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Fuck.
A shadow passed over her, blocking the golden light from the setting sun, as a figure strode around the pile and loomed over her.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” the figure told her in a gruff voice. It was too dark to see him clearly, with the last remains of sunlight at his back.
But sometimes it’s best to attack first and ask questions later.
Fey struck, shooting up from her crouch and knocking the male backward with a kick to the chest. She didn’t move to kill, didn’t draw the blades strapped to her thighs. After all, she had no idea who this person was, what they were doing here in this Goddess-forsaken warehouse. They could be another lifeline, another clue as to what the fuck was going on here.
The male was huge. Big enough that her kick had only sent him stumbling backwards a few steps. But Fey was already readying herself to go again, arms up to fight.
“That was a mistake,” the man growled.
And he began to shift.
Watching a Shifter change between forms is something that never gets easier with time. It never loses the horror, the twisting sickening feeling that rises in your guts. It unleashes a fear, primal and ancient, of watching a monster being born.
The man on the warehouse floor roared as his face split in two, his jaw elongating and his skull cracking open. Fur flowed out from under his skin, black and smooth, and his thick arms twisted and bent as the muscles and bones broke and reformed.
It took just a few seconds for the shift to finish, and Fey watched, horrified, as a large cat emerged from within the skin of the man in front of her.
Fey had fought Shifters before. Fought and killed more Shifters than she could count on both hands. But she was alone tonight. Alone, with no backup, no sleep, and a seven-foot Panther rising to meet her.
The Panther snarled, revealing fangs sharp and big as fingers, and crouched to pounce. There was no time to run, no time to hide.
Fuck.
She rolled as the cat struck, barely getting out of the way in time. The Shifter didn’t even pause before turning to launch at her again.
It hit her with enough force that Fey felt the air rush from her lungs. The two of them hit the ground, snapping burnt wood beneath them as they fought. Claws ripped into Fey’s arm, and she screamed. It was a lucky hit for the Shifter—luckier, still, that it clipped her sigil for healing, tearing through the intricate pattern.
Fey immediately felt the sigil’s loss, and every ache and pain in her body roared to life. The sigils kept them strong, powerful, and healthy. Without her healing sigil, every wound she took in this fight would be slow to re-knit, slow to heal.
She managed to get her forearm up between her and the Shifter’s body, pushing against his neck to keep those gnashing fangs away from her face, but the claws tore into her, ripping into her shoulder as she fought.
The damage a large predator can do in just a few seconds is immense. By the time Fey had managed to pull her blade from its sheath and bury it in the Panther’s side, her shoulders were covered in deep wounds.
The Shifter yowled when the blade sunk into its side, rolling away from her and scrambling for safety. She struck it again, slicing at its ribs, until finally it stumbled and collapsed.
Panting, Fey stood. She would live. Blood coated her arms, gushing from deep wounds on her shoulders and biceps, and it would take weeks for her to heal from this without her sigil. But she would live.
The Shifter would, too, Fey realized. The Panther whimpered at her feet, close to unconsciousness, but she hadn’t hit anything vital. He would live, and she might finally get some answers?—
Someone hit her hard from the side, knocking her to the ground. Something smaller than the giant cat she’d just fought. Fey turned, scrambling to her feet, trying to locate her new enemy.
But something was wrong.
The world had been caught in a gentle dusk, the slowly setting sun basking everything in a gentle glow. But now? Something was in her eyes, clouding the light, something rough and gritty. Her body was awash with pain, all her nerves alight with agony. Fey scrambled to rub at her eyes, trying to move backward away from whatever was attacking her.
Too late. A foot found her rib cage, and Fey screamed as she curled over her body in pain. She barely had time to react before she was kicked again, the force of it flinging her several feet across the soot-coated ground.
Pain wracked her body, clouding her remaining senses. Everything was darkened and shadowed, hazy as though covered in dark mist. She couldn’t see the danger around her, couldn’t see where the next attack might come from.
But she could see something in the distance. Even through the shadows clouding her vision, she could see the golden glow of the sun dipping below the horizon.
Below the cliffside leading to the river below.
Fey pulled her power to her, releasing a blast of air in all directions around her. A roar of pain and crash let her know she’d hit her mark.
