The Empath (1 of 3 free samples)

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COPYRIGHT
The Empath by Bonnie Vanak. Copyright 2007 by Bonnie Vanak.
All Rights Reserved. Sharing not permitted.

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THE EMPATH

Bonnie Vanak


DEDICATION
http://dailylit.com/books/empath/dedication


CHAPTER 1

Death with fangs and long talons stalked him.

The enemy hunted him. Nicolas, the powerful warrior. The pack's best fighter. The ostracized.

Nicolas Keenan lifted his muzzle, sniffed the wind. Caught his pack leader's scent marking a nearby oak tree. His wolf form stiffened with longing. Pack. Home. Family.

But he no longer had a family. Even though he continued to quietly patrol their territory, protecting his people, and even though his loyalty would never die, he'd been banished from the pack.

He was Draicon, werewolves who once used their magick to learn of the earth and its wonders. Now, hunted by the more powerful Morphs, they used their powers in a desperate attempt to survive.

Morphs. The very word made his hackles rise. They had been Draicon like him. Draicon who willingly embraced evil, entering the ranks of the Morphs by killing one of their own. Nicolas had spent nearly his whole life destroying Morphs. When some in his pack turned, he'd been forced to kill them as well.

He would always be Draicon, Nicolas silently promised, remembering the tiny mark on his neck. He would never surrender to the Morphs' alluring power.

He felt a cooling breeze stir, rustling the leaves and chilling the air. In this part of northern New Mexico, fall draped the trees in vivid colors. Thirty minutes ago, after he'd left his ranch to take a walk in the woods, he'd sensed danger. The familiar warrior instinct surfaced. He'd shifted to lure the enemy away from the pack's homes and hearths.

New scents filled his nostrils. He went absolutely still, smelling evil.

Nicolas caught a faint whiff of rotting seaweed mixed with raw sewage. Enemy. Danger.

Ah, Maggie, what am I dragging you into? What if they find you as well?

He reached out, silently slipped into her thoughts. Mitosis. Carcinogenic cells. She was studying a sample under the microscope. He slipped out, not wanting to jar her concentration. Margaret Sinclair, the pack's long-lost empath. The Draicon foretold to destroy the Morph leader, she was the pack's last hope and Nicolas's destined mate. She was safe. For now.

In the branches of a sprawling oak, a brown deer sat cloaked from view. A shaft of moonlight dappled dying oak and maple leaves with silver. Dead undergrowth soaked in the evening dew. In the distance, a doe crashed through brush. His ears pricked forward.

They were coming. Once solitary, the enemy had combined their numbers. Nicolas didn't dare shift. Not now. His change left trace elements of magick, clear as muddied paw prints to his enemies.

Standing still, he inhaled the air. The scent grew fainter. A new smell filled his senses. Body odor. Fake deer scent. Stale beer. Humans. Loud, obnoxious voices crashed through the woods.

"There! Did you see that wolf? Let's get him!"

The humans who had spotted him earlier had taken chase. Out to bag anything tonight. Such as Wolf de la Nicolas.

No choice now. Had to risk it. Nicolas shifted, muscles bulging, stretching, bones lengthening. Fur melted away. Wolfskin vanished, replaced by bronzed human flesh.

Naked man meets eager hunters with loaded rifles. Not good. Summoning clothing by magick would show his presence to the enemy like a lighthouse beacon. He didn't have to use his power this time. Instead, he dove for the rotting tree trunk and the clothing stockpiled beneath the sprawling roots. Damian had laid similar caches all over pack territory for emergencies like this. He dressed, grabbed the whiskey bottle, gave a liberal splash over his bright orange clothing.

Nicolas sank down against the tree and waited. He chuckled, glancing at the half-filled amber bottle. "I never drink anything less than twelve-year-old scotch, Damian, you cheapskate."

Shouting victoriously, the hunters crashed through the woods like clumsy oxen. He smelled cruelty heaving with every excited breath.

They entered the clearing. Pale silver light from the full moon struck their camouflage outfits. Nicolas hiccupped loudly. He raised the bottle in a drunken salute.

"Here's to my shooting a twelve-point rack today!"

Disbelief flashed over their faces. The men shifted their rifles, narrowed their gazes. "Get lost," the shorter one in plaid asserted. "We paid good money to hunt on this land."

Ignoring them, Nicolas pretended to belt a few swallows.

The fat one snorted, shifted his rifle. His potbelly sagged over olive trousers like jowls. "Listen mister, you're trespassing. Get out, before we toss you out. We're on the tail of a lone wolf."

Grinning at them, he dropped the whiskey and made to leave. And then the scent slammed into him like a locomotive.

They were coming straight in his direction.

He went absolutely still. Hair rose along the back of his neck. He flexed his muscles and stood. "Leave," he growled. "They're coming."

But the hunters simply gawked. "What the hell is wrong with your voice?" one demanded.

"Run," Nicolas warned.

Too late. They entered the tiny glen, not bothering to cloak their numbers. Shuffling forward, they advanced, disguised as human beings. The enemy resembled young women, sullen teenagers, elderly people and businessmen in suits. But for their scent, they looked perfectly normal. The scent of rotting seaweed and raw sewage slammed into him. Damn. Hordes of them. Too many to fight alone. His mind strategized. Surprise remained his best defense. Magick would give him away. Silently he cursed, wishing for his daggers.

If he remained blended with the hunters, perhaps the enemy would not see him.

The human hunters turned, saw them. One tipped back his cap, scratched his forehead. "What the hell is this, a party?"

He pointed to a stooped gray-haired man wearing round glasses, leaning on a wood cane. "You lost, Gramps? Nursing home is that way. It's way past your bedtime."

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