shifted, with
wolfish faces and bodies covered with hair, they might have come
straight from the cast of Howling III. Each guard wore black
pants, boots, and leather vests similar to Fallon’s, though none
had his red insignia. Armed with pistols and wicked looking knives
(one Haunt even carried a tomahawk at his side and had a rifle
holstered on his back) they gave new meaning to intimidation.
Nausea from the adrenalin dump threatened to
embarrass her. Shaking from battle instincts, she shifted her
weight to her toes and cursed her new clothes. Stupid fool! How
could she have been so easily sweet-talked out of her sturdy jeans
and running shoes?
“Easy,” Fallon said, equal parts command and
soothing in his voice. He kept moving toward the portal. “They’re
not holding the gate against you.”
“The last time I saw these things they were
tearing my father apart,” she snarled bitterly, unable to stop the
low growl rumbling at the back of her throat. She could feel her
canines lengthening, sharpening, the change that came without her
bidding when in danger. The guards were looking at her, and she
knew her eyes were glinting gold. Not that they’d care, since they
made her useless little changes look like costume makeup. Her eyes
jumped around, looking for handholds in the smooth rock face,
searching for the most likely nightmares to plow over if she had to
run.
The Haunt at the gate never took their eyes
from her.
“You’ve been surrounded by us for days now.
Your father was one of us. You carry our blood,” Fallon said
softly. Ever calm, he watched her as if she were no more deadly
than a child with monsters in her closet. He kept them moving
toward the gate.
Pain made her fingers curl as her fingernails
thickened, lengthened. “I’m not one of you,” she rasped, the change
making speech almost impossible.
Humor coloring his voice, Fallon glanced at
her. “I can see that.”
She didn’t even think. Turning on him, she
aimed for his belly with her deadly nails and tried to shove him
over backwards, hooking her foot behind his knee. One shove and she
could run, race for the forest portal…
It didn’t work. Instead, Fallon crushed her
to him, shifting her balance so she was plastered to his chest.
Fury and fear had her sinking her nails deep into his back, through
the leather of his vest. He grunted, and she felt the warm flow of
blood seep from the gouges. Shocked, she released him and backed
off. Blood stained her hands. Sickened by the sight, she stared at
him in misery.
He grunted again and flexed his back muscles
slowly. “We need some ground rules for these arguments of ours,
sweetheart.”
Lost, she turned her head and stared blindly
at nothing, her mind a careful blank. As shock calmed her, she felt
her body change back to normal.
Fallon took her arm in a firm grip and strode
for the gate while she was still biddable. Loudly, for the benefit
of those watching, he said, “If you’re not hungry, all you have to
do is say so. I can be dense with women, but even I understand a
‘no’.”
Heavy with irony, his tone only made her feel
lower. Panic attacks with claws could be deadly enough, but she’d
never attacked a friend before. Of course, she’d never had a friend
to attack, and even now, she wasn’t sure that Fallon was one. That
didn’t stop the sickness tearing up her guts, however.
Fallon didn’t need to hear an apology, not
with her bowed shoulders and hidden face shouting it out. A surge
of pity mixed with lingering irritation. Her half-change was
unsettling. Their kind was either-or, not an odd mix of both
states, and by the look on her face as she’d changed she had no
control over it. Maybe that had contributed to her fright. In human
form, Haunt had human senses, except for sharpened hearing. In
Haunt form, they had the keen senses of wolves coupled with
superior strength, speed and agility, though they sacrificed the
power of speech. Rain seemed to be stuck in between,
wolfish faces and bodies covered with hair, they might have come
straight from the cast of Howling III. Each guard wore black
pants, boots, and leather vests similar to Fallon’s, though none
had his red insignia. Armed with pistols and wicked looking knives
(one Haunt even carried a tomahawk at his side and had a rifle
holstered on his back) they gave new meaning to intimidation.
Nausea from the adrenalin dump threatened to
embarrass her. Shaking from battle instincts, she shifted her
weight to her toes and cursed her new clothes. Stupid fool! How
could she have been so easily sweet-talked out of her sturdy jeans
and running shoes?
“Easy,” Fallon said, equal parts command and
soothing in his voice. He kept moving toward the portal. “They’re
not holding the gate against you.”
“The last time I saw these things they were
tearing my father apart,” she snarled bitterly, unable to stop the
low growl rumbling at the back of her throat. She could feel her
canines lengthening, sharpening, the change that came without her
bidding when in danger. The guards were looking at her, and she
knew her eyes were glinting gold. Not that they’d care, since they
made her useless little changes look like costume makeup. Her eyes
jumped around, looking for handholds in the smooth rock face,
searching for the most likely nightmares to plow over if she had to
run.
The Haunt at the gate never took their eyes
from her.
“You’ve been surrounded by us for days now.
Your father was one of us. You carry our blood,” Fallon said
softly. Ever calm, he watched her as if she were no more deadly
than a child with monsters in her closet. He kept them moving
toward the gate.
Pain made her fingers curl as her fingernails
thickened, lengthened. “I’m not one of you,” she rasped, the change
making speech almost impossible.
Humor coloring his voice, Fallon glanced at
her. “I can see that.”
She didn’t even think. Turning on him, she
aimed for his belly with her deadly nails and tried to shove him
over backwards, hooking her foot behind his knee. One shove and she
could run, race for the forest portal…
It didn’t work. Instead, Fallon crushed her
to him, shifting her balance so she was plastered to his chest.
Fury and fear had her sinking her nails deep into his back, through
the leather of his vest. He grunted, and she felt the warm flow of
blood seep from the gouges. Shocked, she released him and backed
off. Blood stained her hands. Sickened by the sight, she stared at
him in misery.
He grunted again and flexed his back muscles
slowly. “We need some ground rules for these arguments of ours,
sweetheart.”
Lost, she turned her head and stared blindly
at nothing, her mind a careful blank. As shock calmed her, she felt
her body change back to normal.
Fallon took her arm in a firm grip and strode
for the gate while she was still biddable. Loudly, for the benefit
of those watching, he said, “If you’re not hungry, all you have to
do is say so. I can be dense with women, but even I understand a
‘no’.”
Heavy with irony, his tone only made her feel
lower. Panic attacks with claws could be deadly enough, but she’d
never attacked a friend before. Of course, she’d never had a friend
to attack, and even now, she wasn’t sure that Fallon was one. That
didn’t stop the sickness tearing up her guts, however.
Fallon didn’t need to hear an apology, not
with her bowed shoulders and hidden face shouting it out. A surge
of pity mixed with lingering irritation. Her half-change was
unsettling. Their kind was either-or, not an odd mix of both
states, and by the look on her face as she’d changed she had no
control over it. Maybe that had contributed to her fright. In human
form, Haunt had human senses, except for sharpened hearing. In
Haunt form, they had the keen senses of wolves coupled with
superior strength, speed and agility, though they sacrificed the
power of speech. Rain seemed to be stuck in between,
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