Chapter Three
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The sun was well up when Owen Treharn left the diner on Cold Creek’s Main Street. He stopped for a moment to stretch and try to shake off the ugly emotions rasping over his skin. Last night had been the full moon when shifters gathered to ensure the Daonain race would continue. From moonrise to moonset, he’d mated female after female. He didn’t even know how many.
He shook his head. Who would have thought he’d ever tire of full moon Gatherings?
Admittedly, sex was enjoyable, sure, but wasn’t there supposed to be more? And dealing with females? Fuck, he’d rather fight a hellhound.
The hours of mating hadn’t helped his wrist either. Grimacing, he rotated his left wrist. Felt as if a beaver was gnawing on it with dull teeth.
He snorted. He’d always been willing to die for his people, and when the God had called him to serve as a cahir—a warrior of the Daonain—he’d been overjoyed. Funny how in the stirring bard tales of glorious sacrifice, the aftermath of battle and the irritating injuries went unmentioned.
At least the pain had eased up. And the busted bones had been for a good cause, since his attack had kept a hellhound from ripping Ben’s arm off. His big grizzly partner had managed to break free, but the hellhound fractured Owen’s wrist in the process.
The North Cascades healer, Donal, had closed the gory bites, but busted bones didn’t fuse together quickly. It’d taken him two days at a slow human’s walk to get to his remote cabin. Yesterday, he’d returned to Cold Creek in cat form, but the bones weren’t quite healed, and mating all night hadn’t helped.
Fuck, he was tired. Despite two cups of coffee, he felt as if his tail was dragging in the dust.
With a grunt, he scratched his stubbled jaw. He needed to shave. Feeling hair on his face reminded him too much of adolescence when he’d claw himself by accident, belatedly realizing he’d unexpectedly trawsfurred into a cougar. Damn embarrassing. His brother, Gawain, who’d rarely trawsfurred by accident, would merely grin in sympathy. His other littermate, Edwyn, had gloated, even though his control had been even worse.
Edwyn. Owen’s mood ran downhill like an avalanche of mud. Spoiled rotten, Edwyn had been an entitled, unlikable brat. If denied something, he’d go after it anyway, no matter how much damage he caused.
But, by the God, he shouldn’t have died. First, one female had ruined him from birth, and another had sent him to his death.
Owen shook his head and turned his thoughts from his past. Gathering night’s enforced intimacies always left him feeling as if someone had skinned him and hung his carcass from a tree. This morning, his mood was as mean as a half-starved badger’s.
He needed to go home to his isolated cabin. But…Gawain had been at the Gathering last night, and it’d be good to spend some time with him. Maybe. If he could figure out what to talk about, since it seemed as if Gawain had inherited all the conversational skills.
But damn, it was nice to see his brother again. Maybe he could just sit and let Gawain talk?
They’d both changed in the last…what…twenty-five years since they’d separated? When Owen had walked away from Pine Knoll at sixteen, Gawain had been apprenticed to a metalsmith. Pride swelled in Owen’s chest because, somewhere along the line, his littermate had been called by the Goddess to be a blademage—a magical blacksmith.
Every cahir who had access to a blademage wore a magicked blade, because there were no finer knives in the world.
“Look, look!”
“Unca Wen!”
At the sound of his nephews’ high voices, Owen stopped, and love swept through him. Smiling, he went down on one knee and braced. One tiny body hit him, then another, like the patter of acorns in a high wind. “What are you two doing in town?”
Luke bounced on his tiptoes. “We get b’ekfast at the diner. Da said Mommy is sweepy.”
“Sleepy,” their father Brady corrected with a grin. The male’s eyes were half-lidded with both exhaustion and satisfaction. Owen figured the three lifemates had spent all night mating.
“An’ Da Van is sweepy, too,” Tyler said.
Owen smothered a laugh. As he rubbed his cheek over Tyler’s soft hair, he noticed a human leaving Angie’s diner with a donut box.
Bonnie had always loved chocolate donuts. His sister was an amazing female, not manipulative or self-centered—nothing like their mother. He’d never regretted moving here to be closer to her, and she’d given the Daonain two fantastic cubs. She deserved all the treats in the world. “Luke, Tyler, I saw chocolate-covered donuts in the diner. Why don’t you buy some for you…and your mama?”
The screams of glee made him wince. Angie might nip his ears off if the tiny terrors disturbed her customers. “Cubs,” he said sternly. “You have to be quiet as little mice to earn donuts. Can you do that?”
Vigorous nods.
Brady clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, cahir. You heading back to your cabin today?”
“Probably. Tell my sister I’ll stop by when I return for dark of the moon.”
