The road through the city was hell. Glass ground under their boots and burned-out cars sagged into each other like exhausted animals; the smell was wrong, not just smoke, but a rot that didn't belong. They moved single file through side streets strangled by ferns and creeping vines already reclaiming the pavement. The apocalypse had barely begun, and nature was already proving opportunistic.
Rose led the way with her blade out, chin high and tail low and steady. Felicity followed close enough to brush her shoulder, while Victor and Finch took the rear. Victor did not speak; he simply watched everything. Above them, a hawk spiraled in lazy loops against a pale sky. It was too steady, too consistent—it wasn't hunting rats, it was tracking movement.
Felicity felt it, always at the edge of her vision, always watching. A few blocks from the playground, the city shifted and the silence tightened. Her ears flicked back at the sound of boots, not shuffling, but tiles and rocks scraping under careful weight. Victor's hand came up instantly, two fingers at his lips.
They melted into the shadow beneath the overhang of a strip mall as glass crunched underfoot. They crouched beneath shattered windows while signage hung loose overhead and the smell of stale sugar drifted from a nearby bakery. Rose peered through the broken glass. "There," she whispered, her voice tight with focus.
Across the street, there was movement, and so they waited. Felicity's fingers tightened around the hilt of her knife. Victor stepped in behind her—not touching, but hovering, protecting. He was close enough that she could feel his body heat through the leather jacket. His pulse was slow and anticipating, not even nervous. That steadiness calmed her more than it should have.
Then the group stepped fully into view. Eight. No, ten.
All beastmen.
They had antlers sawed short and rough, tusks protruding through cracked lips, and horns spiraling tight to their skulls. Patchwork pelts were stitched into their jackets, and their claws were filed sharp, tails twitching with suppressed energy. They did not look confused or afraid; they looked organized. Two broke off immediately, scaling an awning with rifles slung over their shoulders, while the rest spread out without speaking, taking corners and covering doors. They weren't wandering; they were executing a sweep.
Felicity's stomach dropped. They had been found. If Victor hadn't heard them first—if Victor hadn't been, well, Victor—they would already be dead. The leader stepped forward, a wolf with crooked ears and a thick neck. An old ANZAC vest hung from his shoulders, medals clinking softly as he walked. His eyes were bright, mean, and too focused.
He grinned at Victor. "Come out, Silver," he called lazily. "We brought Maccas."
Victor didn't hesitate. He stepped into the light with his wings folded tight and shoulders loose, his hands empty but ready. "You're early," he replied, not smiling.
The wolf barked a laugh and approached, boots crunching over glass, but his eyes didn't stay on Victor. They slid past him and went straight to Felicity. The others followed suit, offering quick glances that turned into open, blatant measuring. A rangy man with shaved antlers stared too long, and Victor shifted half a step, his body moving just enough to block the man's direct line of sight. The antlered man looked away immediately.
The wolf's gaze snagged on Rose next. It lingered, assessing whether she would bite back. "Didn't think you'd show up with women," the wolf said. "Figured we'd drag you out sooner or later."
Victor shrugged faintly. "Sometimes things fall into your lap." As he spoke, he moved again, stepping deliberately and fully in front of Felicity. His shoulders cast her in shadow, and a sound left his chest—low, deep, and not loud enough to echo, but enough that the men closest stiffened. It wasn't a growl, but it was a warning. The message landed.
They pressed closer anyway, nostrils flaring and eyes sharpening. One of the smaller ones at the back muttered, "Fuck. They're real."
Rose's lip curled. "What's the problem?" she snapped. "Never seen a woman before?"
A man near the front let out a short laugh. "Seen plenty," he said. "Haven't seen many still breathing."
"Not since the first wave," another added.
The wolf silenced them with a low growl and a raised hand. He inhaled slowly, deeply, before his eyes slid back to Felicity. "You can smell it," he said quietly. "Can't you?"
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the pack. Felicity felt Victor's body change in front of her; his spine straightened and his wings twitched once. His hand reached back without looking and wrapped around her wrist—firm, possessive, and subtly claiming.
