Chapter Seven
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On Saturday afternoon, Owen entered the Wild Hunt tavern and stopped to swipe his sleeve over his wet face. The fall storms had begun. Outside the sturdy 1800s log building, thunder rumbled, and the early October rain drummed pleasantly against the windows.
As he waited for Gawain to arrive, the scents of popcorn and roasted peanuts made him wish he’d eaten more than the mouse he’d snatched up when out with Darcy earlier. Being a polite male, he’d let her eat all of the rabbit she’d caught. Actually, he’d been as pleased as she had been with her successful hunt. She’d done well.
He glanced around the room. Near the massive fireplace to the left, a shifter was reading a book. Two regulars were playing pool in the alcove on the right. At a center table, a male whose clothing stank of fish sat with another human and boasted in a nasal voice about his success on the stream. The rest of the heavy oak tables and chairs were empty.
Behind him, the door opened. Gawain stepped in and shook his wet hair, spattering Owen with water.
“You mangy-tailed maggot.” Owen wiped his face off…again. “You’re not a dog; stop acting like one.”
His littermate grinned and glanced around. “So where’s Calum?”
“Behind the bar.” Owen pointed headed toward where the gleaming wooden bar that extended across the back with a mirrored wall behind it.
“A Cosantir is a bartender?”
“Keeps him up on all the information. What he doesn’t hear, his brother Alec, the sheriff, does.”
Gawain scratched his beard. “Interesting and rather sneaky. Nice.”
Noticing their arrival, Calum motioned toward the end of the bar before crossing the room to serve the fisherman and his companion.
As Owen settled onto a wooden barstool, Calum returned. “Can I get you something?”
“Coffee would be great,” Owen said, and Gawain nodded.
Calum poured coffee for all of them and slid over a tray containing cream and sugar. “How are you feeling, cahir?”
“Good. My leg’s fine. The wrist is…close.” It tweaked his tail to admit Calum’s order to rest and heal had been appropriate.
“Excellent. How is Darcy doing?”
Gawain picked up a cup. “Fair to middling. Unfortunately, her healing is slower since she was so physically run-down. Donal ordered her to take it easy for a while yet.”
“I see.” Calum frowned. “How about her shifting and control?”
“Her control is normal for having her first trawsfur only a week ago”—Gawain grinned—“although she’s more frustrated than a pixie unable to reach a flower.”
“She is.” Owen snorted. “Most new shifters expect they’ll screw up. Not being a youngster, Darcy figured she’d be perfect by now.”
Gawain studied Calum. “Owen mentioned your mate was human before the Death Gift transformed her to Daonain. Did being an adult speed up her control over shifting?”
Owen blinked. Good question.
“Victoria achieved control quickly, but it wasn’t due to her age,” Calum answered. “Years as a soldier gave her a superb mastery over her body, which extended to her ability to shift. Breanne, however, went through much of what Darcy is experiencing.”
“Darcy will get there, even if not fast enough to suit her.” Owen’s lips twitched. The female was fun to watch when she got frustrated. He took a sip of his coffee. “You wanted to see me, Cosantir?”
“Aye. I want to discuss where you live.”
“My cabin?” Owen frowned. What was wrong with his place? The Cosantir had visited a couple of times in the past years and admired it. Had even helped Owen learn to brew his own beer.
“Not your cabin, but the location.”
“Owen showed me on a map where his place is.” Gawain shook his head. “Insane cat. Admittedly, I don’t want my den side-by-side with someone else’s, but a dozen miles of wilderness seems excessive. I’d rather be able to stroll down to a tavern or restaurant in the evening.”
Owen sighed. He’d hoped Gawain would come and live with him. Littermates belonged together. Silently, he absorbed the disappointment.
“Your cabin is far away, cahir, and I have a couple of concerns.” The Cosantir’s gaze rested on Owen. “Yesterday, on Main Street, some shifters found a hellhound’s scent.”
“Yesterday?” Gawain straightened. “I thought they only appeared when it’s moonless.”