Brady nodded, although his mouth flattened at the reminder of the dangers during moonless nights. Because of the human encroachment, more hellhounds hunted the North Cascades Territory. As a cahir, Owen stood between danger and his people.
Cahirs often died young. And yet—Owen ruffled Tyler’s hair—was there anything more important than protecting the cubs?
With a nod to Brady, Owen rose and headed toward the wilderness lodge where he’d stayed yesterday. By now, the innkeeper Breanne would be serving breakfast.
A few minutes later, as he approached the lodge, he spotted a tiny pixie perched in a huge fuchsia bush, nibbling on a bloom. Not a sprite’s favorite food, but summer’s bounty was decreasing. Even the miniature roses in the porch planters were done flowering. But… He plucked a rose hip and tossed it over.
The pixie caught the marble-sized hip, examined it, and chittered happily.
This kind of female he could tolerate. Open and honest. No manipulation. When given a treat, a sprite openly exhibited her delight. A shame Daonain females weren’t the same.
Inside, the tantalizing scent of bacon drew him through the main lodge to a glass-walled dining room in the rear. Three shifter females at a window table were already chowing down.
Ignoring them, Owen walked into the kitchen.
“Hey, Owen.” At the sink, Zeb, a fellow cahir, acknowledged his presence in a gravelly voice. Somewhere over the past centuries, a Native American human had joined the bloodline of the mostly Celtic shifters. Zeb had black hair, dark brown eyes, and his bronzed skin showed a wealth of scars, many from hellhounds’ teeth and claws.
Shay, another cahir and Zeb’s blood brother, nodded a greeting. Called by the God to serve, cahirs were gifted with additional strength and size, usually ending up around six and a half feet tall. The three of them made even the huge kitchen feel crowded.
And they dwarfed Zeb and Shay’s pretty lifemate who stood at the stove.
Breanne smiled over. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send Shay to find you.”
“It’d take a hellhound to make me miss one of your breakfasts.” Owen returned her smile. Bree was a likable female. The rough time she’d had when first coming to Cold Creek had revealed unexpected courage and generosity of spirit. Although being lifemated to one female seemed a form of insanity, he had to admit his friends had been lucky to win Bree for their mate. “Gotta say, having one of your breakfasts after a Gathering makes coming into Cold Creek truly worthwhile.”
The way she brightened made her almost radiant, and Shay grinned. “Pretty compliments get your plate loaded to the edges.”
“Challenge accepted.” Owen took the cup of coffee Zeb poured and leaned against a counter.
“Calum wanted a word before you left,” Shay said. “He should be here soon.”
“Food, first?” Owen gave the bacon-filled skillet an assessing look.
Breanne laughed. “Yes. Go have a seat, and Shay will bring it out in about five minutes.”
Owen’s stomach rumbled a complaint at the delay.
With a snort, Zeb tossed him a muffin from a pile on the counter. “Start on that.”
Owen went out to the sunny dining room and paused.
The three other lodgers were still there, doing that giggling thing females did. High and shrill, the sounds reminded him of his mother whenever a lover had visited. His jaw locked. On one occasion, he had accidentally spilled his drink on a male’s shoes and discovered how quickly giggles could turn to shrieks of rage. And pain…
Bah. What the crap was wrong with him? For years, he’d managed to keep Pine Knoll out of his mind. Was Gawain’s presence dredging up these ugly memories?
Selecting a corner table far from the females, Owen turned his back and put his feet up on the windowsill. Nibbling on the muffin, he gazed out the window at the huge flagstone patio. The small playground Zeb had built was empty of cubs. On the far right, Zeb’s latest project, a built-in seat wall, curved around what would eventually be a circular fire pit. Down the grassy slope was a gurgling creek where silvery undines swam in a flashing game of tag beneath the footbridge. Past the creek, the dense forest sloped upward into the mountains.
The sound of footsteps caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder.
Carrying a cup of coffee, Gawain strolled into the room. It was still a surprise to see him as an adult, but grown up he was. Only a couple of inches short of Owen’s six-five, he had a full, neatly trimmed beard and wavy, light brown hair that reached surprisingly broad, muscular shoulders. Spotting Owen, he lifted his eyebrows in a silent question. Up for company?
Owen suppressed a grin as he shoved a chair out with his foot. Whereas Owen had the manners of a tactless dwarf, Gawain could be as courteous as their high Fae ancestors were reputed to have been.
Yeah, he’d missed his littermate over the years.
As Gawain crossed the room, the giggling from the corner began again. If Owen’d been in animal form, his ears would have gone back. He shouldn’t be surprised the females had set their sights on Gawain since blademages were called by the Mother in the same way cahirs were called by the God. Females always pursued the God-chosen…whether they liked the male or not.
