river. The water was turbulent, swollen with rain and debris. Trees were gouged from the banks and carried along in the torrent. As she watched, she noticed several places where the hillsides had given way and slid into the river. One spot in particular drew her attention, about four miles downstream from the first. Where the toe of raw earth met the river, an enormous tree lay on its side, its roots half-buried in the slide and half in the air, its broken crown nearly submerged in the river, spanning a third of the way across the wild, churning water.
The tree was important. She had to get there. It was important, as necessary as breathing.
She dove toward it—
—and found herself on the ground at the foot of the stairs, staring at an empty vodka bottle that was wedged under the bottom step.
Zoey eased herself to her feet, brushing off her clothes. She’d have bruises, no doubt, but that wasn’t bad considering she’d tumbled down six or seven stairs. It was the vision that bothered her. What the hell did it mean?
She paced and swore repeatedly in pure frustration at the strange gift that had set her apart, made her different, disrupted her career and her life. Why the hell couldn’t it work the way it did in television shows? Often she received nothing, no hint at all of what was to come. Other times, she’d been led to scenes after the event had already taken place. Sometimes she just received incomprehensible clues, like these. A landslide, a flooded river, a fallen tree . . . She sank to the bottom step and willed her brain to work through the puzzle. The river in her vision had been very wide and the coulees that flanked it were a signature of the Peace River, the same river she could see in the far distance as a glimmering thread. But it gained its name from its serene surface. Sure, the calmness was deceiving—the Peace actually boasted a strong, swift current—but it was hardly the raging floodwaters she’d seen in the psychic vision.
Or was it?
She glanced at the lowering sky. It hadn’t rained here yet, but she knew that it was still raining heavily in the mountains and foothills. The dam had been forced to release more water. How long did it take for all that extra water to travel a couple hundred miles or so along the winding river? Zoey held her head in both hands in an effort to focus, to discern the meaning of the images she’d seen. Why was it so important? What was it she needed to do? Did any of it have to do with Bernie or was it just a distraction?
Connor had headed into the forest that flanked the farmyard on the south. The river was west. If there was a connection, she couldn’t feel it. She got to her feet again and as she turned to begin pacing, her foot brushed the vodka bottle. A sudden tingle went through her as if she’d touched a tiny electric current. Puzzled, she knelt and reached for the bottle—and as her hand closed around it, thoughts and images burst into her brain. Not so much an epiphany as an explosion in her head.
Zoey lost her balance and fell backward onto the grass, overwhelmed. She knew without a doubt that Bernard Gervais had touched the glass, had wrapped his fingers around it. And she suddenly knew something more, something new. Because he had touched this object, she could use it to enhance and direct her gift! In the past, in the city, her growing psychic ability had led her to places and events by thought alone. Never had she intentionally or inadvertently touched anything associated with a crime scene. And so she’d never known, never even thought or imagined, where her talent truly lay.
Please, please, please. Zoey held the bottle in both hands, clutched it close to her, tried to open herself up to her gift. Show me. Tell me.
It did.
With horrifying clarity, she could see exactly what her vision had meant. Bernie was near the river, lying in wait. Connor was going after Bernie.
And neither would survive.
The faint silvery thread of farsight led into the woods and straight into the shallow stream. Connor found himself racing along the streambed, driving the cold water into plumes around him. Miles later, his psychic guideline had not altered. Bernie had clearly used the little creek as a personal pathway. How long, how far, Connor couldn’t begin to guess, but it didn’t matter. The water didn’t slow him in the least. An adult wolf was a perfect running machine, able to cover fifty to sixty miles in a day. A Changeling, twice that distance. An angry Changeling, maybe more.
The psychic trail led Connor to where the land dropped away into the river valley in runneled cliffs and coulees of sandstone and clay. The saddleback wolf trotted along the tops of the cliffs on silent feet, keeping to the cover of trees and brush. His farsight had subsided, but he didn’t need its help anymore. Bernie had left the water’s camouflage and Connor could sift the rogue’s scent easily from the air. Knew he was close by.
Without warning, an enormous grizzled shape crashed through the bushes and broadsided the saddleback wolf. Connor simply rolled beneath the force and regained his feet, launching himself straight at his attacker’s throat.
The creature twisted and leapt aside, Connor’s jaws closing just shy of the vulnerable throat. Instead he got a mouthful of the gray ruff. He used his momentum to pivot, scoring a long ragged gash along Bernie’s ribs.
At least he thought it was Bernie. Changelings were naturally larger and more powerful than ordinary wolves, and Connor was one of the largest in the Pack. Yet this incarnation of Bernie outweighed him easily. Only the color of the creature’s hide and the madness in its eyes identified it as once having been Bernard Gervais.
