Diskant Black reveled in the visceral sounds of his Harley Night Train as brisk autumn air caressed his face. Making the trip to this part of the Five Boroughs was something he never enjoyed, but when a stray wandered into his city, it meant a proper introduction was in order. The rogue werepanther wasn’t very bright, but he’d gotten the message. This was Diskant’s territory, his domain, and as an Omega—the most powerful of all lycanthropes—his word was law. A lot changed over the centuries, but one thing remained the same. Only an Omega bore the mark of all the shifter races and possessed the ability to transform into any of them. That meant total submission and respect were bestowed on him. In the city that never sleeps, he was in charge, and it wasn’t open to discussion.

Inhaling deeply, he absorbed the combined scents of concrete, dirt, water, garbage, and exhaust fumes into his lungs. The sour tang of fear hovering over each scent wasn’t a monumental surprise and wouldn’t have concerned him. Unfortunately, the sticky-sweet stench of a vampire was combined with it. He snorted, removed the stink from his nose, and inhaled again—deeper this time. It was definitely fear he scented, and the sharp, sour smell was pouring off a human. He gripped the bars of the bike and shook his head. It was the wrong place at the wrong time for some dumb schmuck. Probably some addict looking to score or a homeless person who’d picked the wrong stretch of garbage dumpster to sleep in. 

A roar of outrage sounded nearby, an undeniable battle cry, and revealed the gender of the victim. “Fuck you!” a sultry female voice thundered.

Well, hot damn.

Leaving a male to fend for himself, he could do.

But never a damsel in distress.

Diskant dredged in another cool lungful of air, searching for the source of the sour taint of terror and fury. It wasn’t very far…

“Gotcha.”

He applied the brake, slung his right leg around, and brought his foot to the road. He turned the bike in the proper direction and found what he was looking for three alleys over. The female had obviously tried to fight—the burning tingle in his nostrils told him pepper spray had been used—but her lifeless body dangled over the shoulder of one of the leeches nonetheless. 

Lowering the kickstand with a flick of his heel, he cut the motor and rose from the leather seat. The unencumbered vampire turned while his companion shifted her small body on his shoulder and began walking in the opposite direction. 

“This doesn’t concern you, shifter.”

Diskant swung his leg up, over, and dismounted the bike. He took long, deliberate steps, making a steady and unhurried trek down the alley. The vampire in his path wasn’t much of an obstacle, but he wasn’t supposed to be. Diskant recognized the tactic. It was a classic strategy—nothing like a good old bait-and-switch. One would distract him while the other got away with the bounty. No-fuss, no muss. Having a discussion with the vampire approaching him would see that female long gone and, more than likely, dead.

He waited until he was nearly upon the vampire before he broke out in a sprint, his long, leather coat forming wispy tails behind him. Issuing a muffled plea for forgiveness, he plowed into the back of the vampire carrying the female and sent her tiny body soaring into the air. She didn’t make a sound when she landed on the unforgiving cushion of concrete and grime, and he almost gave in to the temptation to see how badly she was injured.

Almost.

The vampires attacked him as one, delivering blows and kicks that were too fast to counter. A fist caught his chin just as a foot got too damn close to his balls for reproductive comfort. Another fist skimmed the surface of his stomach while another came at his nose. Dodging to the right, he met an unforgiving set of knuckles that made his teeth rattle. That was followed by a blow to his chest.

Goddamn vampire speed.

Blood drinkers were superior in that regard, but it didn’t really matter.

Shifters were stronger.

Diskant rotated his shoulders, threw the leeches clear of his body, and called on the bear within. He smiled as the woodsy scent of grizzly oozed from his skin—fragrant, potent, feral.  Lethal claws extended past his fingers while his teeth elongated, becoming cone-shaped, the tips as sharp as razors.

While he wouldn’t win any beauty contests, the physical changes had the intended effect. Two swipes of his hands in either direction ravaged skin and drew blood, rending tissue in half as flesh peeled from bone. The stench of fear tickled—smelling much like wet paint in his nose—and burned his nostrils. The horrified expressions of the vampires when they got hip to who they were fucking with was priceless. 

With a throaty roar, he issued challenge.

Suppertime, motherfuckers.