Raphael Robichaux sped toward Bourbon Street on his Harley toward his favorite bar for one last prowl through his turf in New Orleans. Miles away, a female awaited him to deliver her to death. A quick death, but death nonetheless.

      The big bike purred as wind whipped his ragged shoulder-length hair. Riding the Harley gave him the only true freedom he knew. But as Raphael neared Bourbon, a voice called out in pained insistence.

      Kallan. Kallan. I have need of you.

      Raphael turned the bike around, toward the weak, hopeful sigh. In a shadowed alleyway littered with paper bags and the stench of old vomit, a male sat against the exposed brick wall. Even as he slid off the Harley, Raphael knew it was an elder Draicon in great pain.

      Yellowed, sharp fangs flashed in the alley. Morphs. Former Draicon who turned evil by killing a relative, they could shapeshift into any life-form. The pair licked the blood streaming down the elder’s temples, tasting death and the Draicon’s fear to gain energy.

      One swiped at the helpless male, swiping bloody furrows across his chest. The elder gasped.

      Raphael stood at the alley’s entrance. “Go pick on someone able to fight back.” Challenge rang out in his voice.

      Growls greeted him as they backed away from their prey. The Morphs straightened. Energized by the elder’s terror, they shifted into rats, cloned themselves and then chewed on the elder’s arms and hands.

      The elder screamed.

      Absolute calmness came over Raphael. He never lost sight of the original two, their markings, their movements. He lifted his hands to create a veil of protection, much like an electronic fence, around the elder. Shocked by the pure magick, the rats squealed and dropped off, before turning on Raphael.

      He was ready. Waving his hands, he divested himself of clothing and shifted into wolf.

      Focusing on the original pair, he sprang forward to attack. They squealed and shifted into their true form. As they did, their clones vanished, denied the energy necessary to maintain them.

      Just as quickly Raphael shifted back into his human form, clothed himself. Daggers materialized in his hands. He twirled, punched, acted. The two Morphs gave low howls and dropped to the ground. In a minute, they vanished into ashes.

      Raphael went to the elder, who was holding his stomach as if trying to keep his guts stuffed inside. His mouth went dry as he scanned the Draicon’s injuries.

      “Please, help me end this. I can’t…cross.” The elder, at least 1,500 years, wheezed. Pain radiated from him in great waves. “Just let me go.”

      Raphael hedged, torn between wanting to give the honored elder solace and the agonizing decision to end it for him. But the male’s burning plea nudged him forward. It was time.

      Closing his eyes, Raphael laid his hand on the other’s shoulder. Concentrated, pulling back to the Other Realm of peace and no pain. He uttered words in the ancient tongue.

      His eyes flew open as he removed a short, golden dagger strapped always to his waist. The blade had a magick anesthetic. With a low murmur of sacred words, he stabbed the elder in the heart.

      Death was swift, merciful and painless. Light faded from the Draicon’s gaze, but a small, serene smile rested on his thin lips. With reverence, Raphael closed the elder’s eyes. He wiped blood off his sacred Scian with a small cloth tucked into his back pocket. Then he replaced the dagger, fished out his cell phone and made a call.

      Five minutes later, four of his former pack arrived. They wrapped the body in a long length of oriental carpet and discreetly carried it to the waiting truck to take the elder to the honored burial he deserved.

      Raphael closed his eyes, wishing he didn’t feel so damn alone right now. As much of a rush killing the Morphs gave him, dispatching one of his own into the peace of the Other Realm made him feel empty. Dark inside.

      He was the Destroyer, the bringer of death.

      Bringing the solace of crossing over to the Other Realm was an honored vocation. Screw it. He was a damn death dealer. He was the Kallan, the only one who could terminate the life of a fellow Draicon without consequence.

      Minutes later, he parked the bike in front of the Full Moon bar. Music poured down the street in an acoustic tidal wave; soft, cool jazz and hard, pounding rock. A few women lounging on the sidewalk and sipping hurricanes gave him the twice-over. Wind teased the pure white streak of hair at his temple, played with the gold dagger earring dangling from his left ear.

      A collective female sigh, soft as a Mississippi River breeze, drifted toward him. He angled his famous half-smile at the staring threesome. “Evening, ladies,” he drawled.

      Three in one night. Nothing new. Hard, fast female company, the bliss of quick, anonymous sex and the energy it brought pushed back the loneliness a little. The tallest had a lush figure, with enough flesh on all the right places he loved to caress. He adored females. Even human women, who were too frail to absorb the rough sex Draicon males sometimes relished.

      But sex with anonymous strangers never touched the empty space inside him. Raphael gave the women a charming smile and walked away. Behind him, their murmurs of disappointment buzzed like mosquitoes in the bayou.

      He headed toward the scratched wood bar and grabbed a mug of beer. Male and female Draicon nursing drinks stared. “That’s him,” he heard one female whisper. “The Kallan. They say he was appointed because he killed eighty Morphs in one day when they were about to slay a pack in California.”

      Sometimes the story boasted over a hundred Morphs, and the pack of Draicon were from New England. It mattered not, for the legend shadowing him was far bigger than reality.

      “He’s also the only mixed-blood ever to become Kallan. Who would have thought a Cajun mongrel could have entered the ranks,” a male murmured.

      Raphael stiffened.

      Too often he felt as if he were dancing atop a paper pedestal erected by his people. When would he fall off because his blood wasn’t pure enough? Only his family treated him normally.

      He snorted. Normal? He was immortal. Normal wasn’t part of the package.