give him that opportunity.
“We’ll meet here tomorrow morning,” Armend snapped, and clicked off his radio abruptly without the slightest courtesy. He shoved it back on his belt and turned to stir the meal in his cooking pot. Clearly he was out of sorts.
The owl spread its wings and sailed down to the ground. The moment the talons touched earth, Andre shifted back to human form. He chose a spot in the deeper tree line just below where Armend had made his camp. Lifting his hands, he made the motion of a circle. At once fingers of fog began to drift from the trees toward the campsite.
At first the droplets were no more than the finest mist, curling along the ground, sliding out between branches, forming its own layers, both high and low. He made certain the vapor stayed thin enough that one could see through it. Next, he called to the wolves. The pack was a long way out, but they answered him, first one cry and then another. They would obey him. They always obeyed him. Andre watched Armend carefully the entire time the pack was taking up the hunting cry. Armend hadn’t failed to notice that the first wolf had sounded close by.
Armend stood and paced nervously, his hand dropping twice to his radio as if to assure himself he had friends close enough to call should there be trouble. The hunting cry of the last wolf died away and silence reigned once more. At first the abrupt quiet increased the tension in Armend.
The man checked his weapons. He didn’t have a gun, but he had three knives, and he positioned them close to where he sat, even going so far as to practice reaching for them. Next, he built up his fire and went to the trees to get more wood. He stacked it close to him.
Andre moved with the fog. He sent his phantoms ahead of him, directing the mist so that it wound through the trees and crept upward from the ground toward the rocks and boulders several feet above the tree line where Armend had made his camp. The fingers of fog had already reached the stones above the trees where foliage tended to grow in clumps along the mountainside. The fog drifted over the field of boulders, layering in almost gently, nonthreateningly – unless one noticed that there was little wind and when there was, the mist paid it no mind.
Armend sank down on his rock seat and stirred the concoction in his cooking pot. He glanced around him, still a little wary after the wolves’ hunting calls, but Andre could see he’d already begun to dismiss the animals from his mind.
Hunger beat at Andre, so that every cell cried out for sustenance. He needed blood. He could smell Armend’s blood. He could hear the blood pumping through his veins and the strong beat of his heart. Andre’s lips drew back in a snarl as he felt the sharp points of his teeth. Still, Armend needed a lesson. A serious lesson before he met Andre. He needed to experience fear. Terror even. That was something Andre was very good at showing his prey.
The thicker fog inched along the ground, rising as a wall, cutting off Armend’s vision. One moment he glanced down at the food he was heating and the next he looked up and couldn’t see anything at all but the swirling, very dense vapor clouds. Alarmed, he stood up again, one hand nervously dropping to his radio.
Armend didn’t pull the radio from his belt. He was the leader in his group of friends. He always had been. He was that little bit richer and much more dominant. He was the one who had realized early on that women – particularly young college-age girls who were backpacking across Europe – were especially vulnerable. He’d been the one to slowly get the others to accept more and more violence.
He had been the one to think of their guide service. Armend made certain the few couples or older people they took into the mountains had the best of times. He won them over with spectacular service, taking them to the most beautiful places so they would rave about their guides.
His victims he chose very
“We’ll meet here tomorrow morning,” Armend snapped, and clicked off his radio abruptly without the slightest courtesy. He shoved it back on his belt and turned to stir the meal in his cooking pot. Clearly he was out of sorts.
The owl spread its wings and sailed down to the ground. The moment the talons touched earth, Andre shifted back to human form. He chose a spot in the deeper tree line just below where Armend had made his camp. Lifting his hands, he made the motion of a circle. At once fingers of fog began to drift from the trees toward the campsite.
At first the droplets were no more than the finest mist, curling along the ground, sliding out between branches, forming its own layers, both high and low. He made certain the vapor stayed thin enough that one could see through it. Next, he called to the wolves. The pack was a long way out, but they answered him, first one cry and then another. They would obey him. They always obeyed him. Andre watched Armend carefully the entire time the pack was taking up the hunting cry. Armend hadn’t failed to notice that the first wolf had sounded close by.
Armend stood and paced nervously, his hand dropping twice to his radio as if to assure himself he had friends close enough to call should there be trouble. The hunting cry of the last wolf died away and silence reigned once more. At first the abrupt quiet increased the tension in Armend.
The man checked his weapons. He didn’t have a gun, but he had three knives, and he positioned them close to where he sat, even going so far as to practice reaching for them. Next, he built up his fire and went to the trees to get more wood. He stacked it close to him.
Andre moved with the fog. He sent his phantoms ahead of him, directing the mist so that it wound through the trees and crept upward from the ground toward the rocks and boulders several feet above the tree line where Armend had made his camp. The fingers of fog had already reached the stones above the trees where foliage tended to grow in clumps along the mountainside. The fog drifted over the field of boulders, layering in almost gently, nonthreateningly – unless one noticed that there was little wind and when there was, the mist paid it no mind.
Armend sank down on his rock seat and stirred the concoction in his cooking pot. He glanced around him, still a little wary after the wolves’ hunting calls, but Andre could see he’d already begun to dismiss the animals from his mind.
Hunger beat at Andre, so that every cell cried out for sustenance. He needed blood. He could smell Armend’s blood. He could hear the blood pumping through his veins and the strong beat of his heart. Andre’s lips drew back in a snarl as he felt the sharp points of his teeth. Still, Armend needed a lesson. A serious lesson before he met Andre. He needed to experience fear. Terror even. That was something Andre was very good at showing his prey.
The thicker fog inched along the ground, rising as a wall, cutting off Armend’s vision. One moment he glanced down at the food he was heating and the next he looked up and couldn’t see anything at all but the swirling, very dense vapor clouds. Alarmed, he stood up again, one hand nervously dropping to his radio.
Armend didn’t pull the radio from his belt. He was the leader in his group of friends. He always had been. He was that little bit richer and much more dominant. He was the one who had realized early on that women – particularly young college-age girls who were backpacking across Europe – were especially vulnerable. He’d been the one to slowly get the others to accept more and more violence.
He had been the one to think of their guide service. Armend made certain the few couples or older people they took into the mountains had the best of times. He won them over with spectacular service, taking them to the most beautiful places so they would rave about their guides.
His victims he chose very
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