Panther Moon

by Wendy

Fandom: The Sentinel

Rating: PG-13 (for now)

Pairing: J/B in an established relationship

It's a bit of an AU 'cause I have Jim as a private investigator instead of a cop.

Warnings: Shapeshifting Jim and a few dead corpses. (I've been watching too many episodes of Forensic Files lately)

Feedback: pretty please

This is in response to the Halloween Challenge.

It is the first part of a much longer story I am working on an hope to have finished soon.

On to the story:

Panther Moon

by Wendy

Jim Ellison was dressed for stealth. Black knit shirt, comfortable black pants, black running shoes.

Just before sunset he pulled under the sheltering foliage of a low hanging maple and killed the truck's engine. After rolling down the window, he sat motionless behind the wheel of his Ford F-150, his cool blue eyes scanning his surroundings, his ears pricked for telltale warning sounds in the depths of the forest.

His senses were more than those of a normal man and he had trained himself to watch and listen with all the skill and patience of the hunting cat that lived within him, just waiting for the opportunity to be released. In the branches above him a few birds still chirped and rustled. He saw a doe and fawn come through the woods on the far side of the road. She stopped, sniffed the air, and tensed, then turned and bounded back the way she'd come, taking her offspring with her. He was sorry he had frightened her. Yet her instincts had been right.

As the gray of twilight became the darkness of night, he grabbed the knapsack from the seat beside him and climbed out of the truck, uncoiling his six-foot-plus frame and ran a hand over his short brown hair. For a moment he stood breathing in the scents floating on the spring air. Tipping his head up, he looked toward the heavens, toward the pinpoints of light winking to life in the black velvet of the sky. For a moment he stood breathing in the scents floating on the warm spring air, losing himself in the rich earthy smell of the piney woods.

Fingers of wind shaking the branches above his head brought Jim's mind back to the task at hand. His face set in hard lines, he hoisted his knapsack over a muscular shoulder and set off, blending silently, seamlessly, into the shadows beneath the trees.

With an eagerness for the hunt, he quickened his steps. The chain-link fence topped with razor wire was a hundred yards ahead. When he reached it, he squatted, opened his pack, and pulled out the wire cutters he'd brought. The pack contained other tools as well. it would be a damn shame if he need them later.

After laying his pack on a pile of leaves, he cut the links, and pulled the edges of the fence apart, making a hole wide enough to accommodate a low, lithe body. He then stood to pull the knit shirt over his head and toss it on top of the pack. Pants and shoes quickly followed. He hadn't bothered with underwear. The air was cool on his bare skin, but he stripped to the buff.

Closing his eyes, he chanted the ancient Chopec Words of Ritual as he gathered his inner strength, steeling himself for The Change. The blinding pain that came immediately after took his breath away every time. Even as the human part of his mind screamed in protest, he felt his teeth sharpen and his body contort as muscles and limbs changed into a different shape.

The first few times he had done it, under the watchful gaze of Incacha, a Chopec Shaman, it had been a nightmare of torture and terror. But once he'd understood what to expect, he'd learned to ride out the physical sensations of bones crunching, muscles jerking and cells transforming from one shape to another.

Sleek, soft fur formed along his flanks, covering his body in an inky black pelt. The color-the very structure- of his eyes changed as he dropped to all fours, no longer a man but an animal far more suited to wilds around him.

A panther.

His body quivered and his blood sang in his veins. He wanted to throw back his head and let loose with a deep throated roar for the sheer joy of it. but he checked the impulse, because the mind inside his skull still possessed a human intelligence. And the man understood the need for stealth tonight.

An owl screeched above him as it flapped away into the night and he saw its wings beat the dark air, saw the grace and beauty of the feathered hunter as it went in search of its prey. His own prey was on the other side of the fence. He pressed low to the ground, slithered through the hole he'd cut, then shook the dead leaves from his fur. Sniffing the wind again to get his bearings, he trotted into the woods. He knew the house lay to his right, hidden by a dense stand of trees. Instinctively the big cat gave the place a wide berth, avoiding the evil that lurked there.

