memories. She thinks she’s mortal, not Draicon. Convincing her will be difficult.”
“You know your duty, Nicolas. You must mate with her soon and bring her home. Before the Morphs destroy her.”
Damian stood, leaning his six-foot-tall body against a tree. Beneath the casual air lurked coiled tension, power. Ready to spring into action, if necessary. Their leader never released his guard. Or trusted easily, outside of his pack.
“I know. I know the risks.” To him and to Maggie. “But if it means saving you …”
“Forget me.” Damian made a slashing gesture. “It’s too late. But if she can heal our people when the Morphs infect them, that’s all that matters.”
“I’ll get her here in time,” Nicolas said fiercely. “Don’t doubt it. Trust me.”
Emotion flared in Damian’s eyes. “It’s not good for you to face this alone. You need our people.”
Nicolas lifted his head, regarding him calmly. “You know that’s impossible. They blame me for what happened to Jamie. As they should. When I get Maggie, then I’ll return. Until then …”
The casual lift of his shoulders hid his pain. For the good of the pack, Damian had banished him. Maggie was his way back to acceptance, back to the warmth and comfort of his family.
Maggie was much more. Maggie was the weapon destined to vanquish Kane. Her healing touch could cure the dying Damian.
“Do it,” Damian said softly. “Make her yours.” He watched Nicolas stand, and went to embrace him in the usual brotherly fashion, then pulled back.
“I can’t touch you,” he said thickly.
“I know,” Nicolas agreed. His scent would mark Damian, whose word was law, but the pack would question. Whisper. Worry.
“May the moon spirit guide and protect you on your journey,” his leader said in the formal blessing. “Stay safe, stay strong.”
A thick lump rose in his throat. “Up yours,” Nicolas said cheerfully, hiding his emotions.
Damian flashed another half grin. More pain knifed through Nicolas as he watched his friend slip into the woods, heading back home.
Home for him no longer.
He drew in another breath, began softly singing to himself and trotted in the opposite direction. Maggie, Maggie. He needed to get to Florida.
Every day the danger of Maggie being exposed intensified. Visits to her veterinarian clinic resulted in calmer animals. Maggie had a special healing ability, like a horse whisperer. Only it wasn’t her voice.
But her hands, her soothing touch.
Maggie was an empath, born once every 100 years. She was their last hope. She belonged with the pack, her family.
He’d mate with her, his hard male flesh sinking into her female softness, his warrior’s aggression sinking into her gentleness. Male and female, exchanging powers, becoming one. He’d perform his duty, then mold her into the warrior they needed to fight their enemy. And bring her home, even if she fought and kicked and screamed the whole way.
She had no choice.
Just like him.
Chapter 2
Maggie Sinclair forced herself to concentrate as she stared into the microscope for what seemed like the thousandth time.
Still there. The ugly reality met her weary eyes. Blink, and the cells did not change. A physical impossibility, yet, she could not deny it. The cell samples were black, misshapen like oblong ink blotches.
She had no idea what was killing her beloved Misha. All the academic research proved useless.
X-rays had revealed a large mass in Misha’s stomach. Blood samples showed cell mutation similar to cancer. Yet not cancer.
Maggie rubbed her reddened eyes, trying to contain the tears.
Misha had been her true companion for five years. The long bouts of loneliness she’d felt vanished when she’d adopted the dog from a shelter. Misha had been an abused puppy, and came to her snarling and suspicious. Maggie won her trust and now the dog offered unconditional love and trust. Misha curled up on her lap after a tough day at the office, and licked her face. She was more than a pet. She was a friend.
Twenty-four hours without sleep didn’t help. Last night Misha was restless. Maggie stayed up, stroking her whimpering pet. As with other animals she’d treated, her touch soothed.
She’d dozed off, then awakened to the feeling of someone pounding a rail spike into her body. The pain subsided then vanished. Always seemed to happen after a difficult case. Since real sleep proved impossible, Maggie resigned herself to downing a fresh pot of Blue Mountain, and went back to work.
Three weeks without answers. Three weeks of leaving her lucrative practice on the mainland to her partner, Mark Anderson, and holing up in the beach house on Estero Island like a sand hermit.
Three weeks of drawing blood, testing samples, consulting journals, articles, Internet Web sites. Nothing. Not a clue.
She didn’t dare show her findings to colleagues. This was too weird. Too … Witchy.
I don’t believe in witches. I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.
She believed in science, pure and simple. Logic. Nothing else.
Late afternoon sunlight streamed into the improvised lab on the house’s second floor. Papers, charts and notes littered a long white table, along with beakers, syringes, test tubes and slides. On the cool tile floor, Misha slept fitfully.
Maggie stared out the window. Sun-worshippers strolled at the gulf’s edge. Coconut palms ringing her beachfront home rustled in the wind. The burning blue sky promised another balmy afternoon in southwest Florida.
Momentary envy filled her. Mindless of the air-conditioning, she slid open the window to inhale the brine. She longed to be as insouciant as the tourists, nothing more to worry about than ruining their Birkenstocks in the saltwater.
She couldn’t be insouciant. Whatever was killing Misha could kill other animals, maybe even humans. Maggie suspected she had discovered a new, dreadful disease. She couldn’t risk it spreading to others, or turning Misha over to become a lab experiment by others. So she had quarantined her pet in the beach house, determined to find answers for herself.
Enough daydreaming. Back to work.
She removed the slide from the microscope. Maggie took a drop of blood obtained from a healthy shih tzu at her practice. Using a Beral pipette, she added the blood to a fresh slide containing Misha’s infected cells. Maggie covered the slide, placed it under the microscope.
Maggie fumbled for a tape recorder, clicked the record button as she bent over to peer into the microscope again.
“The tumor lies in the submucosa, infiltrating the lamina propria. Cellular morphology not characteristic
