Chapter 3: Silver and Shadows

Roan was walking the city at night, having finished business. Business that he never wanted Cass to know about, worry about. Humans weren’t supposed to know the workings of anthros anyway. At least not until it directly concerns them, and the changing tides of things were signalling that it might soon, unfortunately.

Streetlights buzzed overhead like dying insects, casting long orange pools on wet pavement. Roan walked with purpose, hood up, hands in pockets, the weight of the 9mm holstered under his jacket a constant reminder. The cold bit through denim and fur, but he barely felt it. His mind was still on Cass, who is warm, safe, soft in bed back at the apartment.

The scent hit him, pulling him back into the moment. A smell that was sharp, dark like oil. Panther!

Roan maintained his stride, there was no running from a panther in any event, so he kept moving, keeping his ears alert beneath his hood, listening for paws or shoes on brick.

The first attack dropped down from above. Of course.

A black shape dropped from the fire escape like liquid shadow. Claws flashed. Roan twisted at the last second; talons raked air and tore three shallow lines across his left shoulder. Hot pain flared. Blood welled up instantly, soaking through his shirt. He could engage the panther hand to hand, but they are fairly strong, and their regeneration is faster than Roan’s own. So instead he rolled out of the way and dug out the pistol, the thought registering that Cass was right to be worried about it after all.

Two sharp cracks lit the alley. Both rounds punched into the panther’s collar bone and breast plate. It’d been a long time since Roan had fired a weapon into a living being. But this panther was definitely out for his head. All panthers were bad news, little did the humans know.

The anthro were-panther snarled, staggering back one step, his yellow eyes glinting in the dark amidst the black sillhouette. Dark fur rippled over the entry wounds. Flesh began to pull together, slow at first, then faster, the holes closing with wet, sucking sounds. The panther growled.

Roan’s own wound burned, but he felt the familiar tingle already. Skin pulling together. Muscle knitting. Wolves healed too. Just not like panthers. Not fast enough to shrug off 9mm rounds and be ready to fight seconds later ... though digging those out would not be pleasant for him.

Roan bolted.

He wanted to at least try to end this fight, hoping the panther would change it’s mind. But it gave chase, silent, terrifyingly quick.

It vaulted over a dumpster, claws drawing sparks from the metal. Roan felt the air behind him shift, and he cut right into a narrower passage, shoulders brushing the walls, his boots tearing through puddles. The panther would have less movement here, and there was nothing for it.

He spun at the end of the corridor and emptied the magazine. Dumped 9 rounds center mass on the panther in three seconds. Brass casings clattered across the pavement like spilled coins. Roan left them there.