Connor dodged and wheeled as the monstrous rogue charged him again and again with snapping jaws and deep-throated snarls. He delivered quick slashes of his own, then leapt barely out of reach as the beast whirled on him. The battle became a blur of savage growls and lunging forms. Droplets of spittle and blood flew from gnashing teeth. The rogue wolf was pure killer instinct, all fang and claw, muscle and teeth. His madness had lent him unnatural strength and speed. Connor left off trying to get to the throat and instead sliced at the rogue’s le
gs at every opening. If he was lucky, he might be able to slow Bernie down, disable him. But each time, Bernie managed to shake him off—often twisting away from Connor’s jaws like quicksilver—and delivered vicious bites of his own.
Despite Connor’s best efforts, the rogue gained ground, backing the saddleback wolf onto a narrow promontory of land that fell away steeply on three sides to the river valley below. Connor was bleeding from many deep wounds while Bernie’s injuries seemed few and shallow by comparison. Determined, Connor made another try for Bernie’s throat and found himself abruptly slammed away by a paw that felt more like a fence post. He landed hard near the edge of the cliff, raked with deep parallel gashes over two, maybe three, cracked ribs.
Apparently satisfied that he had his enemy both cornered and subdued, Bernie backed away and sat down at the root of the outcropping, effectively blocking any hope of exit. The rogue was barely breathing hard although his opponent’s sides were heaving. Still, Connor got to his feet quickly, braced for another attack. And recoiled in pure shock as he got his first clear look at his enemy.
The only wolflike features Bernie had left were his ears, which looked out of place perched on top of his widened skull. His lips drew away from powerful jaws with multiple rows of long needle-like teeth. His skeleton had shifted, broadened, to support muscle that would have been out-sized on a Kodiak bear. In fact, he looked like a grizzly on steroids, complete with a massive hump of muscle over the shoulders. His front feet, braced in front of him, revealed additional toes with wickedly hooked claws. As Connor watched, the rogue’s hide seemed to move, almost as if live things snaked and bunched beneath the skin. As if his body were still in flux, still changing.
Like the upgrades, Macleod? As you can see, I’ve evolved.
Bernie’s words popped into Connor’s head. They felt dark, almost oily. The old Changeling had been verbally belligerent most of his life. But this was different. Not because of the physical alterations, but because of what Connor could sense within Bernie. Pure evil. Instinctively he masked his own thought processes, locked them away deep where the monster couldn’t read them. Wished he could keep the monster’s voice out as well.
You’re looking at the future, Macleod. And after I’ve killed all of you, I’ll start a race of new and improved Changelings. Together, we’ll hunt the weakling humans instead of being hunted by them.
Sounds like a bad movie to me, Bernie. Are you going to proclaim yourself Emperor too?
The rogue snapped his foam-flecked jaws together, opened them with a deafening roar. You should be on your knees to me! All of you! Every damn one of you! And you will be before I kill you!
Connor noted with amazement that Bernie had just severed the end of his tongue—yet he seemed unaware of it. The rogue continued his mindspeech rant as if nothing had happened, although blood ran freely from his jaws.
Pretending to quake in fear, Connor hunched down as if submissive. It wasn’t hard to fake defeat. Wounded and bleeding, he was trapped between Bernie and the cliff. He had to buy time, had to keep this insane monster busy gloating as long as he could. It was plain now that Bernie couldn’t be taken down by ordinary means. Pack law was clear on the rules of fair combat between enemies, and also clear on the fate of rogues—only tooth and claw were honorable to use between Changelings. But the horrific creature in front of him was no longer a Changeling at all. It was an abomination.
Maybe I should call your woman, have her watch while I tear you apart.
It was all Connor could do to keep a leash on his temper. He had to wait, had to watch for the right moment, the right opportunity. Still, a long, low growl escaped him. Keep her out of this, Bernie. It’s between you and me.
The creature laughed horribly, a high-pitched gurgle. I’m going to have fun killing you, Macleod. But it’s really all about her. She’s got the bloodline, you know, the power.
What the hell are you talking about?
Bernie fell back on his haunches and hooted, hyena-like. You gotta be kidding me, Macleod. You don’t know? Then let me be the one to tell you what I’m taking away from you. Your red-haired bitch is theriona.
Theriona. Connor hadn’t heard the word since he was a child, when his father told him stories of the ancient race. While Bernard Gervais was a well-known liar, he was also far older than any Changeling Connor knew of. Was there a chance he could be right? Jessie herself had said that Zoey wasn’t exactly human, that she had powerful gifts. But Jessie, for all her wisdom, hadn’t known what Zoey was. No one did, not even Zoey. C’mon Bernie, there aren’t any of those left.
