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 cant 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 wasnt 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.
Hed mate with her, his hard male flesh sinking into her female softness, his warriors aggression sinking into her gentleness. Male and female, exchanging powers, becoming one. Hed 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 Mishas 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 shed felt vanished when shed 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 didnt help. Last night Misha was restless. Maggie stayed up, stroking her whimpering pet. As with other animals shed treated, her touch soothed.
Shed 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 didnt dare show her findings to colleagues. This was too weird. Too Witchy.
I dont believe in witches. I dont. I dont. I dont.
She believed in science, pure and simple. Logic. Nothing else.
Late afternoon sunlight streamed into the improvised lab on the houses 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 gulfs 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 couldnt be insouciant. Whatever was killing Misha could kill other animals, maybe even humans. Maggie suspected she had discovered a new, dreadful disease. She couldnt 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 Mishas 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 of known tumors. The nuclei are indistinguishable. No nestlike appearance as in the fibrovascular stroma.
A clatter sounded as Maggie dropped the instrument onto the scarred tabletop. The tape whirled, silently continuing to record her next words.
Oh my God!
Misha lifted her head, whined at the loud outburst. Maggie stepped back. Rubbed her eyes again. Oh God. It couldnt be surely she was exhausted, seeing things.
Dread surfaced as she forced herself to examine the clump of cells. Bracing her hands on the table, she studied the sample.
Blackened cells that had been separate, like individual drops of ink, bonded together as if pulled by invisible magnets. They surrounded the single drop of healthy blood, corralling it. Then absorbed it, sucking it into their mass. And grew.
They spread, forming a giant singular cell. As her shocked gaze watched, the singular cell divided. And again.
Cloning itself.
Cells taken from Mishas stomach tumor were growing exponentially and forming a new organism. Growing, spreading to the edges of the slide.
It couldnt be. Not happening. Somatic cells, even those mutated by cancer, couldnt do this. Yet here it was, dividing and multiplying and growing to form living tissue.
With a cry of disgust, she grabbed the slide, dropped it into a beaker of alcohol. Maggie stared, watching the now clearly demarcated black mass sink down into the liquid.
A sharp buzz made her cry out in alarm. Get a grip, Mags. Maggie sucked down a trembling breath. She covered the beaker with a towel and pasted on a shaky smile. Her sneakers thumped on the staircase as she headed for the door.
It had better not be Mark. He had agreed to take over the whole caseload while she begged off six weeks leave. But hed phoned, whining about the work piling up.
Mark must never know how ill Misha was or he would insist on taking her pet and quarantining Misha at the office. She had to find answers herself. Misha would not be turned into a living experiment, poked and prodded by fascinated colleagues.
Maggie looked out the doors scope. A blond little girl in a pink shorts set clutched the handle of a small red wagon. The wagon held a steel cage containing a rabbit.
Tammy Whittaker, seven, from next door. Tammys mother was a fussy, carefully groomed woman who insisted on calling Maggie Miss Sinclair instead of Doctor. Vets werent real doctors, she had said, sniffing that she couldnt understand why anyone with a medical inclination would choose to treat filthy animals.
Dropping the curtain, Maggie felt a flutter of alarm. She only wanted to be left alone to muse over this latest frightening find.
The trilling buzz sounded again. With a sigh, she opened the door. Tammy Whittaker looked up at Maggie. Hope flickered in her huge brown eyes. Hi, Dr. Sinclair. This is Herman, my rabbit.
Honey, Im awfully busy.
Tammys face screwed up. Her mouth wobbled precariously. Hermans hurt. Please, Dr. Sinclair, can you fix him? I have ten dollars I saved from my allowance. My mother says she wont waste money on a stupid rabbit.
The little girls woeful expression twisted Maggies heart. She went outside and picked up the cage containing the chocolate-colored rabbit.
Come on, Tammy. Lets see whats wrong with Herman.
Inside the spacious living room, Maggie set down the cage. She removed the large French lop from the cage and set him on the tiled floor. Herman weakly hopped. His back left leg flopped. Broken, probably.
A terrible suspicion crested over Maggie. Tammy, how did this happen?
Her gaze flicked away. I forget to lock the door sometimes. He got out. Mom said he got his leg caught.
Maggie gnawed at her lower lip. Outside of her own dog, she hadnt examined an animal in over two months. Doing so caused odd images to flash through her mind, as if she could envision the source of the animals injury. Feel its past and pain.
Just an overactive imagination. It was only her great desire to heal, causing her to envision the injurys source.
Yet the fledgling ability had grown stronger over the past six months. Maggie had solved the problem by leaving the initial exams to Mark, in exchange for doing the clinics paperwork.
