Chapter 42

Krixtyle gave a cursory glance at the deployment of the Shifter forces, noting the ambush positions. He steered a mite to the east of them and gave a look to the sliver of moon hung in the clear sky.

“Just you, me, and God tonight,” he said to Alune. “And the ghouls of course.”

He shifted into war-form. The muscled bulk of his upper body weighed him into a sort of stooping posture. His legs bent and unbent, his feet shrank and widened into paws. Krixtyle gave a roar and began to lope.

Faster and faster he went across a yard, ignoring a frightened scream behind him. He bobbed as he went, until he had the speed to use his arms. He sprinted on all fours, down a hill and into a group of ghouls who were pounding at the steel doors of a small, bevel-glass-windowed building.

Their flesh was clammy and foul, the ichor worse. His claws moved effortlessly through them and he broke bones with ease; and they were dead for a time.