Owen’s gut hardened. “They shift to their hellhound form only at the dark of the moon; they’re in human form otherwise. This one could be scouting Cold Creek and targeting vulnerable shifters.” The thought was worrying. Although the cahirs patrolled on moonless nights, if a hellhound was prepared, his prey might die before help arrived.
Calum frowned. “And even in human form, the demon-dog might attack someone. Violence trails a hellhound like a coyote after a lame rabbit.”
Owen nodded. The Cosantir was right to be worried. “You said you had two concerns?”
“Aye. In addition to a hellhound in town, there is the danger of the Scythe. Darcy’s former captors are undoubtedly searching for her.”
“But her trackers were removed,” Gawain said.
Calum nodded. “However, if they have any suspicion she was rescued, their experience with Dogwood will point them toward the closest wilderness areas. This territory.”
“You want me to move into town,” Owen said slowly.
“I do.” Rather than trying to persuade him, Calum walked away to fill another order.
Owen swirled his coffee, gazing into the black liquid. After years of peace, Cold Creek was being threatened by multiple foes. He was a cahir—called by Herne the Hunter to defend the Daonain and given increased strength and size to do so. He’d seen what was left after a hellhound attacked a shifter—gore, shattered bones, and eviscerated corpses.
It seemed that being several hours away from the people he was guarding was…no longer possible.
“I don’t like living in towns,” he muttered. He loved his isolated cabin. No power lines, no phones, no cars—
“Aren’t you supposed to defend your people?” The question came from behind him.
—and no females. Recognizing the smoky voice as Darcy’s, Owen turned. “What did you say?”
“You’re a cahir, right?” When Darcy set her hands on her hips, Owen felt his muscles tense. Now would come the screaming, hitting, and throwing things.
Rather than rising to a shriek, her sultry voice lowered. “The Scythe are searching for shifters. Do you want to come back and find your town burned to the ground? All the Daonain gone? What’s wrong with you?” She gripped his arm and actually tried to shake him.
He plucked her hand from his arm and held it—and her—in place. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t move. I said I don’t like towns. I’ll be moving here.” He glanced at Gawain. “Females. Always jumping to hasty conclusions.”
Darcy made an annoyed sound.
“Mmmhmm. You making a remark like that? Sounds like the ocean calling a lake wet.” Gawain’s smile faded, and he hesitated. “Ah…I’ve missed you, brawd. Since you’re moving to town, want to get a house with me? Try living together?”
“Yeah.” The answer came so easily Owen knew he’d been burying his feelings deeper than he would his own scat. Sharing a room at the lodge with his littermate was comfortable. Home-like. No, better—since they’d never had what could be called a home. There was no stress in being with Gawain, just familiarity. “As long as we can find something near the edge of town.”
Gawain nodded. “Aye. And I need a place for smithing. We’ll find something that works.”
A tug made him realize he was still holding the female’s hand.
Her eyes were the darkness of a lake at midnight…and narrowed. At him.
“You’re glaring at me, little cat.” By Herne’s holy antlers, she was pretty when she was pissed-off. He had to say, it was refreshing not to be treated like a stud male…or feared. “Are you still angry with me for finding your hiding place this morning?”
“For finding me? No. For knocking me into the creek? Oh, yes.” The fiery snap in her voice made him grin. The screech she’d let out had been amazing and then she’d lost control and shifted to human. Fuck, she’d been angry. Yet her voice had never risen above a whisper as she spewed a stream of very interesting human curses.
She tugged on her hand again. “Please let go.” Even now, her voice was low and polite.
Her personality was remarkably restrained. Why did that spark a perverse need to shake her up? Rather than releasing her, he kept her hand imprisoned. Such a delicate hand, and yet her fingers held calluses that spoke of hard work.
“Darcy, thank you for coming.” The Cosantir smiled at her before glancing at Owen, then her hand in an unspoken order.
Well, scat. His fun was over. He opened his hand.
Moving closer to Gawain, she cast Owen a fulminating look. With her strong personality, it was easy to forget her size. And whenever she was steaming mad? He could swear she grew almost a foot.
Still left her a fuck of a lot shorter than he was.
