Rapture Untamed (Feral Warriors #4)(17)

Red,where are you? I'm on the trail of the Daemon, and he's killing. Or killed.

The trail ended suddenly in a blaze of scent that nearly fried the insides of his cat's nose. His keen animal senses told him he was alone, so he upshifted to his full-sized jaguar. If he came upon the thing, there'd be a fight, and since his knives didn't stay with him any better than his clothes when he shifted, fangs and claws were his only weapons.

Where are you,you bastard?

Jag leaped for the nearest tree and began to climb, hoping to catch sight of the creature, but as he rose, the scent grew fainter. Not significantly so, but enough that he noticed. He stretched out on a thick branch about ten feet from the ground and looked around, sending his cat's heightened senses out in every direction.

And that's when he saw it. Not the Daemon, but a mound of dead leaves that looked out of place below. As if they'd been piled there intentionally. To hide something.

He leaped out of the tree, shifting back to his human form midleap, and landed on two feet. Kneeling beside the mound, he shoved the leaves away to reveal a dark blue tarp.

The smell of blood and carnage nearly obliterated the stench of Daemon, and he knew there would be no rescuing this victim.

He pulled the tarp back...and wished he hadn't.

Well,hell. Victims, plural. Body parts from at least half a dozen humans lay in the shallow grave. Heads, arms, parts of torsos, all of which had most of the flesh stripped from the bones.

Jesus.

He pulled the tarp back farther, and froze, his stomach cramping.

Not Cordelia.

But,goddess. As he stared at the half-destroyed face of a thirtyish woman, memory of another overlaid it - half a face where the flesh had tried one last time to regenerate over the charred remains of bone and blood, before her Therian body had finally given up.

Cordelia.

His head began to pound, cold sweat rolling down his temples as old horror shot through his gut. He stumbled back and fell to his knees, retching into the dirt, the memories stabbing him like red-hot steel.

When his stomach had emptied, he rose on shaky legs, arching his back, hands in his hair, until he forced the memories down. Then he returned to the mass grave.

Ten bucks said he'd found the humans who'd gone missing in this town the past few days.

That goddamn pain-feeding Daemon was history.

But as he lifted the tarp back over the bodies, he stilled, a thought slamming into him.

Everything they understood of wraith Daemons told them they were nonthinking creatures. Animals. Monsters. They literally fed on the pain and fear of others as a human or Therian might feed on marinated pork or ham steaks. They did not plot or plan. Or bury their victims in tarps and hide them in the woods beneath a pile of leaves.

But someone had done just that. Someone who didn't want the public...or the Ferals...to know the Daemon was here.

A thousand bucks said he knew who was behind this.

The Mage.

Chapter Six

Olivia drove out of Harpers Ferry, out of the reach of Jag's extraordinary senses, and headed west on the highway, hoping to find a diner or bar - anyplace where more than a few humans gathered. She had to be careful with humans. Early on, she'd learned trying to feed off fewer than four or five at once, even at low levels, could drain them fast.

She'd never actually killed one - at least not accidentally - that she knew of, but she'd dropped a few unconscious when she was young.

Large crowds were definitely best.

When she found the Wal-Mart, she smiled, then parked the Hummer and strolled into the store, opening herself to a free, careful feeding at last. The store was most crowded in the electronics department, so she headed there, wandering among the rows of DVDs and video games, skimming a fine layer of life force from every human she passed. A layer they'd never miss, not with so many to feed from. A layer they'd soon replenish.

Strong energy radiated off a small gathering of humans in the iPod aisle, two human males past their prime, their bellies swollen with excess, and two teenage girls who seemed none too pleased with the attention of the males.

"She's a pretty little thing, isn't she?" the male with the Redskins cap said, eyeing the darker-haired girl.

The girls glanced over their shoulders at the pair, but continued what they were doing, looking over several items on the racks. Though uncomfortable with the boorish attention, they didn't appear to be genuinely worried.

Olivia wondered if they should be. She continued to feed lightly as she watched with an eye toward stepping in.

But the second boor noticed her, his eyes lighting.

"I'm partial to redheads," he said, hitching his pants up under his protruding belly.

Olivia said nothing, just held his gaze as she slid one of her knives out of the sheath hidden beneath her jacket, twirled it around her finger in a quick arc, then made it disappear again.

The man's eyes widened, and he blanched, taking a step backward.

Pamela Palmer Rapture Untamed

"Let's go, Earl."

"What? Why?"

But the other one grabbed his arm and took off around the end of the aisle.

"Jerks," one of the girls said under her breath when they'd gone.

Olivia had to agree. As she moved away, the girls' voices carried to her, excited talk of iPods and birthdays and prom.

She found herself smiling, their pleasure infectious, but her smile quickly faded.