Owen studied his littermate. He and his siblings had been conceived during a full moon Gathering, which meant they had different fathers, appearances, and personalities. With light brown hair and fair skin, Gawain looked and acted like a sociable, easygoing Scottish laird. Owen’s father probably had Latino blood—and perhaps the sociability of a wolverine, although Owen might have developed that trait all on his own.
As Gawain took a seat, Owen eyed him. “Maybe you should sit somewhere else.”
“What?”
“With a cahir and a blademage at one table, how long before a female approaches to see if we want to fuck, even though the Gathering is over?”
Gawain shook his head. “You’ve grown rather cynical, brawd.”
“Maybe.” Owen’s mouth tightened. Maybe he’d been more optimistic at birth—before their mother showed her hatred. Or before Edwyn’s death when Owen had left with Bonnie and not returned. “Cynicism grows with experience.”
Gawain took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the covey of females. “I don’t mind being pursued. And Cold Creek’s females are impressive.”
“Nah, the females resemble those in other territories.” Unmated males were urged to sow their seed in more than one territory, and Owen had done his share of traveling.
“In appearance, yes. But your Cosantir draws a high percentage of shifters with intelligence, flexibility, and acceptance into his territory.”
Huh. “I try not to talk with the females I mate,” Owen muttered. “But Calum is an unusual Cosantir.”
“You try not to…” Gawain stared at him and shook his head. “Brawd, you worry me.”
A scream of laughter sliced through their conversation as the females’ voices rose.
“The healer adores big breasts.” The buxom brunette cupped her breasts and bounced them. “Just think. He’s got a nice house and money. I’d be set for life.”
“Poor Donal,” Owen muttered. “The predators are circling him like hawks after a chicken.”
“I’d rather have one of the cahirs.” The blonde fluffed her hair.
“Fat chance,” the brunette told her. “The only unmated cahir left is that brown-haired one who never talks. He might be all right if he had a lot of money, but…”
“Owen’s nice.” The youngest bounced in her seat. “He liked me. I know it.”
The brunette sniffed. “I doubt it. That cahir doesn’t…” Her voice trailed off as she obviously remembered he was in the room.
When the females turned to look, Owen curled his lip in a snarl. “I’ll let the males in town know you three are out for money and a house—and that, in my opinion, they might as well fuck a human.”
They were shocked silent at the coarse insult.
He scowled at the youngest female, a slender redhead he’d mated with last night. “And I don’t like you; I don’t like any female. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to fuck you vultures one night of every month.”
The younger one burst into tears and fled…followed by the other two.
“By the Goddess, Owen.” Gawain shoved to his feet. “What is wrong with you?”
Guilt made Owen growl as he stood. “Did you hear them? Donal deserves better. Fuck, even I deserve better.”
“You made that little female cry.” Gawain grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. “You can’t—”
“Back off, brawd.” Owen slammed his palm against his brother’s chest.
Gawain staggered back, knocked over a chair, and regained his balance. “You mindless moose.” Head down, he charged Owen, his head impacting Owen’s sternum. Painfully. A table and chairs crashed under their weight.
As Owen broke free and nailed Gawain in the jaw, Shay shouted from across the room. “By the God, stop!”
Not a chance. Adrenaline crooned a battle song in Owen’s ears. He hadn’t had a good fight—a fun fight—with anyone in years. A grin pulled at his mouth—until Gawain’s fist wiped it away.
Scat on the trail. When had his brother learned to punch?
Blinking away the swirling stars, Owen spat, “Flabby feline, that the best you can do?” Readying an attack, he spotted a tall, dark-haired, olive-skinned, leanly muscular man at the kitchen door.
It was Calum. Oh fuck.
How long had the Cosantir been watching? “Stop, brawd.”
Gawain halted. Looked. His hand relaxed, and he took a step back.
“Sorry,” Owen said under his breath.
Gawain nodded, and a corner of his mouth curved up. Slow to ignite, the blademage’s temper was hotter than the fire in his forge, but his anger died quickly, and he held no grudges.
Owen’s anger didn’t contain as much heat, but could take hours…days…to disappear.
Then there was Calum. The God-called guardian of the North Cascades Territory kept firm control over his temper, and his anger was as icy as the glaciers covering the highest mountain peaks.
Gawain’s fury could be intimidating. Calum’s wrath was deadly.
Might as well see how badly his whiskers were about to be trimmed. Owen gave a slight bow and attempted a smile. “Good morrow, Cosantir. Do you remember my littermate, Gawain? He’s a blademage from Pine Knoll in Mt. Hood Territory.”
Calum’s normally gray eyes were dark with the presence of the God.
