The leopard discovered the kill on one of his sweeps of the area and went berserk, roaring with rage, promising retaliation. He raced through the forest in the direction of Rachael’s small, deserted hut. Rio was grateful she was long gone. The leopard was in a killing mood and wanted desperately to rip something or someone to shreds. Rio followed at a much more leisurely pace, letting the intruder expend energy. He watched from a distance as the shape-shifter ripped apart the small, makeshift hut. He was so enraged, he tore furniture into small sticks and smashed the little bowl of orchids.

Rio gave him no warning, no room to fight, leaping on him from the roof above, teeth sinking deep and hanging on while the leopard rolled and clawed and raked at him. Rio spent most of his life in the forest, most of his life running through the trees both in human and in animal form. The spy leopard had left his normal life for the city and the promise of power and money. He wasn’t nearly as fast or as ruthless. Rio accorded the body the respect of his kind, burning it to a fine ash and scattering the remains before joining Elijah.

The third hunter was taken at dusk on the third day, and this time they waited until the last of the professionals realized what happened and hurried away from the scene of death. Elijah padded after the lone hunter, a grim elation spreading through him. The hunter had finally conceded defeat and was stumbling back to camp, horrified at the loss of his friends. He clutched his gun to him as if that single item could save him from the terrors of the darkened forest. The man winced when he heard the low moan of the clouded leopards. He ran when he heard the grunting cough answering the smaller cousins. He burst into the heavily armed camp, clothes torn, parasites on his body and his friends’ blood on his clothes.

Armando reacted in his typical fashion. Aggressive, furious that his plans were thwarted and not in the least listening to the hunter’s account of his nightmare hunt. Elijah had witnessed the scene many times in the past and knew his uncle was quite capable of erupting into extreme violence. His men knew it too, looking at one another uneasily as the lone hunter tried to explain his failure. Even in the high humidity, the heat of the forest, Armando wore his usual turtleneck sweater, stretched tight over his chest. It was his trademark, that soft expensive shirt that screamed of money and power. He was sweating, but his ego would never allow him to remove it. The leopard curled its lip in a silent snarl of contempt—of hatred.