For a garul trying to outrun death, he certainly didn’t get very far. From my perch on an adjacent rooftop balcony, I can practically map out his trail from the bar in the winding alleyways below. A bird’s eye view from four stories up.

  How disappointing that he made it too easy.

  A soft mew resonates in the surrounding darkness as something brushes against my leg and I glance down. “Can you believe he didn’t even try to make it a challenge?”

  Bright gold eyes peer up at me, unblinking, but I know he agrees.

  High above, the fractured moon slips from behind a cloud, its jagged edges haloed in pale light. Rays refract through broken arcs and drifting debris, distorting everything in a hazy white glow. The shattered face is not quite full yet; a blessing, I suppose, or else this hunt could have taken a dangerous turn.

  I reach down with a smile and scratch the khaji behind an ear, careful to avoid knicking myself on the pointy little horns protruding from the top of his skull. The golden flecks in his soft black fur glisten in the moonlight as he purrs under my touch, nuzzling my palm with his wet nose. He’s just as eager for the hunt as I am—not surprising, considering that khaji are known to be some of the fiercest feline predators in all of Primae.

  ‘Quit stalling.’

  Spooky chirps and gives me one final nudge, a warning before he decides to use his fangs, and I nod. It’s been long enough.

  “Alright, Spooks. Let’s go get our mark.”

  With an excited yowl, the little khaji darts down the fire escape and into the alley, his paws pounding across the pavement as the golden flecks in his fur begin to glow.

  Unsheathing one of the twin daggers at my hips, I twirl the blade around my fingers, balancing the weight as a familiar heat begins to simmer in my veins. It spreads like wildfire beneath my skin, a rush of intoxicating energy that invigorates my senses as my muscles slowly uncoil. The flames dance at the edges of my mind, a tingling sensation as the power inside me awakens.

  Spooky has his bag of tricks and I have my own.

  Smirking, I pull the hood of my jacket up over my head and drop down off the balcony to follow suit.

  It doesn’t take us long to catch up to Stannik. Five days spent tracking his movements and the idiot runs himself into a dead end. By the time I reunite with Spooky, the khaji has the garul cornered.

  “What the fuck is this thing?” he hollers as I approach, snarling as Spooky hisses and lashes out a paw in the fera’s direction.

  A hint of fear permeates the cold night air, nearly obscured by the musty fragrance of wet stone and back alley trash, and I inhale deeply. I can’t exactly blame him, though.

  Although khaji in their normal form aren’t a common sight in Caelysia and could easily be mistaken for their domestic cousins, there are few souls who could claim to have seen one on the hunt and lived to tell about it. Standing about five feet tall now, his coal black fur shimmering with gold accents and with horns that curl up and around his ears to jut out just below his powerful jaw, Spooky would scare the life out of just about anyone.

  It’s no mystery how he earned his namesake.

  ‘If he’s scared now, wait until he meets me.’

  Patience, Zeph.

  I click my tongue in a series of rhythmic commands and the khaji backs down, though the hackles along his spine are still raised. Then, with a shrug, I say, “He’s just a cat. Haven’t you seen a cat before?”

  “Of course I’ve seen cats before, but that ain’t no house cat.” Stannik spits, the muscles in his neck throbbing as he struggles to hold back his transformation. Must be a hard thing to do with all that anger he’s trying to suppress bubbling just under the surface. He really isn’t making this any fun at all. “That’s a bloody demon!”

  ‘Interesting choice of words.’

  I smirk at his ignorance. “You know nothing of demons.”

  The moment I move, my pulse slows and the air thickens. I close the distance between us and plunge my dagger into the soft tissue of his shoulder. He howls in agony as blood runs down his chest, dying his ugly salmon shirt a deep maroon. The smell of burning flesh sizzles as smoke billows from the gash, mirroring the heat of Zeph’s presence as he begins to claw his way to the forefront of my consciousness.

  Before Stannik has the chance to retaliate, I wrap my fingers around his throat and shove his back forcibly into the brick wall. The impact rattles his bones but it’s not just my strength holding him there anymore. It’s ours.

  “What’s wrong, Stan?” I ask, my voice ringing with an unnatural hollow timbre. Zeph is fully awake, coiled beneath my skin, and his hunger leaks through every syllable. “Blue balls keeping you from shifting, or are you just that scared of a little pussy?”

