Chapter Twenty-Two
I reappear in my office covered in ash, blood, and whatever prehistoric nightmare goo T-Rex shifters are made of. My right arm (Talos’s damaged wing) still hangs useless at my side, twitching with phantom pain.
“Mom!”
Tammy drops the broom and dustpan like they’re on fire and rushes to me. “You’re bleeding!”
I suck a breath through my teeth as she touches my arm. “Talos took the worst of it,” I manage.
She studies me head to toe, worry knitting her brow. “Well… since you were Talos, I’m guessing it hurt like hell.”
“Mark turned into a thirty-foot rage monster,” I say. “Talos and I barely got out in one piece.”
Even as the wound stitches itself under my skin, Tammy examines it anyway. One of the gifts she earned during that second childhood of hers was healing. She digs into her pocket, pulls out a glass bottle of amber liquid, and smooths it over the shredded flesh.
“I know you don’t really need it,” she says softly, “but this was new magic. Old magic. Mark was tapping into something ancient, meant to create an entire race of shifters. Did he bite you?”
“I think so, yes.”
She grimaces. “He got me too. We both took hits.”
When she’s satisfied the arm isn’t going to fall off, Tammy leans back on her heels. “So… is it over?”
I open my mouth, close it, then tell her everything. Mark’s body disintegrating into nothing; his reign as apex predator was short, brutal, and pointless. I finish with, “The world won’t mourn him.”
“Yeah, sounds over to me,” she says, then giggles.
“That’s not polite,” I chide. “A man is dead.”
“A man who killed a guard and maybe more.”
“…okay, fair.”
I hesitate. Just for a beat, then say what I’ve barely allowed myself to think: “One of the guards survived. Mark bit him, but didn’t finish him.”
Tammy goes pale. “So there’s a raptor shifter out there.”
“Who could make more,” I add quietly.
She lifts a shoulder. “Is a raptor shifter worse than a werewolf?”
“Both are big. Both feature claws and teeth.” I shrug. “Call it a draw.”
“So we don’t need to panic just yet,” Tammy decides. “He’ll shift at the next full moon. Or not. Not every bite takes.”
She’s right. A bite alone isn’t enough. The victim must drink the attacker’s blood, either directly or inadvertently. And even then, most mortals don’t survive the first few days. Too much pain. Too much hunger. Too much change.
“Maybe we can find him and talk to him?” she suggests. “Give him some pointers. Maybe even lock him up in one of Kingsley’s dungeon cells.”
“I think we should,” I say.
Outside, the city is deceptively normal. Birds chirp. A garbage truck growls past. People walk by, scrolling on their phones, oblivious to the blood-soaked war that happened while they slept.
Somewhere out there, a newly-born raptor shifter opens his eyes in a hospital bed—blood stirring, instincts coiling, destiny whispering.
And deeper still, beyond sight, beyond reason, something old listens. Watches. Waits. A presence stretching across time like a long shadow. Mark is gone, yes.
But his legacy remains.
The dinosaurs are back...
The End