A Pack of Two. Jacky Russell

      Spend five minutes in the woods and it’s easy to understand why rabbits are on the bottom of the food chain. Reconnaissance duty meant lots of down time and with no activity on my assigned stretch of road, the rabbit had become my target. It really should have noticed my owl form perched in the tree less than fifteen feet above its fuzzy brown head. That grass must have been good.

      The distant roar of a motorcycle meant Flopsy wouldn’t be dinner. Damn.

      The headlight of a Ducati sliced through the fog, the rider hunching forward to guide it along the winding mountain road. As he approached a turn, the rider reined in his bike, man and machine in perfect harmony. The moon glinted off his black helmet. The black-and-red leather riding suit contoured to his body. The bike roared as he released it into the curve.

      I’d returned to my musings of Flopsy with a dollop of mustard when more headlights appeared. Through the fog I could barely make out a sedan rushing forward, tagging the back wheel of the Ducati.

      How the hell had I missed that car?

      The rider fought to remain upright but the bike skidded on its side before careening off the road. The rider disappeared over the edge, his bike crying out for pavement.

      So much for a quiet night of recon.

      A fireball blinded me as the Ducati exploded into a fountain of flames, the remnants of the motorcycle consumed.

      Precious seconds ticked away while the flames died and my eyesight returned. The rabbit dashed into the leaves. The sounds of raspy breathing drifted from the brush, the gurgle of blood-drenched lungs struggling for air. The rider, thrown clear of the explosion, lay deathly still within the thick undergrowth.

      The clipped voice of my commanding officer, Major Simon DuChard, resounded clearly in my head. Do not engage anyone or anything. Recon only. Call if you have something to report but do not, I repeat, do not engage.

      Partially shielded by the bushes, the rider’s battered body looked human, but he wasn’t. A human would have been dead.

      The slam of a car door broke the stillness, followed by a flashlight beam sweeping across the burning remains of the Ducati. A muted groan escaped the rider’s lips and the beam turned urgently in his direction. Gravel rolled freely as a cloaked figure slid down the incline and landed with inhuman grace in the clearing. The air in the clearing vibrated with a chaotic evil. Suffering and death surrounded the cloaked figures.

      Had to love being able to read auras. Hooray. One for the witch.

      “He’s breathing,” the cloaked freak yelled to his counterpart at the top of the hill.

      A cloak? Really? Who the hell wore a cloak? That was wrong on so many levels.

      A second cloaked figure leaped gracefully into the clearing and sneered. “Good. The others would be disappointed if he was already dead.”

      The rider grunted when jerked onto his back. He couldn’t fight them even if he tried. He was badly injured and at their mercy.

       Recon only, Welker. Do not to engage.

      Sitting by, pruning my feathers, was not an option. I needed to protect him. He was helpless. Vulnerable.

      And I was under orders, but oh well.

      I needed a plan. If I flew out of hearing range and called for backup, the cloak brothers would be gone. If I flew along behind the car, I’d lose them. There was only one choice. My beak chattered as my plan began to take shape. I would engage.

      Plan? This wasn’t a plan. This was crazy female witch insanity.

      Tendrils of black magic surged around my body as I screeched and dove. My chest constricted, the magic choking air from my lungs. My owl form was not nearly as resistant to the power of dark witchcraft as my human form, but for now dive-bombing was the best plan of attack I had.

      Dive-bombing? Really, Welker? That was the best a seventeen-year veteran of the US Army Bravo Company could come up with? Bird brain.

      The first figure slapped at me like I was a giant mosquito. The second chanted in a language I didn’t understand. Definitely not an invitation to a Tupperware party. The magnitude of the situation hit me as I circled for a second approach. These were Malandanti, powerful Italian witches known for ritual killings. Great, these guys were so old they were around when Hell formed. Unless I stopped them, the groaning rider would be their next sacrifice to who only knew what. I would be dinner.

      Simon was gonna kill me.

      Magic crackled in the air as I landed in a pile of leaves. The two Malandanti chanted in unison. I summoned my own magic and shifted seamlessly to human form.

      The black magic surrounded me like a smothering blanket of evil. Without opening my eyes, I repeated the protection spell my grandmother had taught me. As the last words left my mouth, the cool sensation of my own protective magic enveloped me.

       Now whatcha gonna do, Welker? Exchange recipes? Brilliant plan, Sergeant.

      The Malandanti stood between me and the rider. If I could breach their magic, I could take them down. The Malandanti had powerful magic, but their hand-to-hand skills sucked. Mine, however, did not.

      “Have some of this, boys.”

      Wave after wave of spells slammed into me as I dashed kamikaze-style through the moonlit clearing. My protective cast was holding, though it felt more and more tattered as the Malandanti increased their fervor. With one great lunge, I knocked both witches to the ground, their hoods falling away from their faces. Their inky black eyes glistened as I glided over their heads. My loud whoops made me sound a bit on the crazy side. That was fine. Whatever worked.

      Landing on my feet, I peeked at the downed rider. Life slowly drained from his body with each labored breath. I should have helped him, but healing spells were not my forte. Hell, I’d probably turn him into a frog. The cloak-wearing scary-faced uglies in front of me climbed to their feet.

      “You guys have serious fashion issues.”

      The Malandanti hissed as I took a step toward them. Together, with enough effort, they could overwhelm my arcane protective spells, but maybe they didn’t know that. Earth witches weren’t common and hopefully these guys wouldn’t know the limits of my magic.

      Great. I had hope. They had skills.

      I traced a sign of protection in the air and stepped