  I’ve heard that shifting can be a painful process for the ferae. Although his restraint is impressive given the situation, toying with him is turning out to be just as much fun—though not enough to send him over the edge, it seems. Does he really think he stands a better chance at appealing to my humanity if he maintains this ridiculous illusion that he’s human, too?

  “Fuck you, bitch!”

  ‘He wishes.’

  I chuckle, twisting the knife a little deeper. “What makes you think you’re that lucky?” He gnashes his teeth and writhes under my hand, trying to break free, but my grip only tightens as I lean forward and whisper in his ear, “I get it, you know.”

  “Get what?”

  “That gnawing hunger always at the back of your throat, that insatiable craving for something that no food or drink can satisfy. You want to know the real truth, Stan?” I grin at him, a sickly sweet smile, as I tilt my head back. I can see my face reflected in his gaze: eyes black as coals engulfed in searing blue flames as veins shimmer like iridescent wildfire beneath my skin. A monster beneath a mask. “It never goes away. Some of us are just better at hiding it.”

  I can practically sense his rage melt away. He claws frantically at my arm, jagged nails shredding holes in my jacket as he tries to overpower me, but the skintight armor hidden under my civilian clothes deflects his attack with ease and his fera strength is no match for the power coursing through me.

  The coppery scent of blood as it seeps from his wound mixes with the growing stench of his fear as he gasps. “W-what are you?”

  Everyone always asks the same question. To be honest, some days I didn’t even know the answer, myself. But tonight, to him, I’m death incarnate.

  “I’m your worst fucking nightmare.”

  Releasing my grip on his throat, I unsheath the second dagger and press the silvered edge to his neck. The blade bites into his flesh like a razor. A thin trail of smoke rises up and Stannik whimpers as his skin reddens from the allergic reaction.

  My grin widens, the fire dancing in my vision stripping away all the color until only his emotions are left. Through Zeph’s eyes they unfurl around me like a prismatic kaleidoscope in an achromatic world, as if watching everything through a smoky lens, tantalizing my senses and driving Zeph’s hunger to the brink. It curls in my gut and slithers up my throat, sweet and metallic, like blood on the tongue.

  We like the color of his fear the most.

  His aura vibrates with a lilac radiance as his panic reaches a crescendo and I lick my lips. He’s not the only one who’s hungry tonight.

  Stannik’s bones suddenly crack, his muscles bulging as he starts to release his inner beast. His dark eyes flash yellow as his jaw pops out of socket and his teeth splinter as deadly fangs poke through his gums, and I frown. Now he decides to shift? Pity. This could have been so much more fun.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  ‘Enough games. End this.’

  “Sorry, honey, but I’m bored with this shit already.”

  Without a second thought, I run the dagger across his throat in one clean swipe, applying just enough pressure to sever his arteries. Blood gushes from the wound, staining my shirt as air gurgles in his chest and his body starts to convulse.

  Fire churns in the depths of my soul, begging to feast. Spooky chatters warily behind me but I wave him off. “I know what I’m doing, Spooks!”

  As Stannik slides to the ground, I sheath my blades and crouch before him. The vibrant purple glow emanating from his aura starts to dim as his lifeblood flows from the fatal blow and my insides scream with a primal need. I’ve come to terms with it over the years; if I’m honest, a small part of me almost relishes what comes next, drowning out the horror that used to paralyze me as a child.

  There’s a certain power in moments like this—raw, intoxicating—a reminder that I’m no longer weak or helpless. Our hunger knows no bounds and, gods help me, sometimes I hate how much I enjoy it. It can be so easy to cross that line.

  The other Bladesworn may not eat what they kill, but I’m not like them. It’d be a shame to let his spirit go to waste.

  Zeph’s flames, now licking at the corners of my mind, grow hotter as I twine my fingers in the garul’s unruly hair and peer into his eyes, searching the fading light for that little spark of his arcanum. It won’t taste as good as a soul, but hopefully it’s enough to satisfy the demon within.

  I slowly exhale as I allow the monster inside to step out of the shadows. My body becomes Zeph’s, fingernails sharpening to deadly points, and I watch in grim fascination from somewhere deep inside as we rip off an arm and toss it to Spooky with a hollow laugh. A nice treat for a good boy.

  Digging a hand into Stannik’s chest, our fingers close around his still-beating heart and a wicked grin tugs at our lips. Zeph surges forward and we bite down. I feel myself slipping into the dark as we trade places, one last thought echoing in my head:

  I know what I’m doing.