Wisely holding back laughter, Gawain winked at him before asking, “Darcy, are you in the mood for some coffee?”
“I…” She pushed her annoyance aside with impressive skill. “Sure. I’d love coffee.” Her smile curved her cheeks, created dimples beside her mouth, and totally transformed her face.
He realized interest hummed in his blood, and he was watching her as a male would a female he wanted to mate.
No. Owen stomped on the emotion with a ruthless paw. Absolutely not. Maybe if she chose him at a Gathering, he’d enjoy her favor then. And only then.
Darcy caught the dawning masculine appreciation in Owen’s gaze before his expression went blank and his eyes shuttered. The loss seized her before she regained some common sense.
She didn’t want to attract a male. This wasn’t the time or place. There probably would never be a time or place. She couldn’t afford to rely on a mate—or anyone. Not really. She’d learned to stand on her own two feet…and now she had four paws. Four paws were wonderfully stable, far better than feet any day.
Well, they would be more reliable if she could regulate when she had paws and when she had feet. Honestly, inadvertently shifting was—
“Here you go.” Gawain set a cup in front of her and slid the cream and sugar closer. “Owen said you hunted well this morning.”
She couldn’t have asked for a better opening. “I did. In fact,”—her attention turned to the Cosantir—“I’m ready to go search for my brothers and the shifter-soldier compound.”
“Indeed. Are you in control of your shifting?”
Under the Cosantir’s level gray gaze, she couldn’t lie. Getting dumped into cold water had made her trawsfur. And just this morning, she’d rolled out of bed, landed on four paws, and realized she’d changed in her sleep. She shook her head. “Soon, though.”
She couldn’t wait forever. “Cosantir, the male villagers—the shifter-soldiers—must be told about the hidden trackers right away. Since the males visit the female littermates every few months, they—”
“Why the visits?” Owen asked. “Why show captives that mercy?”
Mercy? Darcy’s laugh came out bitter. “Not mercy. The Scythe think they have to let us visit. You see, humans can’t feel their bonds to family or lovers. If they’re parted too long, apparently the love dies. So, the shifter-soldiers visit the prison to ensure each male continues to love his sister and won’t put her at risk by trying to break free or refusing an order. It also proves to the males their sisters are still captives.”
“Clever and effective.” Gawain tilted his head at Owen. “Face it, we’d do just about anything to keep Bonnie from being hurt.”
Owen looked like he’d bitten into a sour huckleberry. “Yeah.”
“When the males visit the prìosan in two to three months, my brothers won’t find me there. They’ll revolt—and the Scythe will kill them.” The thought made her breathing go all funny, and she closed her eyes.
Her hair was given a stern tug. “Stay human, Darcy,” Owen growled.
She froze, realizing that, in her mind, she’d opened the door to the wild. Had been about to trawsfur. Appalled, she slammed the door shut and edged away.
When she looked up, Gawain’s hand was on her back. Owen’s fingers were wound in her hair, keeping her from doing something stupid.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
With a grim nod, Owen released her hair and moved back.
Well, that sure showed the Cosantir she couldn’t leave yet. Her breath escaped in a long unhappy sigh.
Gawain squeezed her shoulder. “You’ll get better, catling.”
“Tynan is searching for the property where Darcy was held,” Calum told Owen. “But she couldn’t give much of a description of the location or property. Two three-story houses surrounded by a high stone wall. Somewhere in Seattle to the west of Lake Washington.”
Gawain snorted. “If I were chased through the streets without a map and no knowledge of cities, I’d do no better.”
Gratitude for his understanding welled within her.
“Aye. Human cities are pure chaos.” Calum frowned. “From what Darcy’s said, even if Tynan finds the location, we cannot rescue the females until we—”
“You’d help? Help get the villagers free? Even though they’re in a city?” Hope rose like a fountain.
Calum considered her thoughtfully. “Having any of our people—especially females—held by humans doesn’t sit well with me. Yet I can make no promises, Darcy. Danger lurks on every path I can see, so at this point, we are merely collecting information.”
