Hour of the Lion

at the dead woman. “They’ve all been druggies, alcoholics. Maybe they’re too unhealthy to survive being bit.” When his gaze lit on Vic, he walked toward her.

She closed her eyes completely.

“Didn’t kill her, Swane?” His voice held a thinly concealed taunt. “The bitch looks healthy enough. Let’s give her a try.”

“No. She’s mine. I kept this piece of ass for me, not you.”

Vic’s skin crawled at the thick lust in his voice. Icy fear punched past the tight grip she’d maintained on her emotions.

“You can fuck her all you want…after.” The man slapped her hard. “Still out. Toss her in the cage while I tranq the cat.”

A second later, Vic heard the whap of a tranquilizer gun. Fuck, what were they planning? Can’t afford fear-push it aside. When Swane grabbed under her arms, Vic made her move. Clamping her elbows to her sides, she pinned his hands and swung her legs up toward his head. She opened her eyes in time to ensure that her feet hit him in the face. The crack of impact felt infinitely satisfying.

Baldy toppled backward, releasing her.

Jaw set tight, she rolled up and onto her feet.

He rose, shaking his head, looking like he’d been raised on steroids instead of candy. Considering the Marine tattoos covering his neck and arms, his fighting skills might be as good as hers.

Vic took a step back, feeling cartilage grate. That kick hadn’t done her knee any favors. She back-pedaled toward the stairs, trying to disguise her limp. As Swane advanced, she dropped into cat stance, the foot in front tapping the floor lightly, ready to kick him into never-neverland.

“Don’t move, cunt.”

Vic froze. The suit had the tranq gun in his hand, dart already loaded, aimed right at her chest. He motioned to the panther’s cage. “Crawl in or Swane will stuff you in there unconscious.”

She took a step back. In with the mountain lion? The rush of terror made her head spin. “No way.”

“Open it,” the suit said to Swane.

Scowling, Swane worked the combination padlock and half opened the door. “Stop dicking around and just shoot her. Better yet, give her to me for a while. When I get through, she’ll beg for the cage.”

If he tranked her, she wouldn’t have a chance of escaping. Eyeing the groggy cat warily, she bent and entered the cage, feeling Swane’s anger like a wave of heat as she crawled past.

The cat was on its side, head nodding, eyes glazed.

“Do it before he changes back.” The suit slammed the cage door shut.

She turned, “Do what-” and the psycho shoved the cattle-prod into her stomach. Fiery pain blistered across her skin, and with a yell, she staggered backward. Right into the snarling cat.

She landed hard, tangled in its legs, scrambling to get away. Paws seized her. Its claws ripped into her back, and the mountain lion sank its teeth into her shoulder.

“God!” Agony tore through her. She kicked, nailing it in the stomach. The animal snarled viciously. She shoved herself free, its claws tearing her skin. Rolling away, she scrambled into the corner farthest from both the cat and the cattle-prod.

“That’ll do.” The suit picked her wallet up from the table and tossed it to Swane. “I gotta leave. Give your buddies on the force some green in case anybody asks about her.”

“Got it.”

The suit scowled at the lion. “Go ahead and do whatever you want to get answers out of the kid. He’s dying anyway.”

Swane’s eyes lit and he smiled. “I need to pick up a few things to use, then I’ll start. You’ll have your answers.”

Torture? Vic’s stomach turned over. As they walked up the stairs, she realized they intended to leave her caged with the cougar. Vic pushed her face into the wire. “Let me out of here!”

The basement door closed, and the overhead bulb snapped off. The only illumination came from the tiny windows near the ceiling. Bad light for her, good light for a mountain lion. Her shoulder hurt like hell, and blood soaked her shirt sleeve, running down her back and sides. Blood? Just what she needed, a way to smell like a cat’s supper. She turned her head slowly.

The cougar watched her, eyes slitted, ears back. The one cat in the world that didn’t think she was its best friend. Even worse, it looked as emaciated as the kid had been. Its fur was dull and patchy and the golden eyes were sunken.

It looked really, really hungry.

“Nice, kitty,” she murmured in a low voice. “We’re stuck here together, so let’s just be mellow about it, okay? My name’s Victoria, but my friends call me Vicki.” Her ops team had called her Vic, and right now, that was short for victim.

The cat watched as she sidled sideways toward the cage door. She knelt, checked the lock. Generic combination padlock. She could do this if her hands were free. And if the cat didn’t decide it was hungry for human tartare.

To her relief, the cat’s ears tilted forward and its eyes rounded. A second later, the cougar blurred.

Thinking her vision was screwing-up, Vic rubbed her face against her jean-covered knee, then raised her head.

The young man lay sprawled across the wire floor.

“Jesus-fuck!” She jerked back, falling against the wire. That was no drug-induced hallucination. Eyes narrowed, she studied the cage. There was no hidden door to pull a panther out and shove in a boy. Gritting her teeth, she stayed wedged in place. People didn’t just turn into animals, and animals didn’t turn into people. No fucking way.

The kid blinked at her blearily, ran a tongue over cracked lips, and said in a hoarse voice, “Nice to meet you, Vicki. Sorry about the clawing and uh, tooth-marks.”

Vic’s hands closed into fists. He was definitely no longer a mountain lion. “What are you?” she whispered.

He struggled to raise his head and gave her a pitiful smile. “Some people call us Daonain or shifters. Me, I prefer werecats.” He glanced toward the stairs, and she could see him trying to hide his terror.

“A shifter,” Vic said, staring at the battered young man. Up close, the poor kid appeared in even worse shape, she thought with a welling of pity. “Oh, sure-like in some Ann Rice novel or something?”

“She does vampires, not shifters, thank you very much,” he said stiffly.

“Oh, yeah. I knew that.” Vic pulled at her wrists. Swane had done a good job on the knots-there was no give there to exploit.

Suddenly, the kid’s words registered-people call us shifters. “Us? Us? Like, there’s more of you?”

“Well, duh.”

“Jesus, take a nice, simple walk and blunder into the Twilight Zone. So what’s with getting you to bite me?”

“Don’t you watch TV? It’s supposed to turn you into a werecat.”

“You aren’t fucking serious-turn me into a werecat?” Vic’s breathing stopped. She turned her fear into a glare at the kid.

“I told them biting wouldn’t work.” His voice carried anger and guilt as he whispered, “I tried and tried to tell them.” His gaze avoided the dead woman. “We’re born as Daonain.”

Her breath eased out. “There’s a relief.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

Vic yanked at her bindings again, hissed as the skin on her wrists tore. “Look, cat-person or whatever, do you think you can untie me without…um-”

A trace of humor appeared in his light green eyes. “Without having you for supper? Not a problem.” He tried to rise and failed, his chest heaving as if he’d just jogged a mile. Looking even paler, if possible, he motioned her to