Rapture's Edge

with long, sharp white fangs tearing viciously into vulnerable human necks.

Into arms. Into legs. All of which split apart in lurid bursts of meat and juice like overripe fruit, squeezed hard.

Half a dozen black panthers had attacked the crowd at the Vatican during the pope’s morning address, and another had attacked the pope himself.

Right there on camera. For all the world to see.

He had Eliana’s hand in his; he gripped it so hard she said, “Ow, Gregor!” and tried to pull away. But it was as if his muscles had hardened to stone—he simply could not let go.

She turned her head and followed his gaze. There was a beat before she recognized what she was seeing, and then, with a sound of strangled horror, Eliana leapt from the bed, tore her hand from his, and covered her open mouth.

Gregor’s eyes followed hers and, in following, stuck. The expression on her face was indescribable—fear mixed with panic mixed with despair and revulsion—her features screwed into a grimace of such pure, animal horror she was almost unrecognizable.

“No. No. No, no, no, no, no. Please, please no!”

She whispered it over and over in low, choked shock, her face white, hands trembling violently, still covering her mouth. The whites of her eyes showed all around her black irises. Then Eliana reacted as if an invisible fist had swung hard and connected with her stomach. All the breath left her body in a startling, harsh whoosh, and she collapsed into the chair beside the bed like a discarded ragdoll. A sob that sounded like she was dying slipped from her lips.

He looked back at the television. The image had changed to one of a handsome, dark-haired man, black- eyed and confident, smiling the most chilling smile Gregor had ever seen. He was odd and otherworldly in the same way as Eliana, and the fervor that burned in his eyes made Agent Doe look like a Girl Scout.

The news announcer said, “The news media has received this prerecorded video from the unknown terrorist group claiming responsibility for the attack,” and the handsome man began—cheerfully, with veneration and pomp, as if delivering the commencement to a graduating class—to speak.

“Merry Christmas, humans, and allow me to introduce myself. I’m your new God…”

All the world fell away, and instant, encompassing agony arose to take its place.

Eliana felt as if her skin had been peeled off with one sharp, violent tug and she was standing there raw and exposed, muscle and tendon and bone. Pain seared bright and blistering through her as if she were one giant nerve, scraped raw.

The knowledge of what had been done and what would surely follow was instantaneous.

Her people: hunted.

Her colony: killed.

Her dreams: dead.

In one fell stroke, Caesar had sealed all their fates. There would never be recompense for this. There would never be forgiveness. There would be war everlasting.

There would be extinction.

The magnitude of it was breath-stealingly astonishing.

A sound drew her attention away from the television, where Caesar was still speaking. It was Gregor, cursing, his face ashen, his gaze on the opposite side of the room, where a hand had appeared, curled around the fabric curtain. The curtain was whisked briskly aside.

“Oh dear.” Agent Doe looked between the two of them. His one blue eye burned. “Am I interrupting?”

He stepped forward with a leer, two armed officers behind him, and every ugly, dark, wounded thing inside Eliana exploded to hideous life.

36 Good-Bye

Shifting is an elemental thing.

Transforming matter—teeth to fangs, face to muzzle, legs to haunches—is a primal process that is acutely, fleetingly painful. It is real in a physical sense, but it is also a form of magic. And like all magic, it creates energy.

Energy that can be felt.

The moment the assassin Keshav felt the girl Shift to panther, he was leaning against the wall beside a vending machine in the hospital hallway, holding a cup of coffee to his lips. He and two of his team had stayed at the hospital, lurking in the background, prowling the halls, and the other two had staked out Gregor’s building. The assumption/hope that she would return to see her injured friend was all they had to go on because she’d disappeared completely once again.

He was just about to take a sip of his coffee when the first shockwave hit him. He crushed the Styrofoam cup in his hand, spraying hot coffee all over his face and chest.

A pulse of heat. A vibration. A release, like a spring coiled tight and then loosed, or a door blown open in a sudden wind. It was both shocking and exhilarating—she was so powerful it sent a surge of electricity crackling over his skin.

He looked up at the ceiling—sixth floor, northwest corner—and then bolted toward the elevators in a flat-out run.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”

Gregor screamed it, upright and red-faced in bed, his hands held stiffly out toward the two officers who had drawn their guns and were pointing them at the surreal scene in front of him.

Agent Doe, flat against the wall, arms up, face contorted in a grimace of terror. The enormous black animal who had him pinned with heavy paws on his chest had its ears flattened, snout peeled back over glistening sharp fangs, and was snarling down at him.

And it was definitely down. On her hind legs, in panther form, Eliana towered above him like Goliath to a one-eyed, whimpering David.

The officers were shouting something, too, screaming in French for her to stand down while Gregor was screaming in English and French and every other language he knew for them to hold their fire.

With the screaming and the television and the vicious snarl of the panther, no one heard the door open until it was too late.

Whump. Whump. Both officers jerked, then silently crumpled to the floor. A man in a tailored black suit stepped forward over their bodies, holding a sleek black gun in front of him, fitted with a long, cylindrical silencer.

“Shift back or die,” he said very quietly to the snarling panther. “Choose. Now.”

The panther hissed savagely, digging its claws into Doe’s white shirt. Eight pinpoints of blood appeared, flowering out from where the tips of razor-sharp claws pressed through fabric into skin, and Doe let out a pitiful, choked sob.

Gregor whispered, “Eliana.”

The man with the gun put his finger on the trigger.

Then the panther shimmered, losing shape, and turned to mist. Floating and ethereal, ruffling in a pale gray plume in the air, the cloud of Vapor hung there a moment too long for the man with the gun.

His face never losing its cold concentration, the tone of his voice still so quiet and controlled, he pointed the weapon at Gregor and said, “Choose again.”

Gregor’s heart screeched to a stop.

This time there was no hesitation. The cloud of Vapor coalesced, contracting on itself, gathering and thickening until it took shape as the form of Eliana, completely nude. Voice throbbing, she said, “Don’t hurt him,” and stepped around the bed, her hands held up in surrender. “Please. I’ll do whatever you want. Just don’t hurt