Then Arion caught him by the throat.
Not choking.
Not yet.
Just a hand gripping the front of Dean's neck with enough force to control the line of his body. Then Arion turned and drove him backward into the reinforced barrier.
Dean's shoulder hit first.
His head hit second.
The crack of skull against glass was sickeningly clean.
White exploded across his vision. Every projectile he had still been holding in readiness dropped from control at once, little harmless pieces of matter clattering dead to the floor while his brain tried to remember whether consciousness was a negotiable privilege.
Above them, Sylvia swore.
Nero made a low, appreciative sound that made Dean want to haunt him after death.
Arion leaned close, hand still around Dean's throat, and Dean felt the pheromones change again.
That was the grotesque thing about him.
They were shapeshifters.
Not metaphorically. Not in some poetic, vague sense.
