My heart trips before picking itself back up again.
Pinned between my innocent little car and the unforgiving mountain face is... a black panther. Or at least, something that looks like one. Its sleek obsidian fur absorbs the light, creating a void in the shape of a massive feline.
The metal of my car has bent around its form, cradling the creature in a macabre embrace. Blood, nearly black in the harsh light, mats its fur and trickles onto the asphalt.
A long tongue lies limp out the side of its mouth, its eyes closed.
I take an involuntary step back, my mind reeling. Panthers aren’t native to these mountains. Hell, they’re not native to this continent. They’re also—I think—not as large as a freaking cow. And even if they were, no normal big cat could survive an impact like this. (Can they?)
Which means...
"Shifter," I breathe, the realization hitting me like another blow.
The panther’s chest rises and falls in shallow, labored breaths. It’s alive. Barely.
I inch closer while dialing the emergency line.
But, of course, there’s no signal on this particular curve of the mountain.
"Hey there, big guy," I murmur, trying to keep my voice steady and soothing. "Or girl. I’m not really up on my panther gender identification."
No response. Not even a twitch of an ear.
I crouch down, bringing myself to eye level with the creature. Its eyes are still closed, face slack. Has to be unconscious, right?
"I’m going to try to help you, okay?" I say, more for my own benefit than the panther’s. "Just... please don’t eat me. I’ve had a really shitty week, and becoming cat food would just be the cherry on top of this clusterfuck sundae."
Steeling myself, I reach out a hand. My fingers hover inches from the panther’s fur, trembling with a mix of fear and adrenaline.
"Here goes nothing," I mutter, and gently lay my palm against its flank.
The instant my skin makes contact, a jolt of electricity courses through me. It’s not painful, exactly, but intense—like touching a live wire, if that wire was connected directly to my nervous system.
Images flash through my mind, too fast to process. A moonlit forest. The rush of wind through fur. The thrill of the hunt. Emotions that aren’t my own flood my senses—pain, fear, confusion, and underneath it all, a desperate, primal need.
I snatch my hand back with a gasp, stumbling away from the car. My heart races, and I struggle to catch my breath.
"What the actual fuck was that?"
The panther’s eyes snap open.
Golden irises lock onto mine, glowing with an otherworldly light. In that moment, I know with absolute certainty that this is no ordinary shifter. There’s an intelligence in those eyes, a depth of awareness that sends a shiver down my spine.
It—no, he—tries to move, a low growl of pain rumbling from his chest. The metal of my car creaks in protest, but doesn’t give.
"Hey, hey, easy there," I say, finding my voice again. "You’re pretty banged up. Let me see if I can..."
I trail off, realizing I have no idea what to do. It’s not like I carry a crowbar or the Jaws of Life in my trunk. And even if I could free him, then what? I’m not exactly equipped to treat a critically injured supernatural panther.
The cat—shifter—whatever he is, makes another attempt to move. This time, I catch a glimpse of something beneath the fur. A faint shimmer, like heat rising from asphalt on a summer day.
Magic.
Of course. If he’s a shifter, he must be trying to change back to his human form. But something’s blocking him.
I rack my brain, trying to remember what I know about shifter physiology. It’s not much—most of my work focuses on magical security systems, not the intricacies of supernatural biology. But I do recall something about how extreme stress or injury can sometimes interfere with the transformation process.
"Okay, big guy," I say, inching closer again. "I think I know what’s happening. You’re trying to shift back, right? But you can’t."
Those golden eyes blink slowly, and I swear I see a flicker of understanding.
"Alright. I’m going to try something. It might help, or it might royally piss you off. Just remember, I’m the idiot trying to save your life here, so no mauling, okay?"
I take a deep breath, centering myself. Then I place both hands on the panther’s side, ignoring the way my skin tingles at the contact.
Just treat him like a ward. He’s just a glyph. Nothing but a glyph. He’s not an injured person on the verge of dying.
Closing my eyes, I focus on the energy I can feel thrumming beneath my palms. It’s chaotic, disorganized—like a swarm of angry bees trapped in a jar. I visualize myself as a conduit, a channel for that energy to flow through and find its proper form.
"Come on," I mutter through gritted teeth. "Work with me here."
For a long moment, nothing happens. Then, slowly, I feel the fur beneath my hands begin to shift and change. The panther’s body starts to contort, bones cracking and reforming.
I stumble back, watching in equal parts fascination and horror as the massive feline form shrinks and twists. The process seems to last an eternity, though it’s probably only a matter of seconds.
Finally, where the panther once lay, there’s now a man.
He’s tall—or he would be if he were standing—with skin the color of rich mahogany and a mess of dark curls plastered to his forehead with sweat. And he’s completely naked, because of course he is. Because this night wasn’t awkward enough already.
Guess he doesn’t have an implant. Most shifters do, these days. Humans don’t like naked people wandering the streets. They call them perverts.
His eyes flutter open, no longer feline gold but a deep, warm brown. They focus on me with difficulty.
"Run."