  ***

  The nightclub is all but empty by the time I walk back in.

  I resume my seat at the bar and reach for the drink that Jorrik kindly remembered to pour for me before I ran out. With Zeph now satiated, the heat that seared my insides minutes before has already dissipated. For all intents and purposes, I once more look human.

  The blood coating my face and hands, however, is not so easy to hide.

  ‘Don’t worry. It’s hardly noticeable.’

  I seriously doubt that.

  “The cleaners should be here in a bit, Jorrik,” I say, drawing the bartender’s gaze. I shake off my ruined jacket and drape it across the bar top. “Things got a little out of hand back there.”

  His attention shifts from the shredded leather to the scaled vambraces shielding my arms, lingering a bit too long on the bloodstains covering the tattered shirt that I wore simply to hide the fitted midnight-black drakeskin armor underneath, and his mouth twists into a frown. “That’s a lot of blood for a simple kill, Ashe. I hope none of that’s yours.”

  ‘Damn.’

  Fucking told you so. Now for some damage control.

  “Oh, ye of little faith.” I place Stannik’s decapitated head on the bar stool next to me with a shrug. “Death is such a messy business.”

  Jorrik sighs. “Why do you always insist on bringing your business back to my bar?”

  “Since this club became an apparent haven for some of Caelysia’s most wanted.” I wave my arms through the air as if to say, ‘This place, really?’

  “The Hidden Door is a safe place for all races.” His green eye flicks to my souvenir. “That said, one less garul in this country is fine by me. They’re almost as bad as the vitaari.”

  “So much for your safe space.” I raise an eyebrow. “Why does an arkoudan even manage a nightclub, anyway? I thought your kind hated crowds.”

  “Bjaerneskinn.”

  “Bjaerneskinn, arkoudan. Same shit. You’re still a godsdamn bear shifter.”

  “Fera.”

  I snort, fanning a palm at his political correctness like a bad smell. “Like I said, same shit.”

  He tosses me a rag. “Would it kill you to be a little more cognizant of our heritage? Not all ferae are the same, you know.”

  “Oh, now there’s a big word. Think of that one all on your own?”

  Jorrik shakes his head, his thin lips curling into a smirk as he crosses his hairy arms over his thick chest. “You’ll never change, will you?”

  “It’s not on my to-do list.”

  As I finish wiping the blood from my face and pull out a slim metal case from my jacket pocket, I take the momentary pause in our conversation as an opportunity to study him.

  I wasn’t too fond of most shapeshifters, particularly the hotheaded mutts of the garul tribes. Although most ferae were in control of their animal nature and could tap into it at will, the wolves seemed to lack this same resolve and tended to give in to their more primitive urges.

  But the arkouda were a different breed entirely.

  Strong, hairy, and bearish, an arkoudan could rip a fully transformed garul in half with ease and probably plow right through a small pack of them before being taken down. Their prowess was matched only by the wild bears of the northern woods and their unhinged brutality—no doubt the reason behind their name. But, despite his rugged edge and imposing stature, I found Jorrik to be about as frightening as a newborn cub. His concern is endearing . . . sometimes.

  “You’ve got a reckless attitude and a restless soul, mina kaelithi.” He gestures to the severed head. “And no manners to speak of, either.”

  I feign a gasp. “Why, Jorrik Longclaw! Don’t tell me that, after all this time spent visiting this fine establishment and pining for your attention, you’re finally hitting on me?”

  He scoffs. “I’m not sure if I should feel honored or insulted by that.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself, kol’toth. You know I don’t swing that way.” I size him up and offer him a playful wink, a wayward chuckle escaping my lips as I take a sip of my drink and add, “Hate to say it, old friend, but you aren’t really my type. Bestiality isn’t my thing and you lack the tits that I so thoroughly enjoy on my flings.”

  ‘I bet he’s my type.’

  Shut up, Zeph.

  “You know, it never ceases to amaze me at how much you can drink without getting drunk.”

  “Yeah, well”—I avoid his gaze as I open the case and pull out a small roll of paper from the pack—“high tolerance is a real buzz kill, I guess.”

  The whole ‘fire in my veins’ thing kind of burns off alcohol faster than I can enjoy it, but I’d never let Jorrik know that—or risk his own safety by telling him the truth. His life is worth more to me than that.