Owen heard his littermate make a soft sound at the impact of the black gaze.
“I remember Gawain,” Calum said.
“Cosantir,” Gawain acknowledged quietly.
Calum’s faint English accent grew terser with his anger. “Three females ran from the room.”
By Herne’s hairy balls, females were more trouble than anything on the planet. What was he supposed to say? I’m sorry would be a lie. “They annoyed me.”
“Nia was crying.”
The youngest one. “She boasted that I liked her. She lied.”
Calum’s voice held a chill that matched his eyes. “If a young one has only experienced a Gathering or two, she might misread a mating for something more. Childish boasting is harmless. Even if irritated, an honorable adult doesn’t cut down a tree to move a branch out of his path.”
No argument could stand up. As Calum had noted, the female was young and inexperienced. Owen bowed his head. “I was overly harsh.”
The evenness of Calum’s voice was more menacing than a shout. “You are often overly harsh with the females. You may well regret your intolerance when you try to win a mate.”
Owen stared at him. “I will never lifemate.”
Calum lifted a brow. Rather than answering, he appraised the room, and Owen winced. Several chairs were busted. A painting lay on the floor, the frame broken. “It seems you are also angry with your littermate,” Calum said. “Was there a reason?”
He hadn’t done anything right this morning. “Not really, Cosantir.”
An eyebrow rose. “Indeed. Aside from females, your judgment of people tends to be quite accurate. If you dislike your littermate so much, should I drive him from my territory?”
For Herne’s sake.
Beside Owen, Gawain stiffened—and stood his ground.
“No, Cosantir. My brother is a fine shifter. Strong and honorable. A talented blademage. We simply have a history which lies uneasily between”—no, that wasn’t right—“with me.”
Gawain looked over and a corner of his mouth lifted, his emotions right there on his face for everyone to see. How could they have been birthed by the same female?
Calum’s eyes narrowed. “History shouldn’t become a weight tied to a shifter’s tail.” His attention turned to Gawain. “I’ve heard you and your Cosantir are at odds.”
Gawain probably had cause. Last Beltane, Owen had watched the Pine Knoll Cosantir acting the fool.
Calum looked at Owen. “Cahir, you have risked your life for our people. I won’t invite someone here who makes you unhappy.”
Unhappy. That wasn’t what he felt when his brother was around. Not any longer. Owen collected his laggard wits and offered his Cosantir the truth of his heart. “I would be pleased to have Gawain here. I would also be pleased to punch him when he annoys me.”
The darkness disappeared from the Cosantir’s eyes, and his quicksilver grin appeared. “That seems clear enough. Gawain, the North Cascades Territory could use a blademage. You are welcome to move here.”
Gawain’s eyes lit.
“He’s only welcome if he and the idiot cahir clean up the mess they made,” Zeb growled from the kitchen.
“We will, Zeb.” Owen frowned. “Cosantir, Shay said you wanted to speak to me?”
“Aye. I have a task for you, cahir.”
Owen bowed his head. “Your will, Cosantir.”
“Although I’d considered sending Alec, now I believe you are a better choice.” Before Owen could feel complimented, Calum added, “A visit to a city might remind you of what is important in life.”
“A city?” By the God, cities were full of…humans. And metal and concrete. And humans. Where they gathered in large numbers, their putrid odors would make a skunk gag. Owen smothered his objections. Calum chose only what was best for the Daonain.
Didn’t mean Owen would enjoy the assignment.
“A female cougar shifter has been seen in a Seattle park for a number of days.” Calum frowned. “Possibly, she blundered into the city and can’t find her way out, or she might be feral.”
“No, not feral.” Gawain’s brow wrinkled with his dismay.
Owen suppressed his own hiss of protest. Feral shifters had to be killed, and cahirs did the killing. Over the years, he’d returned five feral males to the Mother, and he remembered each gut-wrenching death. Each name. But he’d never had to kill a female. Although most females he’d encountered were self-centered and sneaky liars, he’d rather rip off his tail than physically hurt one.
“After you pack, come to the bar to get the keys to the car,” Calum said. “Tynan will meet you near the park.”
Tynan. Healer Donal’s littermate lived in the fucking city and worked as a cop for humans. The male must be crazier than a bee-stung badger. “You sure he knows what he’s doing?”
Amusement lit Calum’s eyes. “I daresay he knows better than you, cahir.”
Ouch. Owen bent his head, said, “Your will, Cosantir,” and retreated while he could.
Gawain fell into step beside him.
Owen stopped. “What’s up?”
“I’ll clean up the dining room and fix what we busted.” Gawain hesitated. “Thank you for what you said to the Cosantir. I’d hoped to talk with you before meeting him.”
“Talk about what?”
