He has shifted mid-stride, the transformation instantaneous and fluid. He is a behemoth of black fur and muscle, moving with a violence that shakes the ground. He hits a cluster of three Hunters, bowling them over like pins. Jaws snap. Bones crunch. It is efficient brutality.
We move deeper into the fray.
A Hunter with a flamethrower turns toward a pair of cornered wolves—young ones, from the Houma pack. He pulls the trigger. A stream of liquid fire arcs through the air.
"No," I hiss.
I sprint. I launch myself off a cypress knee, clearing ten feet of air.
I land on the Hunter’s shoulders.
My weight drives him face-first into the mud. The fuel tank on his back hisses. I grab his helmet with both hands andtwist.
The vertebrae snap with a sharp, dry crack.
I roll off him, coming up in a crouch.
The two young wolves stare at me, their ears flattened, tails tucked. They smell the Vampire blood in me—the ozone and the rot—but they also smell the Alpha. They smell Jax on my skin.
They bow their heads.
Submission.
"Go," I order, pointing toward the treeline. "Regroup."
They scramble away.
I turn back to the fight. A sudden, sharp impact hits me in the side.
It feels like a wasp sting, but heavier.
I look down.
A combat knife is buried to the hilt in my ribs. A Hunter stands there, hand empty, eyes wide with disbelief. He managed to flank me while I was distracted.
"Die, you freak!" he screams, reaching for his sidearm.
I look at the knife handle protruding from my skin.
I should be in shock. I should be collapsing from a punctured lung.
Instead, I feel... irritation.
I grip the handle and pull. The blade slides out with a wetshhhick.
Blood flows—dark, red, hot.
But then the itching starts.
The skin around the wound bubbles and knits. Muscle fibers reattach. The hole closes, leaving not even a scar, just a smear of blood on my pale skin.
Rapid cellular regeneration.
I look at the Hunter. He is trembling, fumbling with his holster.
"Inefficient," I say.
I cross the space. I grab his gun hand and crush it. The bones grind to powder in my grip. He screams, falling to his knees. Idon't kill him. I kick him in the chest, sending him flying into the deep water of the canal where the gators are waiting.
