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His knife flashed across the norm’s neck, severing his windpipe and carotid artery.
    With a shake of his head at the bloody mess, Lucan turned to Fritz. “Can you dispose of the bodies?”
    “No problem.” He gathered both men under one massive arm. “Where do you want them? A couple hundred miles out over the Atlantic?”
    He shook his head. “Take them to the cabin. We’ve got to make it look like we barely survived these two and Earl. We’ve got to be wearing the proof they turned on us. Otherwise, Farley will drain us dry.” He scowled. “Damn, we need bruises. Hope your granite fist is in good shape. We’ll need to appear more dead than alive.”
    “I’ll take care of it. Meet you two later, say at...eight?”
    At his nod, Fritz spread his wings and took to the air.
    “Nice of you to offer me up as a gargoyle punching bag.” Rice wiped his blade on a cloth. With a flick of his fingers, he incinerated the evidence and blood soaking into the pavement.
    “We can always lay into each other instead.” Luc flicked a hair off his shirt. “Think, Rice, what will Farley’s reaction be if we return unblemished?” At Rice’s grimace, he nodded. “Right. Healer or no, we’d be dead within minutes. Sorry, daemon, we’re in a fight to save our lives, including some knife and gunshot wounds that the healer can repair, but leave a scar.”
    “Good to see your death wish doesn’t extend to me.”
    “I’m soul-deep tired of being tired, not suicidal.”
    “Sure you aren’t.” He sheathed his knife, and retrieved the bags of food. “Grab the coffee.”
    Luc’s stomach lurched at the thought of blood followed by food. “Shit, and they think I’m nuts.”
    “Gotta eat, man. No sense letting it go to waste. Sure don’t want any more of that crap you’ve been poisonin—” He chuckled with a raised brow. His eyes finally returned to hazel. “—What? You think I didn’t know? Damn, Druid, it’s been hell modifying this body to look sick.”

CHAPTER 5
     
     
    The pain, terror, and anguish within the small room lashed and suffocated Allana as if the walls were closing in on her. Mrs. Burts sat next to her, rocking in a near catatonic state, and for good reason. Her husband had beaten the toddler to near death.
    Allana’s hand rested on the child’s forehead as her gaze slid to Mr. Burts, who stared out the window, his arms crossed with a semi-automatic rifle resting on his forearm.
    She inhaled and shuddered. The cabin reeked of his corruption, permeating every atom and molecule of this room. Its strong and acrid vapor burned her exposed skin and seared her eyes and the hairs deep in her nostrils.
    Goddess above, sometimes she cursed her ability. Healing took energy, always best delivered when surrounded by love. Fear was okay. She could work around it because when a loved one was sick, one felt fear and panic. The press of Mr. Burt’s depravity on her body and its unrelenting stench made it difficult, if not almost impossible, for her to save this child.
    Slanting him another glance, she exhaled, trying to halt the biting odor of sulfur along with tar-like oil of evil coating the back of her tongue and the gag it instigated. “Mr. Burts?”
    “Yes.”
    She struggled not to wince as she ignored his wife’s groan. “I need you to move outside. I’m sure you can sufficiently guard us from whoever did this on the porch.”
    “Sorry, Healer, no can do.”
    “Then the child will die. I can’t work with your—”
    “My what?”
    Mrs. Burts grabbed her wrist and held tight. “You have to save her.” Her eyes flitted to the man’s and back to hers. “She’s all I’ve got left.”
    Allana met her terrified and pleading gaze. In that moment, she understood. A trap had been set and sprung, this family the bait. No doubt, the woman’s husband, the child’s real father, had died in the attempt to protect his family. If this creature—she refused to consider the false Mr. Burts human—was a