“I’m sorry,” an apology muttered as she lay back on their stuffed mattress.
“Don’t be. Feel better,” he murmured before leaving to fetch her some watered-down juice and dry biscuits. Upon his return, he found her sleeping, so he left her alone while he fetched buckets of water to clean the vomit before it attracted insects or creatures.
Farah eyed the sluiced ground then upwards. “No one else is sick.”
“Maybe because we’re harimau.” He no longer found it odd how easily that word fell from his lips. Much easier than the therianthrope mouthful.
“Possibly,” Farah mused. Then she snapped her attention to him. “No sitting here and moping. You should go do something.”
“Not moping, but I would like to be close, in case she needs something.”
“I will take care of Nadirah while you join Johan on his hunt.”
“Hunt for what?”
“Poachers,” she spat. “One of the cubs got caught in a snare yesterday. Hence why some will go out and scour the woods to remove any traps they find, while our strongest seek those responsible.”
He glanced upward at the treehouse.
Farah put a hand on his arm. “She will be fine in my care, and this will be a good way to show Johan and others that you are committed to protecting the harimau.”
In other words, go be a man, er, tiger.
They set out shortly, not requiring equipment, since they would be going as felines. When Phoenix held out his arms for an injurious blow, Zafira rolled her eyes, no longer gloating at the way she had to injure him to shift. They’d reached a grudging respect for each other over the past few weeks, although he didn’t doubt she’d kill him in a heartbeat if she thought he’d fucked them over.
A literal ambush of tigers set off into the jungle, splitting off into a cordon that would cover more ground—and catch more scents. Now that he no longer sought a way to rid himself of the tiger, he could actually admit to feeling enjoyment as he stalked the jungle on four paws. This shape didn’t just feel stronger and more agile; it actually was. He could leap or climb trees with ease. Sift smells and identify everything around him. Hear the huff of breath from even the smallest of rodents. All things that made a tiger an excellent hunter. The only thing that bothered? The fact they sought human prey.
As a former soldier, who had been in active combat situations, he’d taken lives. Intentionally, he should add. It wasn’t the killing aspect that bothered, but more the personal nature of it. Firing a bullet gave a layer of separation from the act. Sinking his teeth and claws, though? For some reason, his psyche saw it as totally different. Then again, was it any worsethan beating someone with his fists or trying to choke them out or snap their neck? He’d been taught how, even if he’d never had to use those skills. The military trained him to kill. A tiger, by its very nature, was a predator. Now if only he could reconcile those two sides.
A few hours into the hunt—and four destroyed traps later—they caught wind of the intruders. Like, literally smelled them, the reek of body odor distinctive on the slight breeze that rustled leaves.
Hearing the crunch of approaching steps, Phoenix quickly climbed a tree and perched to keep watch.
Into his view came a man, his pock-marked features set in a scowl, a rifle slung over his shoulder, wearing sweat-stained clothing. From his hand hung a few of the snares they’d been shredding. Before Phoenix could act, he caught a fleeting glimpse of orange. A tiger already stalked the poacher.
Emerging from the bushes, the feline slunk, belly low to the ground, and Phoenix recognized Johan. Something must have alerted the poacher because he swiftly turned while pulling a machete from a sheath by his hip.
It caused Johan to pause and assess his next move. A move complicated by the second poacher that snuck past the tree holding Phoenix, his presence unnoticed since he’d made his approach downwind. One armed man Johan could handle, but two? This would be a great opportunity to show the ambush that Phoenix could be trusted to protect the harimau.
Lying still on his branch, Phoenix waited for his chance. It came when the second poacher knelt to aim his rifle. Since Phoenix had the advantage of height, he dropped from the tree, but rather than flatten the guy, he hit the ground. The fucker must have sensed the danger since he threw himself to the side. Even worse, he swung the barrel of that gun in Phoenix’s direction.
Rather than wait for the shot, Phoenix sprang, hitting the guy and knocking him back to the ground. The rifle went off, but the bullet went astray. Bullet, not a sleeping dart. This fucker came with the intention of killing tigers.
No more.
Phoenix clamped down hard, feeling his incisors penetrate flesh, spilling blood and crunching the bones in the poacher’s neck, ending the threat to the harimau. For once, he felt good about a kill. The cubs would be safe. Farah, and everyone else he’d gotten to know, wouldn’t have to worry. As those thoughts went through his mind, he realized something astonishing.
I’m a tiger still.
He’d done it. Killed a man, with his teeth, tasted blood, but didn’t shift.
Bang.
The bullet hit him hard, and so did the pain. Phoenix abruptly changed shape, instantly healing and causing a third sneaky bastard of a poacher to exclaim in Malaysian. Probably something along the lines of, “holy shit.”
Before the man could recover from his shock, Johan, his muzzle still bloody from his first interloper, took him down, and the jungle was safer for it.
Phoenix stood in all his nakedness and grimaced not in pain but because of the short-lived exultation of his success.
