barely heard her as he got to his feet. He struggled with himself, with a weird, tingling burn starting in his feet and trying to more upward to cook his legs.
What the hell was happening?
It didn’t feel right, and he wanted it to stop.
The snarling in his head got louder. Way too loud.
John sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly, imagining he was back in the desert on a throat-parching hike.
Ignore the heat. Keep the pulse low. Muscles easy. Mind clear. That’s it. Focus. Drive it back down .
He shook his arms like he was loosening up for a run. Drive it back down .…
John eyed the multitude of Bengal fighters standing at an approximation of parade rest. He had spent so many years keeping secrets, it sucked having anyone see him nearly lose control, much less a bunch of demons. Half demons. Whatever.
Yeah. That’s it .
The burn in his feet slowed, then slowly faded. The snarls got quieter, too.
Down … down …
Elana raised her small hands and made some gestures, and the chamber and feeder tunnels began to empty. The two big bubbas beside her took off with everybody else, but the six fighters who had brought John to the tunnel stayed near their leader, standing three on either side of John, positioned to cut him off if he made a sudden move for Elana. These had to be her personal guards, and John was betting only the best of the best got that honor. That was why she’d chosen them to go after Strada, even if it put her at some personal risk, unprotected while they were away.
When she turned her attention to John again, she studied him, this time with sympathy and maybe some compassion. “The transition is disorienting, I know. Growing accustomed to holding the supernatural in your own essence and learning to control it, it’s very difficult.”
John stared at her, caught between rattled and pissed. “What just happened? Did you do something to me?”
Elana shook her head. “You experienced a deep emotional shock, and you almost shifted to tiger form. That’s how most Rakshasa learn to shift in their early days.”
“Tiger form.” John’s own voice fell into the stone chamber and seemed to land flat, echoing in his mind. He knew he had Strada’s strength and senses, but he hadn’t given a thought to having the demon’s shape-shifting abilities.
Not possible.
Not good.
No. Uh-uh. This was just a body with some extras. He wouldn’t be letting his bones and sinews stretch, his skin grow ugly white Strada fur—not happening.
“I can—I almost—” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Am I a Bengal now, like you?”
Elana shook her head again, this time more slowly. “You’re a man in a demon’s body. There is no word for you.”
John’s pulse surged in his ears, the volume of the snarls in his mind cranked up, and his muscles went tight all over again. His feet tingled for a second, but he stuffed down the sensation.
No word for me .
Well, he knew a word.
He had learned it what felt like a million years ago, in tiny Southern churches dotting the Georgia countryside.
Abomination .
Elana’s personal guards looked like they were thinking the same thing. Their very human but large hands twitched against sword hilts, like they truly wanted to use the blades to rid the world of John and the compressed, barely restrained essence of Strada that John was still hauling around in his head.
Abomination.
Shape-shifter.
Tiger-demon.
No fucking way .
Elana’s unblinking gaze held no judgment. “I think you’re more Bengal than anything else, John Cole. You have control of Strada’s spirit, but I think it’s wise that you don’t allow yourself to delve too deeply into his more powerful skills. I also suggest you do not shift to tiger form, even if you gain understanding of how to make the transition on purpose. Strada could overtake you.”
“Won’t be happening.” John made himself breathe carefully, slowly and evenly, holding on to every inch of his awareness. The
What the hell was happening?
It didn’t feel right, and he wanted it to stop.
The snarling in his head got louder. Way too loud.
John sucked in a breath, then let it out slowly, imagining he was back in the desert on a throat-parching hike.
Ignore the heat. Keep the pulse low. Muscles easy. Mind clear. That’s it. Focus. Drive it back down .
He shook his arms like he was loosening up for a run. Drive it back down .…
John eyed the multitude of Bengal fighters standing at an approximation of parade rest. He had spent so many years keeping secrets, it sucked having anyone see him nearly lose control, much less a bunch of demons. Half demons. Whatever.
Yeah. That’s it .
The burn in his feet slowed, then slowly faded. The snarls got quieter, too.
Down … down …
Elana raised her small hands and made some gestures, and the chamber and feeder tunnels began to empty. The two big bubbas beside her took off with everybody else, but the six fighters who had brought John to the tunnel stayed near their leader, standing three on either side of John, positioned to cut him off if he made a sudden move for Elana. These had to be her personal guards, and John was betting only the best of the best got that honor. That was why she’d chosen them to go after Strada, even if it put her at some personal risk, unprotected while they were away.
When she turned her attention to John again, she studied him, this time with sympathy and maybe some compassion. “The transition is disorienting, I know. Growing accustomed to holding the supernatural in your own essence and learning to control it, it’s very difficult.”
John stared at her, caught between rattled and pissed. “What just happened? Did you do something to me?”
Elana shook her head. “You experienced a deep emotional shock, and you almost shifted to tiger form. That’s how most Rakshasa learn to shift in their early days.”
“Tiger form.” John’s own voice fell into the stone chamber and seemed to land flat, echoing in his mind. He knew he had Strada’s strength and senses, but he hadn’t given a thought to having the demon’s shape-shifting abilities.
Not possible.
Not good.
No. Uh-uh. This was just a body with some extras. He wouldn’t be letting his bones and sinews stretch, his skin grow ugly white Strada fur—not happening.
“I can—I almost—” John rubbed the back of his neck. “Am I a Bengal now, like you?”
Elana shook her head again, this time more slowly. “You’re a man in a demon’s body. There is no word for you.”
John’s pulse surged in his ears, the volume of the snarls in his mind cranked up, and his muscles went tight all over again. His feet tingled for a second, but he stuffed down the sensation.
No word for me .
Well, he knew a word.
He had learned it what felt like a million years ago, in tiny Southern churches dotting the Georgia countryside.
Abomination .
Elana’s personal guards looked like they were thinking the same thing. Their very human but large hands twitched against sword hilts, like they truly wanted to use the blades to rid the world of John and the compressed, barely restrained essence of Strada that John was still hauling around in his head.
Abomination.
Shape-shifter.
Tiger-demon.
No fucking way .
Elana’s unblinking gaze held no judgment. “I think you’re more Bengal than anything else, John Cole. You have control of Strada’s spirit, but I think it’s wise that you don’t allow yourself to delve too deeply into his more powerful skills. I also suggest you do not shift to tiger form, even if you gain understanding of how to make the transition on purpose. Strada could overtake you.”
“Won’t be happening.” John made himself breathe carefully, slowly and evenly, holding on to every inch of his awareness. The
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