“As you wish,” I sweetly said, and opted for speed and simplicity. My first strike made immediate contact, spilling blood across his arm. The air bloomed with peppery spice. I regretted that I hadn’t eaten on the plane, because the smell of it—the promise of the magic it carried—was nearly intoxicating.

Niall screamed, more with insult than pain, and launched toward me. I used the katana’s spine to block a punch he aimed at my face. But he was strong, and I nearly hit my knees with the effort of holding him back.

I huffed out a breath, garnered my strength to push the katana back against him like a lever, trying to reverse our positions. And when he decided to spin—and signaled the move—I used the sword as a brace, flipped over his arm, landed, and spun with just enough time to block his kick. Still, the force of it shuddered through me like an explosion.

Not that a little pain was going to stop me. I kicked twice, two fast jabs to his side that had him lurching away with gritted teeth. He swung back with an elbow, and I ducked quickly beneath it, swiping the katana horizontally and striping his abdomen with blood.

He let loose a full-throated scream, eyes swimming with fury and pain, the bright scent of blood flashing in the air again. Niall’s arm was out and moving before I had time to react, the back of his hand connecting with my cheekbone. I flew backward from the impact, hit the ground five feet away with a thud, hard enough to shove the air from my lungs. Panic tightened my chest as I fought to suck in air again.

Sentinel. There was fear in Ethan’s voice.

I’m fine, I told him, glad I didn’t have to use precious breath for it. Stay with Nessa.

My breathing eased, but pain filled the void left by the receding panic. My cheek sang with it, the throbbing strong enough to drown out every other sensation and feeling . . . except for the glorious rush of hot fury. I flipped back, bounced to my feet, pain pulsing with every heartbeat, and stared down Niall.

He wanted a fight? Fine. He’d have one, and this time, I wouldn’t pull my punches. I pushed down the pain and kicked the katana into the air, snatched it on the descent. I didn’t pause to let him catch up, but sliced diagonally, then again, pushing him backward as he dodged the blows. He hit gravel, stumbled. I swung the sword again and sliced his upper arm, blood welling and scenting the air.

Three strikes, I thought, and you’re out.

He stared at me, blood from his wounded arm seeping to the ground with soft plinks. And in his eyes, the energy and power of shifters, their metaphysical connection to the lands they roamed. Jagged mountain peaks. Rushing streams. Dense forests that smelled of dirt and resin. Shifters were part of a world we couldn’t enter, would never understand, their connection to surf and sky as fundamental as the sunrise itself.

And matched with that connection, equally strong, was Niall’s unswerving belief that Nessa had murdered her husband.

The sound of a whirring siren broke the spell between us, a car approaching from the direction of the airport. Niall wiped a hand across a cut on his arm, then smeared the blood across his T-shirt like a badge of honor, or a mark of victory.

“Move out,” Rowan said, and the McKenzies hauled ass to the truck parked near Ethan’s ride. It was a white behemoth, with an extended cab and enormous tires.

It was the first time I’d noticed the truck. And although it wasn’t flattering to my vampire sensibilities, it was also the first time I realized there was someone else watching. A young woman, maybe nineteen or twenty, sat in the front passenger seat, one arm draped through the open window, staring at us. Her face was thin, her hair the same thick, multihued blond. Shifters were a relatively patriarchal bunch, so it wasn’t unusual that the men had done the fighting while she watched from the vehicle. But her expression was as angry and fierce as the others’.

“Cormac,” Rowan called out, drawing my attention back to one of the shifters who remained behind.

Magic vibrated, pulsed, as Cormac drew a gun from the back of his jeans.

I didn’t think, but reacted, running back to the porch and ensuring Ethan and Nessa were out of the way. The shots weren’t aimed at me, but our escape. Four pops filled the air as he punctured Orangesplosion’s tires, air hissing angrily from the fissures as they deflated.

“In case you decide to leave before we’re done with you,” Rowan said. They climbed into the truck and sped down the road in the other direction.

You’re all right? Ethan asked.

I glanced back at him. I’m fine.

Assured of it, he nodded. You aren’t especially good at making new friends.

There wasn’t a chance in hell they’d be friends with vampires like us.

And yet, you had a moment, Ethan said. Shifter magic?

Yeah. A reminder of who they are, and what we are. And, at least for Niall, the utter confidence that Nessa killed her husband. He’s convinced he’s right.

Have you ever met a shifter who wasn’t? Ethan pointed out.

“That’s what we’re fighting,” Nessa wearily said. “The hatred.”

“So we see,” Ethan said, handing back my scabbard.

“Who was the woman in the truck?”

“Darla. She’s Niall’s sister.”

As I nodded, the cruiser, white with a blue and yellow seal on the door, pulled into the driveway. A man in a taupe uniform climbed out, glanced at the cloud of dust that hung in the air. I guessed this was Tom McKenzie, the sheriff. While he might have shared a name with the shifters, he was decidedly human. I found myself grateful for that, if confused.