Traffin felt the bullet slam into his thigh, and his leg give way beneath him. One minute, he was running, the next he was falling. Well, fuck. He hit the ground and rolled, shifting form as he went. He could run better on three legs than on one.

  Taking the next gap in a hedge, he crossed several gardens and streets until he knew he had to find somewhere to hole up for the night. Sliding back into human form, he limped through the next garden gate and down the side of the house.

  If he was lucky, he could slip in through the kitchen door and no one would be the wiser...

  His head spun...at least until they found his passed-out form.

  Crossing mental fingers, he stumbled up the porch and wrapped his hand around the door knob. It twisted and he almost melted in relief as the door swung open. It was a relief short-lived.

  Stepping into the kitchen beyond, he pushed the door closed, and then realized his mistake. He felt his body waver, torn between the stability and ferocity of his other form, and the human anonymity of this one.

  Keeping a slender grasp on reality, he stared at the woman who had pivoted to face him.

  “And who are you?” she demanded, levelling the handle of a ladle at his chest.

  His mouth went dry, and his jaw dropped. He forced it closed, swallowed, and stared as he tried to find the words. The world shuddered, misting at the edges.

  She took a step toward him and tapped him on the chest with the ladle. “You stay right there, Mister.”

  He froze and she looked over her shoulder. “Jon... Jonathan!”

  That second word cracked out like an order and Traffin flinched. Now that he’d stopped running, his leg ached and burned and he could feel the blood soaking his thigh. Nausea churned through his gut.

  “Don’t move!” she snapped when he swayed and put his hand out to steady himself on the bench. “Don’t you dare!”

  He stared at her, but obeyed, doing his best to lock himself in place, and hoping her mate wouldn’t throw him back into the dark...or call the authorities.

  The man that came hurrying into the room knew exactly what he was, Traffin saw it the minute their eyes met and Jon’s lips tightened. “Well, damn. Helena, you need to tell him he can sit down.”

  She looked at him like he’d gone mad, and then looked back at Traffin. “Sit!” she commanded, pointing at a chair.

  And Traffin did...like a dog...his ass hitting the floor as quick as any hound’s in an obedience trial, and then he groaned and fell over onto his side as pain rolled over him in a single throbbing wave. To try and stop it, he shifted back to his animal form.

  The woman’s voice rose to a wail.

  “Jon! He’s bleeding on my floor!” was the last thing he heard as he passed out.

  He was lying on an old blanket when he came to. His rear leg bandaged to the hip, and another blanket thrown over the top. Two small faces peered at him from a respectful distance, and one of them lit up with delight when he opened his eyes.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  “Momma! Momma! He’s awake!”

  “Jon!”

  And the man came and crouched down beside him. He laid a hand on Traffin’s head.

  “Just stay there, mate,” he said. “Neighborhood’s not really friendly for a pup like you—and the kids like dogs.”

  Traffin flicked an ear. There’d been a bit of an emphasis on pup and then he’d said the word dog. He lifted his head and tried to roll upright. It hurt and he yipped in pain and lay flat again.

  Jon patted him. “Good boy. We’ve got you.”

  Traffin registered a weight at his neck, and moved his head. The weight shifted and jangled and he groaned again. A collar?

  Jon laughed and ruffled his fur. “No one believes we bought a dog...let alone a big dog. The collar helps.”

  Traffin sighed and gave in to the aching need for sleep. When he woke, again, he was still furry, but he felt a lot better. His vision was blocked, though, by the large white cone that surrounded his head.

  He rolled onto his stomach and rested his head between his paws. His leg felt stiff and it itched. Instinct turned his head, and the cone blocked his ability to lick. Looking around, he located the family.

  They were sitting at the table having dinner, but it was the other man at the table that had Traffin on his feet and growling. His hind leg gave way and he toppled over. Jon was at his side in an instant, wrapping his arms around him and carrying him out of the room.

  “Sorry about that,” he called. “He’s not good with strangers.”

  Traffin tried to turn his head to look past Jon’s shoulder but the cone got in the way. Jon tightened his arms.

  “Easy, boy. You’ve got him convinced not to hurt us. You just got to relax and heal. Man appreciates a good guard dog, especially one that gets shot chasing intruders. You’re a good boy.”

  He pushed open the laundry door and set Traffin on the floor. “Now just stay in here, okay? I’ll let you out when he leaves.”

  Traffin stayed on his feet and Jon rolled his eyes. “Go to sleep, boy...and stay off Heidi’s washing or she’ll have your hide for a rug…and mine right alongside it.”

  Traffin cocked his ears.

  “Lie down!” Jon commanded, and Traffin did, slowly and reluctantly, huffing out a sigh as he settled his head between his forepaws.

  He was still lying there when the door cracked quietly open and the stranger looked in. Traffin smelt him before he opened his eyes and growled softly as if in his sleep. The door closed, and Traffin lifted his head and barked, getting up and going to the door and sniffing...and then he growled, again.

  He rapped against it with his forefoot, and barked again, cocking his head and looking at the floor near the doorframe. When no-one came he padded slowly over to the back door and scratched against that.

  It stayed closed, too...and the man on the other side held his breath.

  Traffin padded back to where he’d been lying and flopped onto the floor, whining as his leg twinged with pain. The man outside looked through the small rear window and saw the dog lying despondently on the floor.

  “It really is a dog...” he murmured and moved swiftly to report that fact to his boss.

  “You’re sure?”

  “You know those shifters, sir. When was the last time you saw one stay canine any longer than he had to? Or remain locked in a laundry when there was a comfortable bed close by?”

  The man who’d visited looked back at the house. “I was almost sure...” he said.

  “Maybe he made it into the town centre. I’ll put the word out to the underworld clinics, see what I can find out.”

  “He could have made it out...”

  “Perhaps...”

  They came back a month later, but they didn’t visit. They watched as the dog trotted happily beside the father, straying occasionally to sniff at lamp posts and letter boxes.

  “Definitely not a shifter,” the colonel said, watching Traffin lift his leg on the fourth lamp post in a row. “Not a damn one of the ones I know would be caught dead doing that!”

  “Too proud,” his driver agreed, as the dog rolled over and let Jon rub his tummy, its tongue lolling happily.

  “Yup. Bastard must have made it out. Let’s go.”

  They went, watching the dog bounce to its feet and started chasing a butterfly.

  “Definitely not a shifter....”

  Later that night, Traffin stood in the garage, human and whole. His leg pained him a little, and he regarded Jon with wary eyes. “How’d you go?”

  “With finding another dog?”

  Traffin nodded, his neck flushing, and Jon grinned.

  “No luck, yet. Why?” His grin faded. “You need to go?”

  “No... My pack...” He gulped. Their camp had been a surprisingly short run on all fours, and it had been burnt out. The message left in the ashes had been clear. The territory was lost and the pack had moved on, leaving him behind.

  He had no hope of catching them, now.