He knew the wooden doors wouldn’t be the only obstacle in his path. He was prepared for anything from a dwarf army vet to a bladder of Dragon’s Mist, which would combust upon contact with air. So he was taken aback when the doors creaked open without so much as a lock and the stone staircase leading down appeared unguarded.

Without the aid of a torch, he had to feel his way down, his fingertips keeping in light contact with the cool stone surface. The Mook Ti eye trick wasn’t doing much good. It wasn’t magic, and he needed a modicum of ambient light for it to work.

The trek downward felt longer than it likely was. Gaz’s combat senses were on full alert, and there was always a time distortion when they kicked in. At last, he came to another door, which by feel was a heavy oak. He felt around and found no trace of a hinge, so the door must raise and lower through some mechanism.

It was beyond this door, surely, that he would face whatever infernal devices the villains had cooked up.

“Looking for a good time?” Midra’s voice, though recognizable, grew higher and sharper as she spoke. Gaz could make out movement but no form. He felt a steel pole thrust into his chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and pinning him against the door.

The steel pole was covered in long, thick fur.

“Whaaa! Whooaaaa!” An inhuman shriek erupted from the she-beast before him. It was not the howl of a wolf. Not the roar of a cat.

What the hell sort of shifter was this?