Gawain rubbed his hand over his beard. “Brawd. We haven’t been… After Edwyn died, it was difficult to be together. Made his absence more painful. I know you felt the same. But the missing bond is scarred over now, and I miss you.”
His littermate had always been appallingly upfront. Owen shut his eyes, remembering how it had felt as if a piece of himself had been ripped away when Edwyn died. Yet, as with a missing limb, the wound had closed. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I’m moving out of Pine Knoll no matter what. But if my presence here causes you pain, I’ll find a different territory.”
“No. Stay.” The Cosantir was right that the territory needed a permanent blademage. The last one had been ancient, rarely worked, and had recently moved to Elder Village.
And it was time Owen stopped hiding in a corner like a wounded cub. He scrubbed his face with his hands as if he could groom the awkwardness away and tried a smile. “I’ve missed having someone to fight with.”
“Oh. In that case, far be it from me to deprive you of your fun.” With an evil grin, Gawain casually shoved Owen face-first into the wall.
Well, fuck. Owen gingerly shook his head, ears humming as if he’d bumped into a beehive. The fucking blademage had put on some serious muscle.
*
The trip to Seattle had taken so long that Owen’s skin felt infested by a thousand fleas. It was a shame Gawain hadn’t been assigned to this damn trip instead. The idiot enjoyed human forms of transportation and didn’t see anything insane about trapping a body in a small metal box on wheels. Then again, blademages loved metal. Crazy fools.
Owen’s foot twitched on the gas pedal, but the Cosantir had warned him about speeding. If caught exceeding the posted “speed limit” numbers, he could get locked in a small iron cell with no view of the sky.
The thought made him want to curl into a ball.
Almost there. Off to the right, the setting sun glinted off a spindly mushroom-headed tower that rose from a forest of atrociously tall buildings. “What a fucking ugly place.”
A few minutes later, he escaped the multilane highway called I-5 onto quieter streets. As instructed, he drove past the Seward Park entrance and parked a short distance north.
A man in jeans and a hoodie leaned against a parked car. Around six feet tall. A bony face with a square jaw. Short, brown hair with reddish tints. Tynan had visited Cold Creek a time or two to see his littermate, the healer.
Owen parked, jumped out, and tucked the car key into his knife sheath. Along with the stench of the city, he could smell lake water, freshly cut grass, fir trees—and the faint wild scent of a shifter. “Tynan.”
“Good to see you, cahir.” The cop held out a thin hooded sweatshirt. “Put this on.”
Frowning, Owen did so. “Why? And why meet this far outside the park?”
“Because this section of the road has no street cameras. Closer in, there are people and cameras. Pull the hood up, keep your head down, and let’s go.” Doing the same, Tynan led the way down the sidewalk. Nearing a black van with darkly tinted windows, he said in a low voice, “This is one of the vehicles hunting the female. Slouch and keep your head turned.”
As the hair on the back of Owen’s neck rose, they passed the van. Humans were within. And he caught the scent of gun oil.
Avoiding the park entrance, Tynan crossed the grass at the northernmost corner into the park. His voice held a distinct Irish lilt as he said, “It’s a pretty park, this old growth forest in the city’s heart, and I often run here of a morning.”
Owen wanted to ask what kind of fucked-up Daonain would live in a city, but this wasn’t the time…if there ever was one. He’d rather expected the notorious city-living shifter to be wild-eyed and half-crazy. Instead, Owen could feel the rock-solid nature of Tynan’s personality. For whatever reason the wolf chose to live surrounded by humans, it wasn’t because he was insane.
Following Tynan, Owen strolled past bushes, various buildings, a parking area, and finally into a forest that would have been at home in the North Cascades Territory.
“Have you figured out what the female is doing here?” Perhaps she was a youngster who’d taken a dare to enter the city and gotten herself lost.
“I don’t know why she’s here; I do know why she hasn’t left. Vans—like the one we passed—are parked at the entrance and along the adjacent streets, monitoring every person who leaves. When I scouted yesterday, I also discovered some humans camping out.” Tynan glanced back, and anger simmered in his eyes. “They’re hunting her.”
Fury rose in Owen. Humans were hunting a female of the Daonain? “Do they believe they’re out to capture a wild animal—or a shifter?”
“Oh, and the hunters know she’s more than a cougar. Animal removal would normally be handled by the Department of Fish and Wildlife. This group isn’t with the state, yet they obtained permission from someone. The company name on their vehicles is magnetic—easy to put on and easy to remove.”
“Anything else?”
“The park caretaker says they’ve been here two or three days. Last night, they brought in hunting dogs.”
Owen barely suppressed a snarl.
