Feral Magic by Robin D. Owens

Author:Robin D. Owens [Owens, Robin D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fantasy, Paranormal, romance, humor, Fiction, child, new, telepathic, Denver, sexy, Urban, different, dimensions, royal, strangers, werejaguar, beginnings, worlds, telepathy, baby, Familiars, wereleopard, lost, Shapeshifter, Fams, cat, werepanther, award-winning, widow
ISBN: 978-1-937776-47-3
Publisher: TKA Distribution
Published: 2012-12-18T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

When they walked – all right, he had to suppress a limp – from the car through Brandy's back gate, Dak carried Favel. Brandy's tomcats moved from lounging in the shade and hissed in reaction.

Dak would have to deal with the cats. He could handle anything they could dish out, but he didn't want them ganging up on Favel. They could do some damage to the baby, take his eyes, or a finger or two, a toe. The child would regrow them, but the trauma at so young an age could hurt him.

Favel had already had enough trauma; he knew his parents were gone forever. Not how, but those special bonds, that loving bubble had been wrenched away. Replaced by the fierce love Dak and others had for him, but it was not the same as the enveloping love of a mother the babe had sensed since he'd been a seed in her womb.

Brandy was cooing at her cats, soothing them. Tom-Tom had rolled onto his back and exposed his belly for a rub. She stopped and stroked them, muttering words Dak finally figured out were nonsense.

"Oooh, you're purring!"

Neither of the cats purred loudly in response to petting, which Dak considered most discourteous.

Yes. They were nothing but irritants. He couldn't kill them, not when Brandy obviously loved them. He could feel that love when they were with her, as could they. And Dak and Favel were limiting the time she was with them due to their hostility to the cub.

After a soft stroking of Tom-Tom's belly and a small game of "catch the long stem of plumed grass" with Gypsy, Brandy went to the door and unlocked it. The whole set of actions seemed customary for her and her cats. He suppressed the need growing inside for her to rub his own belly.

He stopped on the top step of the stoop and glared at the cats, lifted his upper lip in a snarl. No, he couldn't kill them, couldn't drive them away, but by Mother Moon, they'd leave him and his alone.

Later, he whispered on a feline-only spurt of telepathy, more symbols than words.

The cats sneered at them, Gypsy flicking his tail in a crass gesture, the other actually turning his back and sitting down to groom his ass.

When Dak got into the house, Brandy was putting together a contraption next to the dining room table, and took Favel from his arms, setting him into the thing. "What's that?" growled Dak.

"A highchair for feeding babies." She glanced at him, away, as if nervous. "I'll get food, I guess you'll need it." She cleared her throat. "You eat vegetables, and, um, potatoes? Most guys love meat and potatoes here..." The words rushed from her.

He checked his appearance. He'd dressed fast and hadn't noticed a small slice in the leather over his ribs, blood stained the cut.

"I am fine," he said, glad she couldn't see his ear which continued to mend.

"I don't understand you," she said, pale now, as if her blood had drained to some other part of her body.

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