Feral Magic by Robin D. Owens Page A

mother the babe had sensed since he'd been a seed in her womb.
    Brandy was cooing at her cats, soothing them.  Tom-Tom had rolled onto his back and exposed his belly for a rub.  She stopped and stroked them, muttering words Dak finally figured out were nonsense.
    "Oooh, you're purring!"
    Neither of the cats purred loudly in response to petting, which Dak considered most discourteous.
    Yes.  They were nothing but irritants.  He couldn't kill them, not when Brandy obviously loved them.  He could feel that love when they were with her, as could they.  And Dak and Favel were limiting the time she was with them due to their hostility to the cub.
    After a soft stroking of Tom-Tom's belly and a small game of "catch the long stem of plumed grass" with Gypsy, Brandy went to the door and unlocked it.  The whole set of actions seemed customary for her and her cats.  He suppressed the need growing inside for her to rub his own belly.
    He stopped on the top step of the stoop and glared at the cats, lifted his upper lip in a snarl.  No, he couldn't kill them, couldn't drive them away, but by Mother Moon, they'd leave him and his alone.
    Later, he whispered on a feline-only spurt of telepathy, more symbols than words.
    The cats sneered at them, Gypsy flicking his tail in a crass gesture, the other actually turning his back and sitting down to groom his ass.
    When Dak got into the house, Brandy was putting together a contraption next to the dining room table, and took Favel from his arms, setting him into the thing.  "What's that?" growled Dak.
    "A highchair for feeding babies."  She glanced at him, away, as if nervous.  "I'll get food, I guess you'll need it."  She cleared her throat.  "You eat vegetables, and, um, potatoes?  Most guys love meat and potatoes here..."  The words rushed from her.
    He checked his appearance.  He'd dressed fast and hadn't noticed a small slice in the leather over his ribs, blood stained the cut.
    "I am fine," he said, glad she couldn't see his ear which continued to mend.
    "I don't understand you," she said, pale now, as if her blood had drained to some other part of her body.  He could hear her heart beating faster.
    He inclined his body in a small bow.  He'd noticed that gesture always seemed to intrigue her.  "The feeling is mutual."
    "You are a...warrior, used to fighting all the time," she stated the obvious.
    "That is correct."
    "But you do not hurt others who don't attack you?"  Her voice rose a little.  She went to the cold box that hummed and kept food fresh and drew out a sack of something, dumped frozen stuff in a bowl and put it in another technological box and punched beeping buttons.  This one whirred and he sensed heat waves within it.
    And then he knew he'd hesitated too long as she watched him warily.  "Our rules governing feuds allow me – all my people – to attack the white tigers at will."  He took the stride to her, stroked a strand of her hair back from her face, the texture so thick, so smooth, so different than shapeshifter fur.
    "You know I will never hurt you.  You have my word, and have treated me and my nephew so well.  I would die for you," he added simply.
    Her eyes got even wider.  She touched the slice in his leather.  "You're already healed, faster than a human – a non-shapeshifting person."  She shook her head.  "Even though that is a great," she swallowed, "a very great advantage, I don't want you injured for me.  Don't want you to die for me."  She stared away from him, past him, somewhere he couldn't see her thoughts.  He didn't like that.
    After a long moment, she swallowed, glanced at him, grimaced at more thoughts he couldn't follow.  Her voice lowered.  "I'd much rather you lived...joyfully."
    His body tightened at her words, her aura impinging on his, the sensation of attraction rippling between them, doubling and redoubling.  He wanted the woman.  But she was one, alone.  An orphan with no family.  To take advantage of such a