As twilight faded into full dark, Tynan veered onto a deer trail, moved through the dense underbrush, and stopped. “Right, we’ll leave our clothes here.”
Owen nodded. Most of the city stink had disappeared under the moist green fragrance of the forest. Douglas firs and orange-barked madrone towered over ferns, vining blackberries, and huckleberries. After stripping, he moved his hunting blade from his calf to his forearm, seeing Tynan do the same. The magicked weapon sheaths would trawsfur with them and be inconspicuous on their furry forelegs.
Tynan studied him for a second. “Alec calls you ghost cat. Says, on a hunt, you’re the most cunning, silent shifter he’s ever seen. So I’ll get us close to the humans, and you can lead us around them.”
Owen nodded. When he, Alec, and Ben worked as a cahir team, they dumped the sneaky undertakings on Owen. “Works for me.”
Tynan shifted into a heavy-boned, muscular, silver-gray wolf.
Owen sniffed, trying to catch the female shifter’s scent, but only caught the stench of humans. “Let’s go find her.”
*
Way to go, tinker.
Darcy wanted to cry—but, hey, not an option for a cougar. It was so amazing that she’d actually trawsfurred. Only…the miracle had turned into a disaster. Because she couldn’t shift back.
In the chilly September night, she lay curled up and shivering in a dirt hollow above a tiny stream. Her right hind leg, right foreleg, and ribs throbbed angrily. The gunshot wounds and the areas she’d cut with her knife were oozing and smelled foul. The wounds were infected.
And she was trapped.
Over the past…however long it had been…she’d kept trying and trying to trawsfur back to human form. No luck. As the humans would say, she was screwed. With her injured legs handicapping her and no experience, she hadn’t caught any food in the forest.
As far as she could tell, Seward Park was a tiny peninsula, a “finger” projecting out into a huge lake. Whenever she’d tried to escape the park, the Scythe had blocked her escape. Yesterday, they’d brought in hunting dogs and more men.
From experiments on the Dogwood captives, the Scythe knew tranquilizers drove shifters berserk, which explained why the hunters were shooting real bullets, aiming to disable her. They’d spotted her at dawn, and a bullet had grazed her ribs, slowing her even more. She’d escaped only because the park had opened, and the hunters retreated to their camp.
They’d find her tonight.
As her despair deepened, she rubbed her chin on her forepaws. She’d only be free and alive for a few more hours. When they realized she wouldn’t let them take her alive, they’d shoot to kill.
Well, if she died tonight, at least she’d gotten to be a cougar. She closed her eyes, feeling the breeze ruffle her fur. As each hair tip moved, the wind’s touch felt like a caress.
Her ears swiveled to catch the sound of a rustle in the grass. Ears that turned were so strange. And difficult to control. If she actually tried to make her ears or tail move, nothing happened. But now, with sickness and exhaustion overwhelming her, her feline instincts were taking over.
A louder noise caught her attention, and she lifted her nose to scent the breeze.
Only the forest fragrance.
Last night, she hadn’t caught the scent of any Dogwood shifter-soldiers with the Scythe’s humans and dogs. What if the male villagers showed up to hunt her tonight? Her stomach knotted. To keep their littermates safe, they’d follow orders and capture her. However, in cougar form, she couldn’t speak to tell them about the second concealed tracker.
Could her escape have gone any more wrong?
Sure, it could have. Other shifter females or males might have been hurt during her breakout. That would have been intolerable.
As almost silent footsteps sounded, her ears pivoted. She smelled the air, but the wind was wrong, blowing her scent toward whatever was coming.
A naked man stepped out of the brush, sniffed, and his gaze fixed on her hiding place.
On her.
Cold terror flooded her. Run! She leaped out of the hollow toward the thickest underbrush. Pain stabbed into her wounded legs, and she hissed. Gathering herself, she leaped toward the—
A cougar smashed into her, knocked her onto her side, and came down on top of her. He was heavy, so heavy, and more pain shot through her.
Her claws emerged, and she twisted to bring them to bear.
A terrifying growl reverberated in her ear. Teeth closed on the back of her neck, and each time she moved, his jaws bit down. The animal could sever her spine if he wanted.
Panting in dread, she went limp.
Her worst fear had come true—the Scythe had sent the shifter-soldiers.
Tell them. She had to tell the males about the trackers right now. Her paws twitched as she tried to trawsfur back to human.
Nothing.
She lay still under the male and trembled.
The naked human walked out of the brush. He was tall with short brown hair and a square jaw. His lack of clothing indicated he was a Daonain shifter and not human.
“Conclusions, Owen?” the male asked. “If she’s not fighting you, I’d guess she’s not feral?”
The cougar holding her down made a chirrup-purr of agreement.
