THE KLEE HAD WAITED for several days for its chance at the gypsy morph, tracking the caravan without ever letting itself be seen, patiently biding its time, occupying itself with taking other victims to sate its need. Because it could shape-shift for short periods of time, taking on the appearance of other creatures, it could lure its victims from the safety of the camp. All of them had believed they were following someone they could trust. All of them had believed they were safe right up until the end.
The taking of the children was just a way to let the morph know it could do as it wished whenever it wished and there was nothing to be done about it. It was a game the Klee enjoyed, playing with its prey before killing it. There was no need to hurry, after all. The end result was always the same.
When the dust storm arrived, the Klee recognized its chance. Taking on the appearance of the morph to lure away the female the morph cared about was not difficult. It had watched the morph interact with her from the darkness beyond the camp and intuited easily enough how the morph felt about her. Luring the female away at the height of the storm, knowing she would follow if she thought the morph wished her to come, required little planning and no special skill.
Looking at the morph now, trapped and helpless, it felt a fierce satisfaction. The game was over. The old man had sent it to kill this creature of magic, and it always did what the old man told him. But there would be other victims, it knew—others to track and kill. The old man would see to it. Hunting this one, though, had been especially difficult. It would be hard to find another that would provide such a challenge. But there would be another, of course. There would always be another.
It was still musing on this when a dark shape hurtled out of the wind and dust, and 180 pounds of muscle and bone slammed into it, teeth slashing.
CHENEY HAD BEGUN TRACKING HAWK in typical fashion, big head lowered, nose to the ground, working his way through the camp and out into the teeth of the storm. Panther, Bear, and Sparrow had been able to follow without much difficulty, the heavy screen of dust and debris notwithstanding. Even outside the camp, the big dog had kept up his slow, steady pace. He was moving so slowly, in fact, that Panther was just beginning to worry that they were going to be too late to do anything to help, when Cheney bolted ahead with a snarl and disappeared into the haze.
Panther shouted in frustration and charged after him, Bear and Sparrow right behind.
The three ran as fast as they could, trying to catch up to the dog, but Cheney was already far ahead. If he changed course, Panther knew, they would lose him completely and probably become lost themselves in the bargain. He spit out a mouthful of grit, and his hands tightened on the flechette.
Shoulda leashed that stump-head animal!
Then, from somewhere distant, Cheney’s growls tore through the howl of the storm and gave them fresh direction. All three quickened their pace, weapons leveled as they closed on the sounds of a ferocious struggle. They broke through the screen so suddenly that they almost ran into the huge creature fighting to throw off Cheney, who had locked his jaws on one huge thigh. Panther caught a glimpse of Hawk standing off to one side, frozen in place, looking lost and helpless, with Tessa pulling at him futilely.
Ain’t like the Bird-Man, Panther thought. What’s wrong with him?
Then he was firing the Parkhan Spray, the bullets ripping into the monster’s huge body. “Shoot it!” he screamed at his companions.
Bear took a moment to respond. He recognized the thing in front of him as the monster that had brushed him aside so easily during their last encounter. He hesitated despite himself, suddenly afraid all over again of what this creature might do. Then, shaking off his fear, he brought up the Tyson Flechette and fired three quick loads, the charges ripping huge pieces off the arms and shoulders and chest of his target. The monster staggered back, clearly wounded. It made no sound at all as it absorbed the hits; it suffered its punishment silently, backing away.
Got you! Panther thought gleefully as he saw the effect their weapons were having. He continued firing, advancing on the beast. Cheney had dropped away, crouching and snarling to one side as the three Ghosts fired round after round into their target, the loads tearing into it. Panther heard Hawk cry out, saying something now, but the words were lost in the blast of the weapons and the scream of the wind.