The Empath

  For my beloved Tia, our loyal friend for 11 years.

  You will always live on in our hearts.

  Special thanks to my friend Julie Sloan and the Rebs; Pamela Clare, Jan Zimlich, Alice Duncan, Alice Gaines, Mimi Riser and especially Norah Wilson, who kept urging me to write this book. And a very special thanks to my wonderful husband Frank, and our vet, Dr. James Grubb, who loves animals as much as we do.

  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.”

  The elderly one lifted his head. Smiled. Gleaming white teeth flashed. Crocodile teeth, sharp, pointed.

  “Jesus,” whispered the fat hunter. “What the hell is that?”

  “Early Halloween party,” his friend joked, his voice cracking. “Or cheap dentures?”

  Nicolas smelled the men’s fear. He knew his enemy smelled it, too. It stank like sour sweat.

  “Enough,” the elderly mage said softly. He signaled.

  They advanced as one unit, like a column of army ants. One by one they shape-shifted, clothing vanishing from their human forms, fur erupting on their bodies. Their magick, dark and powerful, transformed them far easier than Nicolas’s powers.

  Silent as fog, eyes glowing like hot coals, they prowled forward on four legs. One blinked slowly. Night vision registered the eyes turning black as empty pits.

  The eyes, always the eyes, told their true nature, no matter what their form.

  Wolf in him rose up, thirsting for blood, action. Caught between revealing himself to outsiders, and needing wolf to attack, he hesitated. Instinct urged him to run, wait for better odds. Humans had caused this evil. Still, he felt a flickering compassion for the hunters. He scanned the approaching enemy for the weak link.

  The humans’ fear turned to terror. “Holy mother of God,” the taller one screamed. “Wolves!”

  They fired.

  Gunfire crackled. Bullets fell before meeting their target. Jaws agape, the humans stared. Identical masks of fear tightened their faces. The pungent odor of helpless uri
ne filled the air.

  In that instant, the Morphs attacked.

  Now. Daggers materialized in his hands as he sprang forward to engage them. Six Morphs jumped him. Razorsharp teeth sank into his neck; claws swiped his legs and torso. Cloth shredded like thin paper. He grunted and swung out with the knives, stabbing their hearts. They died, screaming. He sliced, stabbed again, wincing as their acid blood splashed over him. Again. No use. Each time he struck one down, another materialized. Cloning themselves.

  A damn animal army.

  Warmth dribbled down his throat. Nicolas ignored the burning pain, struggled with his clothing to shift. The hell with the mortals. They were dead already.

  As he tore off his clothing, they fell on him, shifting once more. Fur erupted on their bodies; claws grew, shifting yet again. He cursed their ability to change into any animal form. Enormous brown bears roared. Four slammed him against the tree trunk. Pinned, his arms and legs useless, Nicolas could not summon his magick.

  “Good God Almighty,” one hunter screamed.

  Struggling in the Morphs’ grip, Nicolas felt blood drain, bones ache.

  The others turned to the human prey. Nicolas struggled harder, wanting to save the hunters’ sorry asses. Knowing it was too late.

  Jaws yawning open, saliva dripping from their yellowed fangs, the pack converged on the hapless men. Screams mingled with the sounds of tearing flesh. Blood splattered on the oaks, dripping viscous black. The hunters were all dead.

  The Morphs shifted into their true shapes. Bent over, skin sagging on bone, more animal than human. Wisps of hair clung to fleshy scalps. Pointed, sharp teeth grinned. Their fetid stench filled the air. They whined, drew in deep breaths.

  Absorbing their victims’ terror and dying breaths, the Morphs fed on their energy. The Morphs holding him back loosened their grip on his arms. Taking advantage of their distraction, he broke free and shifted. Wolf greeted them, eager for the fight, desperate to carve his claws into them. Surprised, his captors drew back. He lashed out with razor-sharp canines, snarling. He downed one, as the others came for him silently.

  There were too many. He had lost too much blood.

  “Stop,” an authoritative voice ordered. “Leave him be.”

  Blood trickled down his flanks, warm in the chilly air. Nicolas ignored the stinging pain and the burning in his side. He steadily regarded the Morphs’ secret weapon. Confident. Arrogant. Jamie presented a greater threat than the Morphs themselves.

  He snarled. Instantly the Morphs closed ranks around Jamie. They’d die protecting the human who’d formed them into an army. The mortal whose blood manufactured disease and death.

  He would not die as wolf. Nicolas shifted back into his human form to address the mortal. Because of Jamie, Damian was dying.

  Naked, vulnerable, he refused to cower. “Jamie,” he uttered. “Your time will come.”

  Low, amused laughter rippled through the air. Jamie pushed past the glowering bodyguards. “You can barely stand. We’ll destroy your leader, Nicolas. We already have, thanks to your help.”

  Nicolas remained silent. Disobeying pack rules, he’d taught Jamie magick and she used it to join the Morphs and increase her powers. From her blood, they’d manufactured a disease that was killing his leader.

  Another Morph shifted back into human form. Greasy brown hair, empty eyes, cruel twist to his mouth. Kane. The leader. Saliva dripped from Kane’s parted lips. Talons grew from his fingernails.

  Nicolas tensed as Kane approached.

  “Nicolas,” the Morph leader drawled. “Join us. You know you want to.”

  “I’ll die first,” he growled.

  “I have powers you’ll never have as a Draicon, Nicolas. Join us and see.” The Morph spread his long, thin arms. “I can take to the air as an eagle, swim the seas as a shark, race through the jungle as a jaguar. Can you do the same?”

  Nicolas steeled his spine. “And you smell like the bottom of a garbage can. No thanks. I’d rather be a corpse. Then again, you are a corpse. No, something less pleasant.” He added colorful verbiage comparing Kane to a natural bodily function.