  “Say,” I muse, eager to change the subject, “full moon’s in a few days.” The ferae were a primal race, in tune with their emotions more than most, but the moon still held sway over their baser instincts—even a broken one. Under its revealing touch, their tenacity didn’t mean shit. “Have you made any plans yet?”

  Jorrik scowls. “Godsdamn it, Ashe. You know I go back home when Vanya’s eye opens, and you know how much I hate it there. Why do you always have to bring it up?”

  Vanya’s eye. The ferae’s term for a full moon. Named after their moon goddess, it wasn’t uncommon for Her children to take a sabbatical and isolate themselves in the Wylds when its full light uncaged their inner beast. Not all fera choose to leave the cities during such times, though; I’ve been contracted to hunt down my fair share of ferals over the years.

  I hold up my hands in mock surrender. “Easy. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t schedule Henry to work those nights while you’re away, in case I’m still in town. I swear that bastard waters down my drinks on purpose.”

  ‘That’s an easy problem to solve.’

  Shut up, Zeph!

  Jorrik quirks a brow. “You heading out soon?”

  I shrug, twirling the thin paper cigarette around my fingers. I’ve been stationed in Trinity Valley for the better part of six months now, taking missives as they trickle in, but there’s only so many heads to hunt in one place. I haven’t had a good challenge lately and I was growing restless.

  We were growing restless.

  “Whenever a new assignment comes up, I guess. Or whenever the headmaster calls me back home.”

  The life of a hunter can be a lonely one. Always on the road, never staying in one place for too long, it’s often hard to establish lasting relationships with anyone outside the Blades Society. Jorrik is the closest thing to a friend I’ve had in recent years, a refreshing dose of normalcy beyond the competitive camaraderie of the Bladesworn. As for love—well, I haven’t felt the warmth of that in a long time.

  Spooky suddenly hops up on the empty stool to my left, purring as he eyes my drink, little pink tongue darting out to lick his lips. No longer on the prowl, he’s shrunken down to his regular size and the markings in his fur have faded into golden flecks once again. As he cleans his face, I can’t help but smile. It seems that both of us have had our fill for the night.

  Grateful for the interruption, I rap my knuckles on the bar top. “How about a round for ol’ Spooks, bartender? I’d say he’s earned it tonight.”

  “No pets allowed.”

  Spooky hisses at him, insulted, and I laugh. “Will you two ever get along?”

  “Bears and cats don’t mix.” Despite his protest, Jorrik sets a saucer of warm milk down in front of the khaji all the same. “Neither do bears and hunters, now that I think of it.”

  I nonchalantly flip him a middle finger as I flick open a lighter and ignite the end of the cigarette. Smoke swirls in circles above our heads as the crushed dokha leaves emit a heady earthen aroma and I raise my drink in an impromptu toast.

  “Here’s to unusual friendships in a fucked up world.” I down the lukewarm liquor, wincing at the aftertaste.

  “Why do you smoke that shit?”

  Devouring Stannik’s fear-soaked heart—the source of his arcanum—brought near-instant relief as it quenched the demon’s hunger. But the rush is always short-lived as the headaches begin to set in; I learned long ago that I needed something extra to take the edge off.

  Plus, it keeps Zeph calm after we eat.

  “It relaxes me.”

  “It stinks up my bar is what it does.”

  “The smell’s an improvement, trust me.”

  As silence descends over us again and Jorrik finishes wiping down the counter, I take another drag from the cigarette.

  The local cleaning crew that the Society employs around these parts should be arriving any minute now to tidy up the mess I left behind in the alley. Roren pays them well enough to keep quiet about the things they see, but even paid tongues have a tendency to wag. I didn’t exactly restrain myself on this mission—or some of the others before it. The missing hearts, the torn limbs, the faces always frozen in fear long after death sets in: looking back now, the carnage I always seem to leave in my wake is eerily reminiscent of a demon attack. Those aren’t easy questions for the Society to answer and Roren has enough on his plate already without adding rumors into the mix.

  Zeph, old boy, we’re getting sloppy.

  When the demon doesn’t respond, I prop an elbow up on the bar. My fingers absently clasp at the pendant dangling around my neck as a smoky sigh wisps from my lips.

  “Pour me another round, Jorrik,” I mutter. “I have a feeling this is going to be a long night.”