In just a few seconds, Vincent—now in his leopard form—was already perched atop the treetop.
The instant his paw touched the branch, his heart sank. Something was terribly wrong. The air was thick with the sickly-sweet scent of blood—uniquely feminine and all too familiar. The female who had always struck him as delicate and fragile was now pressed tightly against the tree trunk, swinging a branch with wild, desperate fury. And surrounding her—no fewer than a dozen bloodthirsty mosquitoes.
They attacked from all sides—above her head, from the left and right, her torso, her legs—darting in for blood. Her body was covered in splatters of red.
Vincent's eyes flicked to the ground below. Three mosquito corpses lay motionless beneath the tree. Without wasting a second, he moved toward her—bu