Eyes and ears tuned to his surroundings, he noted the rustling sounds of small animals scurrying to get out of his way. But he wasn't here to hunt the creatures of the forest tonight. he had come to this place to find evidence that would satisfy human laws.

Scent was his most important sense, but his eyes were sharp, too, helping him guide him through the velvety darkness under the trees. A quarter from his point of entry, he was stopped short by the thick, sickening odor of decaying flesh- too faint of a man to catch. Cautiously he approached the mound of newly turned earth where someone had dug in the forest floor, then piled dirt back into place. The grave hadn't been there long. Only a thin layer of leaves and other debris had fallen to cover the fresh scar on the land.

He circled the mound, fighting the cloying scent, then pawed at the loose dirt, carefully removing the top layer of soil. Less than a foot below the surface he discovered what he had been certain he would find- the partially decomposed remains of a young man's body, the flesh marred by stab wounds. Backing away, he scratched the leaves to clean the tainted dirt from his claws.

Patrick Delano, he thought. Or maybe Larry Chesterton. Both of them had been missing for months. Both of them, he was certain, had ended their young lives on this piece of property. Alone, except for their torturer, a son of a bitch named Donnie Arnott.

It was Patrick's parents who had hired him to find their son- and his investigation had led him to this grave in the woods. He had hoped that perhaps he was wrong, but now there was little doubt where their son was buried.

He was too focused on the grim picture in his mind, too sickened by his grisly discovery to hear the crackle of dry leaves, the stealthy crunch of human footsteps.

The sound of a rifle shot and a bullet plowing into a tree trunk inches from his head brought his mind zinging back to his own present danger.

He was already sprinting into the cover of the forest before the next slug splatted into ground behind him.

But he wasn’t fast enough. The third shot caught him in the right hind quarter, sending a shaft of fire through the leg.

He didn't let it slow him down. Mind clenched against the pain, he put on a burst of speed, zigzagging through the woods, even as the sound of more bullets echoed behind him. despite the fire in his leg, he was faster than any man as he circled into the forest, then headed back toward the opening he’d made in the fence, his ears tuned to the sounds of pursuit.

Breathing hard, he reached the fence and flattened his body to the ground, his right leg in agony as he clawed his way to freedom. Relief surged through him once he was on the other side.

Panting, he stood on wobbly legs, staring at the knapsack and pile of clothing he’d left on the ground.

If he changed back to human form, he could pick up his belongings and carry them away. But transforming now, when Arnott was closing in on him, was too dangerous. The shock of changing with a bullet in his body might knock him out cold.

When his panther ears picked up the crunching of leaves in the distance, he was forced to make a decision. Snatching up his trousers in his teeth, he left everything else where it lay and headed towards his truck.

Arnott's own fence would stop him for the time being. He wouldn't be able to wiggle through the panther-sized opening- not without enlarging the hole. and the tools for that were on the other side.

Dragging the pants along the ground, the panther made it back to the truck and stood with his sides heaving. As a big cat Jim was unable to utter the words of transformation aloud. But the silent chant echoed in his mind as muscle and ligament, skin and bone transmuted once again, this time from panther to human.

A cold sheen of sweat filmed his skin, but there was nothing he could do about the bullet torturing his flesh except grit his teeth and push past the agony. In the end, the effort was too much.

He realized he’d lost consciousness when he woke up on the ground beside the truck. He was still naked and now shivering with cold. His head was cradled in a pile of leaves and his leg was lying in a pool of blood. Muzzy-headed and vision wavering, he longed to simply lie there on the cool ground and close his eyes again. Unfortunately, giving in to that impulse was a death sentence.

Summoning all his remaining strength, Jim pushed himself to a sitting position and grabbed his pants, fumbling in the pocket for his keys. Thank God they hadn’t fallen out during his wild dash through the woods.

