Blood Trail

and attack the man at the table. His lips curled his teeth and his throat vibrated with an unvoiced growl. The human underestimated him; a wer that didn't want to be heard, wasn't. He could get in, turn, and attack before the human could reach the gun, let alone aim and fire it.

    He moved forward. The scent of oiled steel grew stronger. The dirt floor shifted under his front paw and he froze. Then he saw the traps. Three of them, set in the opening angle of the door, in hollows dug out of the floor then covered with something too light to set them off or hinder their movement when the jaws snapped shut. He couldn't be sure, but it smelled like the moss stuff Aunt Nadine put in the garden.

    He could jump them easily, but the floor beyond had been disturbed as well and he couldn't tell for certain where safe footing began. Nor could he change and spring the traps without becoming a target for the shotgun.

    Nose to the walls, he circled the building. Every possible entry had the same scent.

    Every possible entry but one.

    High on the east wall, almost hidden behind the branches of a young horse-chestnut tree was a small square opening used, back when the barn had held cattle, for passing hay bales into the loft. As a rule, the wer didn't climb trees, but that didn't mean they couldn't and callused fingers and toes found grips that mere human hands and feet might not have been able to use.

    Moving carefully along a dangerously narrow limb, Peter checked out the hole, found no traps, and slipped silently through, congratulating himself on outwitting his enemy.

    The old loft smelled only of stale hay and dust. Crouched low, Peter padded along a huge square cut beam until he could see down into the barn. He was almost directly over the table which contained, besides the lantern, a brown paper package, a notebook, and a heavy canvas apron.

    The man from the jeep checked his watch and stood, head cocked, listening.

    The whole setup was a trap and a trap set specifically for fur-form.

    There could no longer be any question about it, this was the man who was killing his family.
    A man who knew them well enough to judge correctly what form he'd wear tonight.
    Peter grinned and his eyes gleamed in the lantern light. He'd never felt so alive. His entire body thrummed. He had no intention of disappointing the human; he wanted fur-form, he'd get it. Tooth and claw would take him down. Moving to the edge of the beam, he changed and launched himself snarling through the air, landing with all four feet on the back of the human below.

    Together, they crashed to the ground.

    For one brief instant, Mark Williams had been pleased to see the shape that dropped out of the loft. He'd called the creature's reactions correctly right down the line. Except he hadn't thought about the loft or realized exactly what he'd be facing.

    More terrified than he'd ever been in his life, he fought like a man possessed. He'd once seen a German shepherd kill a gopher by grabbing the back of its neck and crushing the spine. That wasn't going to happen to him. He felt claws tear through his thin shirt and into his skin, hot breath on his ear, and managed to twist around and shove one forearm between the beast's open jaws while his other hand groped frantically around on the floor for the fallen gun.

    Storm tossed back his head, releasing the arm, and dove forward for the suddenly exposed throat.

    Mark saw death approaching. Then he saw it pause.

    Shit, man. I can't just rip out some guy's throat! What am I doing? Abruptly, the blood lust was gone.

    With his legs up under the belly of the beast, Mark heaved.

    Completely disoriented, Storm hit the ground with a heavy thud and scrambled to regain his feet. The floor moved under his left rear paw. Steel jaws closed.

    The snap, the yelp of pain and fear combined, brought Mark slowly to his knees. He smiled as he saw the russet wolf struggling against the trap, twisting and snarling in a panicked effort to get free. His smile broadened as the struggles grew weaker and creature finally lay panting on the floor.

    No! Please, no! He couldn't change. Not while his foot remained held in the trap. It hurts. Oh, God, it hurts. He could smell his own blood, his own terror. I can't breathe! It hurts.
    Dimly, Storm knew the trap was the lesser danger. That the human approaching, teeth showing, was far, far more deadly. He whined and his front paws scrabbled against the ground but he couldn't seem to rise.