When the naked shifter drew closer, the teeth on her neck tightened to ensure she couldn’t attack the unarmed male.
“I smell blood. Did you damage her?”
The cougar made a low growl of no.
Keeping his distance, the naked male circled her and made a grunting sound. “Her right hind and foreleg have infected wounds. Got a bloody graze across her right ribs deep enough to show bone. Either she has been poking herself with sticks or someone shot her. More than once.”
The rumble of anger from the heavy cougar filled Darcy’s brain, and she flattened her ears, wishing she were as tiny as a mouse. A mouse might have a chance.
The naked male stared down at her. “You need to trawsfur to human so we can figure out what to do.”
The order was like a kick to her belly. Everything in her surged forward, trying to do as he asked…and failing again. The sound she made was more of a kitten’s whimper than a cougar’s snarl. Her shivering increased.
“By the Lady, we don’t have time for this.” The male frowned at her. “Now, female.”
The teeth clamped on her neck released her. As magic tingled in the air, the cougar on her back was replaced by a huge male in human form. He rose to his feet.
The shorter male put his hands on his hips. “Got a suggestion, Owen?”
Darcy tried to stand.
“Don’t move, female.” Even in human form, the one named Owen had a growl that shattered her courage. Several inches over six feet, he had straight, rich brown hair to his shoulders, dark stubble along a strong jaw, and thick, dark brows. He looked…mean.
When moonlight glinted across a blade-shaped scar on his cheekbone, she went still. Every Daonain knew the symbol for a cahir—a warrior of the Daonain.
He looked at the other male. “Tynan, I don’t think she can shift.”
“Of course she can shift. She’s fully grown, not some thirteen-year-old girl.”
“Uh-huh. I’m sure if you explain that to her carefully, she’ll trawsfur right back.”
Tynan gave the cahir a narrow-eyed look before turning his attention back to her. “You can’t change to human form, lass?”
Darcy shook her head from side to side. If they were Scythe, they wouldn’t talk with her. Although maybe their friendliness was a trick. If only her brain were working better. Still, why would they bother to talk? They wore knives and could simply cut her throat. Or bite through her spine. No discussion needed.
“Getting a wounded cat past the dogs and hunters will turn into what Calum’s mate calls a clusterfuck.” The annoyance in Owen’s low, rough voice was oddly reassuring…because he was on her side.
“No choice.” Tynan’s voice had the lilt of an Irish accent. “Cosantir’s orders.”
Cosantir? Darcy pulled in a breath of relief. A Cosantir, the God-empowered guardian of an entire territory, would never work for the Scythe. These males couldn’t be Scythe shifter-soldiers. Whatever were they doing in a city?
Oh, if she could only talk with them.
“Are you going to come with us nicely, female?” Owen’s question was blunt.
There was nothing she wanted more…but this was wrong. They couldn’t get her past the Scythe guarding the exits. She’d tried. The thought of putting these males into danger made her heart hurt. But she couldn’t speak and explain.
More importantly, they were offering her a chance to save the other villagers. She had to let them try. She nodded to Owen.
And if she died trying to escape? By the Mother’s sweet blessing, she would die in the company of her own kind.
“You know the area. Shift and lead us out, Tynan.” Owen trawsfurred and waited for the female to follow the wolf before bringing up the rear.
Tynan retraced their path for a while, then angled north to keep their scent from the encampment.
The little female—and fuck, she really was little—limped along without a sound. The air brought him the scent of her illness—sick, infected, starving. She was weak and wouldn’t be able to run long at all.
How could he sneak her past the encampment without the hunting dogs catching her scent? If it came to a chase, he might manage to wipe out the canines, but the animals were backed up by humans with weapons.
Anger ran through him and sang for him to enter their fucking camp and teach them the dangers of threatening a Daonain female.
Being sensible sucked. With a huff of disgust, he put his mind to devising a better plan than shred them all.
When Tynan finally halted and glanced back, Owen scuffed the dirt. In the paw language used by cublings during games, the gesture meant stay here. The cop might be competent in the city, but Owen lived in a forest—and hunted hellhounds. He’d do the reconnoitering.
Shifting to human, Tynan stepped in front of the female. The guards were too close for explanations, so the cop gripped her scruff and went down on his haunches, showing her that they’d wait.
After a second, she sank, belly to the ground.
Good. She was trying, and Owen appreciated that. On the trail, when she’d stumbled and thumped her wounded leg against a log, she hadn’t made a sound. Even now, as tremors shook her body, she stayed silent. She was sick—and scared—and by the God, she was a brave little thing.
He gave her a nod of approval before sliding silently into the brush and moving upwind.