The wolf's gaze dropped to that grip. "So," he said, "that little fox yours?"
Victor's answer was immediate. "She's mine."
The wolf studied him for a long moment, then nodded in respect. "She smells like warmth," the wolf said, his voice lower now. "Like something that hasn't been burned out yet. You've all seen it."
The murmurs turned darker.
"Most of the women we found didn't make it past the first few hours," the wolf said, looking back at Felicity. "Because they changed wrong or they didn't change at all. We've swept four blocks, two shopping centres, and a train station." He held up three fingers. "Three living women. Do the math."
It wasn't a statistic; it was just what they had seen. Felicity's throat tightened. "That doesn't mean—"
"It means something's skewed," the wolf cut in. "Either they died faster, or they were targeted first. Or," he glanced at the men around him, "they're being hunted."
Silence fell. Victor's grip tightened around Felicity's wrist. It was too tight—she could feel the possessiveness in the pain. His breathing had slowed.
The wolf noticed. "Relax, Silver. We're not here to steal what's yours."
Victor shifted his wings slightly outward, adopting a defensive posture.
"But you can't protect her alone," the wolf continued. "Not long term."
Victor's eyes went cold. "Watch me."
The air between them sharpened, and Finch suddenly stiffened. Across the street, a hulking kangaroo beastman named Giddy had turned toward Rose. His grey skin was thick and plated, and silver dust drifted between his fingers like metallic pollen. "Name's Giddy," he said.
Rose didn't flinch. Giddy's gaze dragged down her frame. "You think those twigs back there can protect you?" he taunted, jerking his chin toward Finch.
Finch didn't joke. He stepped forward, his tone flat. "Let's see."
Giddy grinned wide, showing flattened molars, and they moved off without another word, leaving Felicity, Victor, and Rose behind.
The wolf began to circle slowly. Up close, his scars were obvious: teeth marks on his shoulder and a crooked knife wound near his collarbone. His scent was heavy and intoxicating. "So what's the plan, Silver? You hide her? Keep her under your wing?"
Victor did not move. "Careful," he said softly.
The wolf smiled, leaning slightly to see around Victor. "I am being careful."
Victor shifted instantly, his wings flaring half-open. The rumble in his chest deepened, vibrating the broken glass at their feet. Several of the men stiffened, instinct recognizing instinct.
"She's not a resource," Victor said, his voice final.
The wolf tilted his head. "Everything is a resource now."
"She isn't."
The wolf's eyes narrowed. "And if something happens to you?"
Victor's gaze did not waver. "Then it dies," he said. He wasn't being dramatic; he was stating a fact.
The wolf studied him again, then nodded. "Good. Because that's the only answer I respect." He stepped back, re-balancing. "We're pushing toward the river line, setting up a perimeter along the hospital grid. If you want to survive longer than a week, you'll need alliances." His gaze dropped to Felicity again. "But you're right about one thing."
Victor's jaw tightened. "She's not something you share."
"But you better understand something too," the wolf lowered his voice. "Men are already noticing."
Around them, the other beastmen shifted, restless and hungry in ways that had nothing to do with food. Victor's hand slid from Felicity's wrist to her waist, pulling her flush against his back. His wings spread, not to fly, but to block.
"You're staring," Victor said quietly. Several of the men looked away instantly.
The wolf smiled faintly. "Good. You feel it too."
Victor's pupils narrowed, he was no longer a strategist, but an animal. The wolf raised both hands. "We're not your enemy."
"Then don't act like one."
The silence stretched until a shockwave cracked the air from down the street. Giddy roared, and Finch answered with a laugh that didn't sound entirely sane. The moment snapped.
The wolf glanced toward the sound. "Looks like introductions are over." He looked at Felicity one last time before fixing Victor with a hard stare. "Keep her breathing. For all our sakes."
Victor did not respond; he was too busy watching every man within ten meters, counting threats and mapping exits. His thumb pressed into the small of Felicity's back, marking and claiming her. When the wolf finally turned away to regroup with his men, Victor let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. He didn't relax; he waited until every last scent had faded before his wings finally folded back.
But even then, his hand never left her waist. Not once.