Page 101 of Her Feral Beasts

Xander lands right on the black X marked ‘helipad’ with a jarring thump and I leap off, landing in a crouch. Xander shakes his leathery wings and turns around to face the house, settling himself down to keep watch.

The house is dark with not a single light on inside, giving the place a mysterious air, well suited to its master.

The scent of human, wolf and bird is carried towards me on the wind. Stretching out my neck, I run my hand through my hair to settle it down after the flight, and head inside.

Along with the beastly scents, there is not only fear in the night, but terror. My shark perks up excitedly at that, just as one of my mental demons falls into step beside me.

“Blood,” he hisses, prowling. “Sacrifice.”

Animalia psychiatrists call them hallucinations, but I know better. They are figments of thought, emotion and memory that want to destroy me. But there is something darker in me that will not allow them to.

If you want to beat them, you have to be worse than them.

So as usual, I ignore him and climb up the steps to the main door.

The ten-foot stained glass doors are wide open and I step into the gaping darkness, following my nose into the dining room.

For some, it might be strange to see a supposedly extinct Caspian tiger sitting at the head of a candlelit dining table keeping six men captive, knives floating by their necks as they tremble with adrenaline. Stranger still that there are playing cards hovering before each of them and poker chips in the middle.

A lethal sort of game. My favourite.

The men stare at me as I circle the table and nod at the tiger. Two are human, the rest are a mix of felines and birds. But this is not my territory and I do not care to know them.

“Marduk,” I say in greeting, pulling up the empty chair adjacent to him. “You are well, I see.”

The tiger merely stares at me with obsidian eyes, the harsh shadows created by the candlesticks making his face look spooky. But his aura shines a jaunty yellow and orange. The bastard is having fun.

“T-Tell him to change back!” one of the human men says, his voice shaking. “Why is he doing this?”

I ignore him as he yelps like a pup, the knife against his neck pressing to draw blood. Pouring myself whiskey from the decanter across from me, I raise my brows at Marduk. He gives me a resigned blink and promptly prowls away from the table. The knives never falter, nor do the cards as a human male reappears by my side.

“Bloody is the night, Scythe Kharkorous,” Marduk says. “Wild is the mother ocean.”

“The tide is low, but it still feels good to be here.” I get back onto my feet to face him.

Marduk’s human form makes you feel like you’ve had weights tied to your legs and you’re about to be thrown overboard. There’s a perpetual feeling of certain and precise danger. The type of beast who’ll thank you after he cuts you. It’s what makes him so good at what he does.

He’s much shorter than me, but just as pale; lean but muscled. Where I’ve left my tattoos to start from my neck down, Marduk has numbers and ancient script along the planes of his face, neck and arms. No one except him knows what they mean, and I can only guess that they are ancient Sumerian. He’s pulled on a black silk shirt and slacks, leaving his long black hair loose.

When he speaks, his voice is as dull and dry as dead branches, but it’s also formal, as if he’s come from another time entirely. “You will not have long, I imagine.” His eyes flick in Xander’s direction. “Come along, King of the Great Whites.”

He gestures for me to follow him into the living room, but pauses and drawls over his shoulder, “If any here moves, they will die.”

One of them lets out a whimper.

“One can only trust wild animals,” Marduk says flatly. “Only they are honest.”

“Truer words were never spoken.”

He casts a look back at me and though there is no expression on his face—in ten years, I’ve never seen him smile—I get the impression he is pleased with my words.

Marduk leads me to the living room where a laptop, glass of whiskey and manilla folders are waiting.

He sits on the couch and picks up a folder full of paperwork. “Birth certificate, coronation certificate, death certificate, coroner’s report—it is all in here, Scythe Kharkorous.”

He hands it over, careful not to touch me and picks up his whiskey glass. “There are photos from the funeral.”

I’m silent as I read the documents and commit the details to memory.

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