Before approaching the camp, he circled to approach from upward, crept closer, then took to a tree. From the high vantage point, Owen watched the hunters form a long line of men. The dogs were readied to go. Two guards were chatting near three black vans and two pickups to the right of the tents. Vehicles. Hmm.
Averse to metal, shifters rarely became mechanics. But as a teen, Gawain had learned to hotwire cars to help shifters who’d gotten themselves into awkward situations. City-dwelling Tynan might well know the trick.
Plan formulated, Owen headed back toward where he’d left the others, pausing to deal with one sentry. He generously put the human to sleep rather than gutting him.
Tynan and the female were still where he’d left them.
Owen shifted and crouched to murmur, “So, cop. Can you hotwire a truck?”
“That I can. Stealing a vehicle is your plan?” Tynan glanced at the female. “Right. I doubt she’d be able to walk out.”
“I doubt it, too.” Owen gestured to the south. Downwind. He’d be able to draw the dogs and men away from the cars and keep them entertained. “I’ll create a diversion over there. The vehicles are on the north side. Take the pickup closest to the road, head for the exit, and I’ll catch up.”
Tynan’s displeased expression showed what he thought of driving away without Owen, but he nodded.
Owen pointed to the path they should take. “The guard there won’t bother you.”
“We’ll be off, then.” Tynan stroked the female and motioned for her to follow. After shifting to wolf form, he led the way down the trail Owen had indicated.
Time to hunt.
A few minutes later, Owen reached the end of the south sentry line and dropped out of the tree on top of the scent-impaired idiot. A quick slash-slash resulted in rewarding shouts of pain.
He leaped back into the trees, skipped the next sentry, and chose one who was walking in terrified circles. The scent of fear was gratifying.
His own scent should be drifting to the dogs about now.
Crouched on the branch, Owen waited for the right moment. The tip of his tail lashed. His haunches tensed.
The human turned.
Without a thought, Owen sprang, landed on the man’s back, and drove him onto his face. When Owen sank his fangs into the man’s shoulder, the pain-filled scream of terror was long and loud.
Shouldn’t be anyone asleep in the camp now.
Between the scent of cougar and the screams of pain, the dogs went into a frenzy. With several men shouting orders, chaos ensued.
Unheard in the uproar, an engine started up.
Huffing in satisfaction, Owen nipped the hunter’s ear to provoke another scream. And realized his mistake when shots peppered the area, snicking the leaves, and thwacking the tree trunks.
Owen snarled. The idiots were firing blindly, even with their own soldier in the line of fire.
A bullet hit the human, and his scream of agony sparked more gunfire.
Something thumped Owen’s leg—and pain burst like wildfire though his hind leg. A hiss escaped as he fought his cat instincts for control. The squirrel-brained humans had shot him.
Fuck, it hurt. His claws emerged, digging holes in the human beneath him. More screams.
Growling low in his throat, Owen darted into the underbrush. His leg flared with pain with every movement. He pulled in a deeper breath. Suck it up, cahir. He knew how to deal with pain. When killing hellhounds, a cahir fought—no matter how badly he was damaged—or that cahir died.
He needed to shake off the dogs and quickly. Trotting into a creek, he headed northward, staying in the water until the wind no longer blew his scent toward the dogs. With a grunt of pain, he sprang into a tree directly from the water, leaving no scent markers on the bank. A keen hound might catch his scent, but the wind was now in his favor.
Behind him, the shouting grew less terrified and more frustrated. Some idiot was still firing a weapon.
Traveling through the trees was slow going, and after a brief time, Owen dropped to the ground, winced when his foreleg almost gave out—damn broken bones—and raced for the road.
Satisfaction filled him at the sound of a pickup farther ahead. The cop had gotten the female out.
As Owen caught up, the truck showed no headlights and was going slow. Owen leaped into an empty spot in the truck bed, landed, and pain stabbed into his foreleg. Then his wounded hind leg bumped into a pile of crates. By the God. Hissing at the pain from fucking everywhere, he moved forward and pushed his muzzle against the rear cab window.
The female was curled in a miserable-looking ball on the floor.
Tynan met Owen’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. The cop touched his finger to his forehead in a salute, and the pickup surged forward.
As the distance from the humans’ encampment increased, the noise of shouting and firearms diminished. Tynan turned the headlights on.
The pickup approached the park entrance, which was bracketed by window-darkened black vans. The humans there sported rifles and holstered handguns. Leaving the tinted window up, Tynan slowed only slightly.
Smothering a snarl, Owen crawled under an overturned crate.
As Tynan drove past the vans, the guards didn’t attempt to stop them. It was their vehicle, after all.
A couple of minutes later, the pickup rocked to a stop beside their own cars.