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The hunter drew his bow and fired. Derek knocked the arrow aside. Another arrow. He dodged. It grazed his thigh. The burn of silver spurred him on. Derek leaped and took his opponent off the horse with a swipe of his paw. The big human rolled to his feet, two blades in his hands. They were almost the same height: the hunter nine inches over six feet tall, and he fully seven feet in his warrior shape.
Derek licked his fangs. Delicious blood coated his tongue and dripped from his mouth, but he was still hungry.
The hunter became a whirlwind of blades. He sliced and stabbed and cut fast, very fast. Derek blocked, stepped inside his guard, and kicked him in the chest. The hunter flew backward, rolled to his feet again, and charged.
They collided. A blade pierced Derek’s chest, sliding neatly between his ribs, almost nicking his heart. The pain tore at his insides. He buried his claws in the hunter’s gut and tore a handful of intestines out. The hunter twisted the sword, trying to carve his way to Derek’s heart. Derek stepped back, pulling himself off the blade, and the hunter chopped at his right arm with the other sword. He took that cut, because he had no choice—it nearly cut through the bone—and raked his claws across the hunter’s face. Blood poured into the hunter’s eyes. The big human lunged, his right sword striking. Derek moved to the left, letting the blade whistle past, locked his right arm on the hunter’s wrist and smashed the heel of his left hand into the man’s elbow. The joint snapped, breaking. He jerked the blade from the hunter’s suddenly limp fingers and rammed it into the hunter’s mouth.
It was a good sword, sharp and solid. It made a lovely sound as it split the hunter’s mouth, then his throat on its way down. The hunter’s heart fluttered like a dying bird, then stopped.
Derek raised his head to the sky. Above him the moon watched through the massive gap in the roof. He opened his bloody jaws and sang. The high-pitched howl rose up, riding on the moonlight, rolling through the night, and all who heard it would know he had made his kill.
He shook the corpse, hoping for more fight, then took the dead man’s head into his mouth, but the hunter didn’t move. His heart was still. He tossed the dead hunter aside.
There had to be something left to kill. There was still one heart beating.
He turned and saw her sitting in a circle. She looked . . . good.
He walked to the circle. She didn’t move. She just watched him with pretty brown eyes.
He ran headfirst into a wall. He couldn’t see it, but it was there. He looked down and noticed a white chalk line between him and her. Magic.
He circled the ward, probing it with his claws. The invisible wall held all the way around. He stopped in front of her and crouched, so they were level. His voice was an inhuman, ragged snarl. “Let me in.”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Let me in.”
“Maybe in a little while,” she said. “Once you cool off.”
“I’m all cooled off.” He wanted into that circle.
“In a little bit.”
He backed away and ran full speed at the circle. The wall held.
“You really can’t skip the hunt,” she told him.
It took another four tries before he decided he couldn’t break through the wall. He kicked the corpses for a while, but they didn’t put up a fight and the horse had run off. He thought of tracking it down, but he would have to leave her and he didn’t want to. He finally settled for stretching out by the circle and looking at the moon.
It soothed him until his breath evened out. Slowly the rational thought returned. His body hurt in too many places. He wished he could fall asleep, but if he let himself go now, he would sleep like the dead for several hours while his body healed the damage. He couldn’t change shape either. Most shapeshifters could deal with one or two changes in a day and then it was nap time, whether you liked it or not. He was stronger than most, but he didn’t want to tempt the fates. He’d spent so much energy fighting the silver, a change could shut him down for good, and he didn’t have that luxury.
Caleb Adams was still out there.
The deep purple of the night sky was slowly fading to lighter blue. The sunrise was coming.
The wild had gotten away from him. It was always like this—he remembered what he did only after he had done it. It always felt right while he was doing it. Sometimes he regretted it, although mostly he didn’t. He did today.
“Derek!” she sounded alarmed.
He sat up.
“The rock is moving.” She pointed right. “He’s taking it somewhere!”
He shook himself. “Come on.”
She squinted at him.
“I’m cooled off,” he told her.
