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The warriors hemmed them in, standing shoulder to shoulder in rows; a shield wall of bodies.

Rùn squealed nearby, tossing his head, pawing the earth. The two horses and the stag were trapped. All of them were about to get caught up in this.

“Well, that’s it then.” Kayla held her dagger fast, low, and close to her body. Yet when he glanced her way, Darach saw the slight tremor in her arm. “We’re fucked.”

“Stay on your feet,” Darach replied roughly. “And make every cut count.”

“I intend to.” There was no fear in Ailsa’s voice, and Darach glanced back at her.

She was watching the warriors with an unnerving stillness as they moved inward, drawing a net around them. Her breathing had slowed, and her fingers flexed at her sides. She looked … ready.

Rùn squealed, hooves kicking, teeth snapping.

Likewise, Thicket and Cern whirled around, heads snaking low.

And then the great stag lowered his antlers and clove into the shield wall of bodies.

To Darach’s surprise, it gave way for them, letting the stag and horses flee before snapping closed like a trap.

They hadn’t come here for the animals, but for them.

They were so close now that their glowing eyes illuminated the path like torches.

And then, time stopped for just an instant.

The wind screamed through the trees. Pine and ash caught in his throat as the clag-doo clawed at the inside of his ribs. It knew the odds were hopeless, that he was never going to fight his way out of this as a man. He couldn’t hold it back any longer.

Blistering heat washed over him. His canine teeth started to tingle, and his fingers flexed.

It was starting.

Queasy, dizzying fear stole his breath for an instant, before recklessness took hold.

Darach staggered sideways, trying to distance himself from his companions. “Get behind me,” he barked, even as his heart bucked against his ribs.

Fuck it.

He hated shifting—the loss of control, the sensation of his body being pried open from the inside, and the risk to those he didn’t wish to hurt—but he’d been left with little choice.

Tossing aside his sword, he stepped forward and called the clag-doo before he could think better of it. There was no time to tear off his clothes. He had to do this now, or not at all.

Something twisted deep in his gut then—vicious and sudden. Usually, the change crept up on him in stages: the ache, the tingling, a slow unraveling he could at least brace for. Not this time. This time it came all at once, like a blade shoved in and yanked sideways.

His spine wrenched, vertebrae grinding as they rearranged themselves. His boots split at the seams. Claws burst through where toes had been. His skin stretched and then tore, seams rending along his shoulders and back.

White-hot agony swept over his body.

The Gods help me!

With a yell, he doubled over.

Ailsa barely had time to move back before Darach shifted.

It happened so fast. One moment he was standing there, sword in hand—the next, black fur surged over him.

A deep growl echoed through the trees, and then the clag-doo charged.

Some of the warriors nearest faltered in their stride just for a moment before silver flared bright in their eyes once more.