Crawling towards the driver side door, he pulled himself up and managed to get the key in the lock. There was no point in wasting energy getting dressed. He simply tossed the pants onto the floor of the passenger side, wincing as his leg hit the console.

For a moment he sat gripping the steering wheel to keep from passing out again. then he reached for the bottle of water he’d left on the passenger seat. Fumbling off the cap, he took a long swig, spilling some down his chest and belly.

With clumsy fingers he reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a first-aid kit. Unwrapping a bandage, he wound it around his thigh, stanching the flow of blood.

He held back a groan as he turned the ignition key, then pressed on the gas pedal, wondering if he could stay conscious long enough to make it home. He’d made a mistake tonight by underestimating the man who had dug that grave. Or maybe it had only been bad luck that he’d been discovered. When Blair found out that he had come out here without him, the grad student would be seriously pissed.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Donnie Arnott stood with the rifle pointed toward the ground as he stared at the hole someone had cut in his fence.

Playing the flashlight beam over the forest floor on the other side of the chain link, he could see a trail of blood leading toward the road. The animal he had seen, too big to be a dog, had been hurt all right. Maybe it was bleeding too bad to get much farther.

He swept the beam in an arc. When the yellow light struck a knapsack and a pile of clothing, he went rigid, then charged toward the fence, his fingers gripping the cold metal links as he stared in disbelief.

Holy Shit!

He’d expected to come upon the animal dazed and wounded- cowering against the battier- waiting helplessly for the kill shot.

instead he found someone had cut a damn hole in his fence. A hole large enough for the animal to squeeze through.

Turning, he trotted back to the house, where he quickly exchanged the rifle for a pistol and grabbed a plastic trash bag. Then he jumped in his Land Rover and sped toward the gate.

Jesus. What if he hadn’t come outside tonight?

He’d been walking through the woods- the need for another young man building in his gut like gas expanding through a rotting body. it had been weeks since he’d finished with Larry. And the memories of the things Donnie had done to the man had the power to bring him to hard, aching arousal.

After the first college student he’d taken, he’d waited almost a year before daring to repeat the delicious adventure. Last time, he’d been able to hold off for only a few months.

He made guttural sound in his throat. Larry had been too frightened, had given up too easily. And Donnie hadn’t gotten the full measure of gratification he craved. That was why he had been so restless tonight. but he was thankful now that he had been out of the house because he’d heard the animal digging, taken aim, and scored a shot.

Donnie screeched to a halt at the gate, jumped out of the SUV and worked the combination of the padlock. After driving to the other side, he carefully relocked the barrier before barreling down the driveway and turning right, heading for the spot on the road parallel to here the knapsack was lying.

Was the man coming back for his stuff? Unlikely. Probably he’d gotten the hell out of the area while the getting was good, with or without the dog, or whatever it had been.

Donnie found the knapsack and clothing easily enough. Squatting, he stared at the abandoned possessions, wondering if this were some kind of trap. Like what? A bomb stuffed in a shoe?

With a snort, he pawed through the knapsack, finding a collection of tools. Then he picked up a shirt and shoes. Only the trousers and underwear were missing. Touching the discarded clothing sent a shiver of dread slithering down his spine. Thrusting the feeling aside, he stuffed everything into the plastic bad he'd brought, hoping the guy had been stupid enough to have put an ID tag on the knapsack.

That would make things easier, although it wasn't essential. Someone had sent an animal to his private graveyard tonight- and he had to assume that it wasn’t a random act of bad luck. Some bastard had discovered what he was doing and had come after him with a bloodhound. No, not a hound. Something bigger, with short black fur. But what? He hadn't gotten a clear look before he'd shot it.

His hand clamped around the butt of the gun, the cold metal digging into his flesh. He was going to find out who it was-because failure was not an option, not when failure meant the end of everything. Life, freedom and the sexual gratification he needed like the very air he breathed.

End Panther Moon (for now)