Her hope drained away. For a moment, she had childishly hoped for miracles. Unable to speak past the disappointment clogging her throat, she nodded her understanding.
Calum turned back to Owen. “Rescuing the females before finding the soldier’s compound won’t work. If the hostages are lost, the Scythe would undoubtedly eliminate the males as an uncontrollable risk.”
No, no, no. Her hands closed into fists as she fought the need to shift and run and find her littermates. Owen’s lean hand landed on her shoulder and kept her focused.
Although the cahir wasn’t touching her for comfort, but to prevent problems, she couldn’t help but feel thankful.
“I can assist, Cosantir,” Gawain said. “Maybe Owen and I could do some scouting for the males’ location.”
Owen nodded. “Agreed. Where should we start?”
Sheer surprise left her speechless.
The Cosantir shook his head. “I fear your search will take you out of Herne’s domain. There are no unknown shifters in my territory, and when I contacted the Washington and Oregon Cosantirs, they verified the same.”
“How do you know that so quickly?” Darcy asked.
Owen answered for Calum. “A Cosantir can sense every shifter in his territory. It’s one of their powers.”
Her teeth ground together. Wasn’t it appalling how much she didn’t know about her own people?
“Permission to leave the territory and search, Cosantir?” Owen asked.
Calum nodded. “If you and Gawain find time from setting up your household, I’d appreciate if you searched for the shifter-soldiers.”
Owen grinned. “We’ll need a break from that moving shit anyway.”
“Do you have any suggestions on where to start hunting, Darcy?” Gawain asked.
She’d already spent time trying to determine her brothers’ location. “Fell and Patrin mentioned doing training at Twin Sisters Range. Since they called their place a forest camp and forest compound, it’s in the woods. But they never spoke of having to hike to get out, so I think the barracks are probably close to Highway 20. I’m afraid it’s all guesses, though.”
Calum’s fingers tapped the top of the bar as he thought. “My territory ends east of Mt. Baker and not nearly to the Twin Sisters, so that will narrow the search.”
A sound from the other side of the bar drew Calum’s attention, and he turned. “Excuse me, please.” After drawing two drafts of very dark beer, he carried them to a table in the shadows.
Darcy stared. OtherFolk—here? The two at the table were shorter than she was with long beards and gnarly faces like old trees. “Dwarves come to this bar?”
“There’s a dwarven hall nearby, and some of them get a kick out of sampling what’s on tap,” Owen said.
Wow. She frowned. “Don’t the humans ask questions about the strange-looking visitors?”
“Not unless they have the Sight.” Gawain shook his head. “Dwarves have a don’t-look-at-me magic in the same way sprites and gnomes do.”
The Cosantir tilted his head, the dwarves bowed slightly, and the Cosantir disengaged. Returning to the bar, he picked up his cup of coffee. When he looked at her—and she was probably gawking—his eyebrow went up.
“I don’t think our catling has run into dwarves before.” Gawain covered her hand with his.
She took a step back and then stopped herself.
Frowning, he picked her up hand. “Does it bother you to be touched?” Both her mentors often took her hand, squeezed her shoulder, or tugged on her hair.
Owen turned to look at her.
“It’s a habit. In the prìosan, contact between captives wasn’t allowed—although those of us who were older would sneak hugs to the children when we could.” She’d earned a few canings that way.
Gawain’s clear blue eyes held concern. And wasn’t that wonderful?
She tried to lighten her tone. “If I’m not expecting to be touched, my first reaction is to move back and check for guards watching. But I like being touched.” Like was such an inadequate word. Sometimes it seemed as if her entire body had been waiting forever to be stroked or held. As if her skin drank in the feeling of someone else touching her.
With the back of his knuckles, Gawain stroked her cheek. “I like touching you, so I’m glad you enjoy it.”
Owen made a low growl. “I look forward to meeting those Scythe bastards.” To her surprise, he pulled her back against his chest long enough to rub his cheek over hers.
A panther mark of affection…from the grumbly cat.
The surprise left her silent, and as her mentors turned to discussing their upcoming move, she stood between them, feeling content.