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I launch myself into the fray, wings carrying me above the initial assault team. From my aerial vantage, patterns become clear—hunters moving with specific objectives rather than random aggression. Teams designated for capture, for containment, for specific targets identified through careful intelligence gathering. I relay the information back to the command center.

Through it all, I maintain awareness of Blair’s position through our bond. She remains in the command center, coordinating defensive responses with tactical precision.

Water Sprites create disorienting mists; Sasquatches deploy surprising strength, tossing huge boulders down embankments and hurling tree trunks like javelins; Shadow Cats materialize from darkness to neutralize advanced equipment with targeted strikes. Despite our resistance, the hunters advance with methodical determination. Their equipment neutralizes many cryptid abilities, their tactics account for defensive formations, and their objectives remain focused despite our attempts at misdirection.

“They’re approaching the command center,” Volt warns through our communication crystal. “It’s a primary strike team with specialized containment equipment.”

Anger surges through me as my blood runs cold. This isn’t a random assault but a targeted extraction—with Blair as the primary objective. Abandoning my current position, I launch toward the central chambers, wings straining for maximum speed.

The command center comes into view just as hunter teams breach its outer defenses. Crystal barriers shimmer and fail beneath concentrated disruptor fire, security protocols are systematically neutralized by technologies clearly designed for this purpose.

Inside, Blair coordinatesdefensive responses, her analytical mind processing tactical information with remarkable efficiency despite the approaching danger. Through our bond, I feel no fear from her—only focused determination and calculated response patterns.

As hunters bring specialized weapons to bear on the final barrier, I dive toward their position, abandoning stealth for direct intervention. My wings extend fully, talons prepared for precise strikes against equipment rather than personnel. But before I can reach them, a familiar figure emerges from the assault team’s center.

William Andrews steps forward, specialized weapon in hand that doesn’t target the barrier—but tracks my approaching form with unsettling precision.

“Predictable response patterns,” he observes with clinical detachment that echoes his daughter’s scientific tone. “The mate bond creates exploitable behavioral vulnerabilities.”

The weapon discharges with pinpoint accuracy. I twist midair, evading the primary trajectory but feeling a searing pain as the projectile grazes my wing membrane. Unlike my previous encounter, this toxin spreads immediately, fiery agony racing through tissue faster than anything I’ve experienced before.

Behind the barrier, Blair’s eyes widen with recognition. “Improved neurotoxin delivery system,” she analyzes with a professional assessment that doesn’t mask her horror. “Accelerated propagation parameters.”

“Precisely.” Her father’s voice carries pride in scientific achievement despite the context. “Specifically calibrated for Jersey Devil physiology based on recent assessments.”

Pain blurs my vision as I fight to maintain flight, wings struggling against rapidly spreading numbness. I sputter to the ground, unable to keep myself aloft.

“Blair. This is over. Come with me. We can study the Jersey Devil together.”

Through our bond, I feel Blair’s sudden shift from tactical assessment to desperate resolve. The barrier between us pulses with failing energy as hunter teams prepare their final breach.

“Secondary containment protocols engaged,” Andrews instructs his team, weapon still tracking my increasingly erratic flight. “Prepare for subject extraction with minimal damage. I’ll administer the antivenom when we have him contained.”

As another projectile launches toward me, something impossible happens. The barrier shatters outward rather than inward, and Blair lunges through the opening—directly into the weapon’s trajectory.

Time slows with crystalline clarity. The projectile meant for me grazes her shoulder as she moves between her father and me. Not a direct hit—the reflexes honed through years of hunter training allow her to avoid the worst of the impact—but enough to tear fabric and break skin. Enough for the toxin to enter her system.

“Blair!” Her father’sscientific detachment shatters completely, horror breaking through as his weapon strikes his daughter instead of its intended target.

I catch her before she can fall, wings curving protectively around her smaller form. The toxin from my own injury burns through my system, but the mate bond energy surges with a protective intensity that temporarily overrides the pain. Her body trembles against mine, the toxin designed for cryptid biology creating an immediate, more devastating, response in human physiology.

“Get her out of here,” Marina calls from nearby, Water Sprites creating a disorienting mist that momentarily renders the hunter teams sightless. “We’ll cover your retreat.”

William Andrews stands frozen, weapon lowered, expression locked in horrified disbelief at what his perfect tactical planning has wrought. “Blair,” he whispers, the hunter’s cold detachment abandoned in the face of paternal terror.

I don’t wait for his recovery. Body straining against growing toxin paralysis, I launch toward the sanctuary’s deeper chambers, Blair cradled against my chest. Behind us, sounds of battle continue, but with a subtle shift in intensity—hunters disorganized by their leader’s obvious distress, defensive teams exploiting the momentary tactical advantage.

“Secondary escape route,” Blair manages through gritted teeth, face pale but eyes clear despite toxin’s effects.

I follow her directions, navigating crystalline corridors towardthe sanctuary’s deeper chambers, where medical facilities offer temporary safety. Each step becomes more difficult as the toxin spreads, but I refuse to falter while she’s in my arms.

“The toxin…” she analyzes, professional detachment providing a framework for processing her own symptoms. “Modified neural pathways… accelerated delivery system…”

“Save your strength,” I urge, lungs burning with each powerful stride. “Analysis after treatment.”

Her smile holds pain but genuine warmth. “Always the pragmatist.”

The infirmary appears ahead, crystalline doors opening at our approach. Inside, Cliff already prepares treatment protocols, massive hands moving with surprising gentleness among medical supplies.