THE KLEE HAD WAITEDfor several days for its chance at the gypsy morph, tracking the caravan without ever letting itself be seen, patiently biding its time, occupying itself with taking other victims to sate its need. Because it could shape-shift for short periods of time, taking on the appearance of other creatures, it could lure its victims from the safety of the camp. All of them had believed they were following someone they could trust. All of them had believed they were safe right up until the end. The taking of the children was just a way to let the morph know it could do as it wished whenever it wished and there was nothing to be done about it. It was a game the Klee enjoyed, playing with its prey before killing it. There was no need to hurry, after all. The end result was always the same. When the dust storm arrived, the Klee recognized its chance. Taking on the appearance of the morph to lure away the female the morph cared about was not difficult. It had watched the morph interact with her from the darkness beyond the camp and intuited easily enough how the morph felt about her. Luring the female away at the height of the storm, knowing she would follow if she thought the morph wished her to come, required little planning and no special skill.

Looking at the morph now, trapped and helpless, it felt a fierce satisfaction. The game was over. The old man had sent it to kill this creature of magic, and it always did what the old man told him. But there would be other victims, it knew—others to track and kill. The old man would see to it. Hunting this one, though, had been especially difficult. It would be hard to find another that would provide such a challenge. But there would be another, of course. There would always be another.

It was still musing on this when a dark shape hurtled out of the wind and dust, and 180 pounds of muscle and bone slammed into it, teeth slashing.