I thought your mother didnt like animals.
Sniffling, Tammy explained her friend Bobby had given her Herman when his family moved away. It was either me or Sally. Sally has a big yard with a fence, but shes got a hamster. Mom didnt want him, but Dad said I could keep him if Herman stayed in the cage. Please, can you make him better? Hes hurting.
Maggie gently stroked the quivering rabbit. Images poured through her mind like movie screen captions: Fear. Pain. Cage door open. Freedom. Good smells. Food nearby. White grass. Urge to void. Tall human. Screams. Pointed shoe. Hurt. Fear. Hide.
Tammys mother had kicked it in a rage for the droppings on her immaculate white wool rug.
Biting back a startled cry, she jerked her hand away. Maggie turned, hiding her reaction from Tammy.
Is Herman going to be okay? Tammy asked.
Hell be fine. I need to get the medicine to fix him.
Maggie pushed a weary hand through her hair as she went upstairs to her office. She headed for a locked white cabinet and combed through it for the necessary supplies.
The odd ability to envision the source of an animals pain hadnt vanished. It was growing stronger.
No. She hadnt felt the animals pain, nor seen what happened. Besides, Iona Whittaker was fastidious, but cruel ? Ridiculous. Herman probably broke his leg
Falling down the stairs, a deep male voice asked.
Maggie gasped, nearly dropping a box of bandages. First hallucinations, now voices? Definitely, too little sleep.
Science, not speculation. Cell mitosis. She formed images of cells, dividing, new life growing. Her mind processed the information at hand. Rabbit, broken foot caused probably by angry woman with a ruined carpet. Yes, Iona Whittaker could be cruel. People were.
Businesslike, she stacked emergency medical supplies on a tray. Splint, bandages, tape, medicine, syringe, needle, medication, prescription pad.
Downstairs, she injected Herman with a mild sedative, asked Tammy questions about school to divert the girls worries. Very gently, she bound the rabbits broken leg. Maggie settled Herman back into his cage. She inhaled the scent of fresh cedar shavings and gave the bunny a reassuring pat.
Such a pretty chocolate color, Maggie murmured.
Tammy brightened. Hermans like an Easter bunny.
Easter bunny. Delicious, biting into a chocolate bunny.
Rabbit. Fresh. Tasty. Raw, bloodied meat. Dinner. Energy.
Shocked, she analyzed her thoughts. Where did that come from? One minute, daydreaming about a sugar rush, the next, salivating over meat.
Ill give you some pills. She scribbled instructions on the pad. Herman. Injured rabbit. Sweet little rabbit.
Prey. Thrill of the kill, snapping bones, sinking fangs into fresh, delicious meat
Maggie shoved aside the hungry thoughts. Giving Tammy instructions on how to administer the medication, she smiled.
Herman has been well cared for. He has good muscle tone, she noted, trying not to think of meat. Good meat, not tough, just right. Laced with tasty fat
Maggie hastily stood, grabbed the cage. Sweat beaded on her brow. Im going insane. First feeling images and pain, then hearing voices, and now, thinking of pet rabbits as dinner?
At the door, Maggie gently pushed aside
Tammys offering of crumbled dollar bills. Instead of paying me, I need a favor. Herman looks a little cramped in his cage. I bet hed love a nice, big yard. Why dont you give him to Sally? You can visit him, and it will make your mother happy. And keep that bitch from hurting him again.
Tammys lips curled up, then she glanced down at Herman. All right, Dr. Sinclair. I guess its only fair to share him.
Yes, it is.
Placing the cage on her little red wagon, Tammy turned. Her brow wrinkled. Are you okay, Dr. Sinclair? You look funny.
I bet. Im fine. Go home, call Sally.
Maggie waved, closed the door then fled upstairs to grab sleep before she imagined anything else.
She fell asleep upstairs on her king-sized bed, dreaming of warm breath against the nape of her neck, hard muscles holding her fast.
White teeth erotically scraping her flesh, followed by a long, slow lick. Wetness pooled between her legs. She stirred. Maggie moaned as two large hands, dark hair dusting the backs, slid over her trembling thighs. Sliding them open. Dark eyes staring at wet female flesh.
You want my tongue. There.
Her vagina clenched, aching. Empty. Needing. Hot. Please.
What do you want?
You. Inside me. Please. Fill me. Forever.
Ill give you everything you want. And more. My Maggie.
She jerked awake with a start, clutching the sheet. Sweat dampened her lace panties, the ribbed lilac sleep shirt. He had been inside her, again. Her dream lover.