Kent jogged toward us as Dean shoved me through my own doorway. I went down on my knees, but was up in an instant and spun to face him again, frozen with the gun still aimed at my chest.

My stomach churned, and bile rose into my throat. “You’re sick.” I backed away from him, desperate for a chance to draw my knife. But I couldn’t do that until he either turned around or got really close.

“Colin.” Kent Pierce stepped into the doorway, looking almost as sick as I felt. “Don’t do this.”

Dean shrugged, without ever taking his attention or his aim from me. “She brought this on herself, and no one’s going to care if I break her in.”

“I care,” Kent said. That made two of us. Kent glanced from me to Dean, and I held my breath, waiting for Dean to succumb to the distraction. “I’m ordering you to…not do this.”

Oh, yeah. Malone picked a real badass to run his puppet regime…. But I’d take what I could get.

“I don’t work for you,” Dean said, and I nearly screamed in frustration when he stalked slowly toward me, evidently unbothered by the fly in his ointment.

“Fine. We’ll see what Cal has to say about it.”

And finally Dean froze. His forehead furrowed, and his empty hand clenched into a fist. “Cal’s gonna say this!” Dean whirled in a scary-fast roundhouse. His foot hit Kent’s head. I shoved my hand into my pocket and pulled out the folding knife. Kent flew back and smacked his skull on my door frame. I pressed the button and the blade popped out of the handle. Kent went down like a sandbag, out for the count.

Damn.

I lunged for Dean as he turned. He swung the gun up. I sliced his right biceps with the knife. He yelled and slapped his free hand over the wound.

I kicked, high and fast, and the gun flew from his hand. I let go of the knife, dropped to my knees, and lunged for the pistol with my one human hand. Dean stepped on my Shifted paw and kicked the gun under my bed, putting his full weight on my arm. I screamed and jerked my paw free. He kicked me in the stomach, cutting off my air for several precious seconds.

Before I could suck in my next breath, he was on me, crushing me. He pinned my Shifted arm to the floor and ripped my shirt half-open. My human fist slammed into his ribs. His smashed into my cheek. Pain exploded in my face. I thrashed, trying to throw him off, but he was too heavy. I couldn’t move my legs.

Dean ripped the rest of my shirt. I stretched for the knife I’d dropped, trying to scoot sideways while the room swam around me. I made it several inches before he reached for the waistband of my jeans.

“No!” I threw another punch at his face. Blood dripped from his split lip. My pulse whooshed in my ears and I clawed at his fingers with my human hand, trying to free my Shifted paw. His blood ran, slick beneath my nails. I grabbed his thumb and pulled. The digit snapped backward.

Dean howled, and let go of my paw to cradle his injured hand. I sucked in air, and the room surged back into focus, colors so crisp they were almost painful. Dean punched me with his good hand. I raked my cat paw across his stomach, ripping through cotton and flesh at the same time, silently dedicating the blow to my father.

Dean screeched and clutched his stomach. Blood soaked us both, hot and sticky. I slashed him again. He shrieked and fell off me. I rolled onto my knees and shoved my paw into the gore his stomach had become, tearing loose great chunks of soft tissue.

Dean screamed beneath me. His eyes glazed with pain, and still I tore at him, rupturing soft bits I couldn’t identify. There was nothing else in that moment. No war. No pain. No loss. There was only Dean, and blinding rage, and the blessed numbness that came with the bloodlust I’d succumbed to. The room was made of his blood, and I was made to spill it.

“Faythe?”

Snarling, I whirled at the sound of my name. Kent stood in the doorway, clutching the frame for support. I leaped up, hissing. He blinked. Then he was gone. His footsteps thundered as he screamed down the hallway.

I turned back to Dean and surveyed the damage with an odd detachment, part survival instinct, part bloodlust afterglow. His torso was shredded. The carpet was soaked in his blood. It squished beneath my shoes. A loop of his intestines stretched across the floor, where I’d thrown it.

I backed away slowly, and bloody footprints followed me, pressed into clean carpet by my own boots. Dean would never touch me again. He’d never fire another gun.

One down, one to go…

I turned toward the door and caught my reflection in the mirror above my dresser. My face was splattered with blood, my hair tangled with it. My bra and torn shirt were soaked, my bare skin slick and red with it. Bits of gore clung to my jeans.

But a horrible, atonal shriek from outside ripped through my encroaching shock, and reality slammed into place, so sharp it could not be denied.

War. My war. My friends and family fighting for their lives.

I wiped my hands on my jeans, then snatched my knife from the floor, closed it, and shoved it into my pocket, then ran into the hall. I slid a bit on the tile, my boot soles still slick with blood. Then I raced for the back door and shoved the screen open.

Thirty-four

For a second, I could only stare. I’d stepped out of my childhood home and into hell.

All around me, claws flew and cats howled. Blood splattered, and birds dove screeching from the air. Bodies thunked to the ground, bones crunched, and dark forms soared, snarling toward their targets. The backyard was a cacophony of pain and rage, a stunning mosaic of violence unrivaled in my lifetime. In living memory. In U.S. Pride history…