  But Kane only laughed. “Words can’t hurt me. But you can. Do you dare?”

  Nicolas remained silent, hands clenched into fists.

  “Let’s kill him,” one Morph suggested.

  “No,” Kane countered. “Do not touch him. We need him alive for Margaret, if she is the true empath. He’ll reawaken her powers when he seeks her to mate.”

  Dread clawed at Nicolas’s chest. He had not feared them, even faced with death. He feared now for Maggie. “You’ll never find her. I’ll die fighting before you get your claws on her.”

  Kane flashed an obscene grin. “We already found her, Nicolas. We infected her dog with our new disease. And you can’t stay away. The mating urge is claiming you even now. You can’t fight your nature.”

  A mocking snort came from the Morph leader. Nicolas steeled himself against reaching out to strangle Kane. The Morph leader gave a thin, mocking smile.

  “Leave the bodies. The law will blame the Draicon. Again.” Kane laughed.

  Clever twist. More ammunition to hunt wolves, destroy his dwindling pack. Pain racked him. Slumping against the oak tree familiar with his scent and Damian’s, he watched the Morphs vanish into the forest. They would continue growing in power and strength, continuing their assaults. He couldn’t stop them.

  He needed Maggie. Margaret, the empath prophesied to become the force capable of eliminating the Morph leader. His destined mate, who didn’t realize she was Draicon.

  Dead leaves crunched beneath their feet. He waited until their stench no longer fouled his nostrils. On the wind, silent laughter followed his noiseless crawling out of the glen.

  ———

  An hour later, his wounds healed, Nicolas hid beneath the recesses of an overhanging rock. He rested, staring at his beloved moon, listening to wind rustle the branches and stir the dead leaves. Hunger scraped his insides. Power he’d lost needed replenishing either by ingesting food, or sharing his body with a woman and absorbing the rich energy emitted during sex.

  He needed to hunt. Too weak to change, he ignored the growling of his empty stomach. Must think of other matters. Focus. Softly, he began singing, in desperate hope of easing the agonizing hunger. It didn’t work. He switched his thoughts to Maggie.

  Sweet, lovely Maggie. His draicara, his destined mate. Naked in the shower when he’d sunk into her mind yesterday.

  A wave of desire rocked him as he remembered. Slender figure, full, rounded breasts and that mouth…ah, made for kissing. Nicolas felt his body tighten, thinking of the delicious things her mouth could do. Those legs, slightly padded with muscle, curved, silky smooth. He’d felt the brisk, impersonal glide of her hand as she’d soaped one thigh, bubbles frothing and popping. In her indifferent eyes he’d seen the thatch of dark red curls hiding her cleft, and he’d gone wild.

  Nicolas had howled with lust, driven by the fierce need to claim her. Running his hands over her silky flesh, cupping her breasts, watching the nipples harden and peak. Gently parting her female flesh, testing her readiness, feeling that wetness as he slid a finger into her tight sheath. Then spreading those silky thighs wide open, mounting her, her yielding body pressed beneath his hard one, sinking into her wet, waiting flesh…

  Hunger abated, replaced by lust as he focused on Margaret. Seeping into her mind like water percolating into the ground.

  New agony assailed him. He raised his nose. Wolf inside him silently whined. Lust vanished. Thousands of miles away, he felt her stabbing pain as if it sank into his own chest.

  She was crying over the dog again.

  Last week, after years of searching, he’d found Maggie by pure accident. He’d been baling hay on his ranch when a wave of grief suddenly slammed into him, sharp as the pitchfork tines. Nicolas had sunk to his knees and moaned.

  When he recovered from the initial shock, he’d sorted out the thoughts invading his
mind. And realized he’d found his mate. Under extreme duress, a female draicara sometimes subconsciously projected emotions onto her intended mate, as if to summon him to her side at last. When he’d explored the mental trail she’d sent out, he realized who it was.

  Margaret, the pack’s missing empath.

  Nicolas drew in a deep breath, struggling to maintain his identity even as he now sank fully into hers. Absorbing her, sinking into every cell. Her breath as his. Her heart thudding rapidly, increasing his heart rate.

  Her emotions his own.

  Sweat erupted on his brow. His inner wolf whimpered, anxious to calm the spreading agony, human emotions twining with raw animal pain. So alone, as if all the world were oblivious.

  He didn’t like feeling like this—open, vulnerable and exposed. Nicolas reminded himself it was Maggie, not him. Unlike his draicara, he could guard his emotions.

  She perched over the sink, clasping it with whitened knuckles. Tension strained the heart-shaped face reflected in the wavy mirror. Her full, pouty mouth thinned with pain. Nicolas felt as if poison had seeped into his very bones.

  Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Trying to hold them back—oh, she tried—so as not to upset the animal she carefully tended. But the grief, it washed over her in cresting waves. She hung her head over the sink and sobbed.

  Nicolas struggled to hold back his own tears.

  Finally she splashed cold water on her face, and dried it. Forced a wobbly smile on her face, and went out to tend to her patient. The little brown dog lifted her head.

  Across the white tile floor of Maggie’s kitchen, a small brown cockroach scurried, then went still. He tensed, for the roach might be a Morph in disguise come to kill her. But it did not show any signs of shifting. After a minute he relaxed. Just an ordinary insect.

  Nicolas felt Maggie’s natural disgust. He figured she’d scream, slam down the broom. Instead, he felt her stride over to the loathsome insect. She fumbled for a jar on the counter, trapped it, turned the jar over. Just as quickly, she released the roach outside. Through Maggie’s eyes, Nicolas watched it crawl over the white beach sands.