You know nothing, you stupid pup. But I do. And once I open up her throat, all that power is going to be mine at last.
I think you’re full of shit, Bernie. And you’ll never touch her again.
The beast roared, spittle and blood flying from the dreadful teeth as its powerful forefeet clawed the ground. You’ve forgotten I’m her sire—think about all the things I can tell her to do. I can even make her like it. Maybe I should keep your woman alive for a while, Macleod. Use her for breeding. Maybe I should use her to create my new race.
Maybe you should ask her what she thinks about that. Connor deliberately flicked his gaze over Bernie’s shoulder. The rogue fell for the ruse and turned with a savage snarl, giving Connor the split-second opening he needed. Calling on all the energy he could draw from the earth and the air, he Changed to his human form. The .375 was cocked and loaded in his bleeding hands.
It happened fast. With a deafening roar, the demon that was Bernie spun and leapt at Connor. Just as his feet left the ground, the blast of the rifle echoed off the valley walls. Momentum carried the creature forward, but the rogue was dead before his massive bulk slammed to the ground, missing one eye and most of the back of his skull.
“Evolve from this, you murdering bastard.” Connor emptied the rest of the shells into the carcass, obliterating the head. Changelings could recover from wounds that would be fatal to a normal wolf, and he was taking no chances in case the rogue’s healing ability had been as enhanced as his muscles and teeth.
The ringing echoes had barely subsided when Connor became aware of a strange crackling in the air around him. The hair on his head lifted, floating as if he was underwater and he realized with a jolt that the death of what once was Bernie had released energy.
A ton of it.
There was a sudden wrenching groan from deep in the earth. Connor jumped back as the ground trembled, shifted, but there was nowhere to go. The very hillside itself gave way beneath him and slid several hundred feet to the river below.
Chapter Twenty-five
The jeep bumped and lurched over the increasingly rocky terrain, as Zoey drove as fast as she dared, and then faster. The gravel road had given way to twin ruts running between fields. But the ruts had proved easier going than the potholed goat path she was currently on. Still her senses pushed her forward, leading her—she hoped—to the place in her vision. Praying she would be in time.
Without warning, the voice in her head shrieked at her to stop. She jammed on the brakes, rammed the shift into park and ran from the truck, not even bothering to close the door. The field was rimmed with trees and brush and she could just see the valley beyond it, so she knew she was near the edge of—
The grassy field vibrated beneath her feet, resonating through her entire body until she could feel it in her bones, her teeth. Then it stopped.
Zoey backed away on jellied legs. Where trees had stood moments ago, there was only a great sprawling spill of earth. For an instant it was like looking straight down a long ski slope. Then the scene resolved into churned soil and tumbled rock, broken trees and buried brush. It was sheer luck that the slide had started just beyond her and hadn’t taken out the spot where she stood.
Heart pounding, she drew a shaky breath as her senses returned. Her psychic senses returned too, leading her eye down the length of the slide to the river below. The Peace River was no longer peaceful, no longer the
calm blue ribbon that looped through the valley. Even from the top of the coulee, she could see the water was wild, swirling with mud and debris from this and several other slides.
Suddenly she spotted the tree from her vision.
The massive root ball protruded above the fallen debris in a sweeping half circle. The rest of the tree was in the wild water. With most of its branches stripped away, the broad trunk of the old forest king looked like an incomplete bridge. The psychic message persisted—somehow she had to get to that tree. And she had to do it fast. She had no idea what she would do when she got there but the vision she’d received had been plain. Connor would be somewhere in the midst of the angry river, battling to keep his head above the deadly water. Getting to the fallen tree was her only hope of saving the man she loved.
Zoey forced herself to take a step forward. The entire slide area looked unstable. Here and there clumps of dirt and rocks tumbled down its face. She looked for a way to climb around it but the swath of destruction was wide, fanning out even farther as it approached the riverbank. She took another step and another, and watched in horror as her feet sank and her movements set loose a shower of unstable soil. How could she hope to get to the tree in any kind of a hurry? Connor was going to die before she could make it partway down the goddamn hill.
“Help me, I don’t know what to do!” She reached out to embrace every nuance of her psychic gift, opening herself up to it completely as she had never dared before.
Something inside her answered. Something she’d never heard before yet was strangely familiar. Something decidedly not human. Still, she knew without doubt that it could help her, that it was the answer she sought.
There was no time to ponder the insanity of it all, to consider pros and cons or even to feel the fear that was turning her insides to water. No time to consider that she had no idea what she was doing. Connor was in danger, and so she had to try. Jessie had said that strength came out of wholeness. When you truly need your strength, all of your strength, you’ll need to draw on your whole self. Calling on every bit of courage she could claim, Zoey gave herself up to the energy, the entity within.