Page 12 of Changelings
Before him sat an idyllic scene, a golden-green meadow with a babbling brook bordering one side, late-season wildflowers following the dappled sunlight, a verdant garden set in neat furrows, and an animal pen fenced with boards and boulders, with a top angled steeply outwards to keep out what wanted toget in.
In the center of it all was a charming cottage. Of the sturdy wattle and daub construction many humans preferred, the white-washed walls and timber beams had been bleached by the sun. The thatched roof must have been replaced that spring, as it still smelled fresh.
It was a pleasant little place—and best of all, it smelled of her. And goats. And he could just spy the long ears of a donkey peeking between the fence posts.
Excellent. Nodding in gratitude to the goddess and all his ancestors for leading him here, Balar made quick work of making himself presentable. Thankfully he’d had the foresight to bathe last night and change clothes—otherwise, his second impression might not have been any better than the first.
Fluffing his wings and mane, he ensured no stray leaves or twigs had gotten caught. With a few pats of his big paws, he knocked off any dirt or dust he’d accrued that morning.
That done, he set about leaving his scent on nearby trees, both so he could find his way back and to warn off any other males. The shredded bark felt good beneath his claws as he scored tree after tree, the scent glands in his hands releasing a musk that would soak into the wood.Would a weak human nose be able to scent it?he wondered.
When all the trees on the southern edge of the meadow bore his mark and scent, Balar was a bit more content. Seeing his mark, his claim, eased some of the damned frustration that’d been tying him in knots.
Maybe later, he could work out a bit more of that frustration and mark her borders with his spend. It was an archaic mantii custom, but Balar’s patience and civility had worn thin these past days looking for her.
Shaking out his hands, and his mane one last time, Balar straightened the collar of his tunic and stepped out from behindthe mulberry into the meadow.
He stopped before crossing the stream—kud, should he have brought flowers? Jewelry? A choice cut of meat?
Balar stared at the wildflowers, nerves mounting. No, no, she deserved better than little daisies he found in her own yard. His paws itched and flexed nervously as his thoughts ran.
Maybe he could—
A noise had his ears swiveling to the west, and Balar watched in shock as a human man emerged from around the back of the house.
It was an older male, the hair at his temples grizzled, and his face leathery with too much sun and hard work. His gaze shifted beadily over the animal pen and then to the tools laid neatly against the side of the house. Sticking to the shadows, he quietly began to rifle through the various bits leaned against the wall.
A vicious growl shook Balar’s throat.Utun. Gabal. Another male, here on her land? Unacceptable.
Feeling his eyes dilate, Balar dropped into a stalking crouch and began to make his way silently around the outskirts of the meadow. Histurukwanted out, pawing at his chest, but instead his mane and hackles rose, making him appear bigger.
As he rounded the pen, the animals stirred, sensing a predator nearby.
The man stilled, listening.
Balar remained hidden in the brush, perfectly still. His focus and gaze narrowed to a single point—the beating pulse at the side of the man’s neck. He could almost hear the blood coursing through the veins, how the heart beat a little faster than normal. Even if he didn’t know it, couldn’t hear it, the human sensed he was being watched.
When the man looked up, to his left, where he would’ve spotted Balar by the mulberry moments ago, Balar pounced.
In two swift bounds, his wings pumping and lifting, he wasupon the intruder.
He closed his fangs around the man’s throat as he brought him to the ground.
Yes,hissed theturukinside him,feast on gabal blood.
The shift rippled across his skin, but he fought for control. He could handle a measly human.
They landed in the dappled sunlight of the meadow. The man wriggled, gurgling screams escaping his caught throat. Hands swiped and punched at Balar’s shoulders and muzzle, but he didn’t relent.
Regaining his feet, he stood with the man dangling.
In the scuffle, he hadn’t quite registered the sound of a dog barking, but it only grew louder when the front door of the cottage flew open. A black blur burst from the cottage in a flurry of barks, and hiskigarawas quick to follow.
Imogen ran from her cottage into the daylight—and right into Balar’s heart.
Sig-zinim, Kiri had been right. She waskurun-inanda,marked by the goddess.
The bright red mark across the left side of her face was stark and lovely against her otherwise tanned skin. The dark hair that fell around her face framed it dramatically, her brown eyes looking overbright in the goddess’s color.
