Lyon eyed his second-in-command with a hard sigh. “Don’t think I haven’t considered it. If I really thought we’d never recover, we’d move now, but I refuse to believe that. Attacking fully functioning Ferals as mortals is akin to suicide. And I’m not leading you in there to die. Not if we have any other choice.”
Kougar leaned back in his chair. “There’s a good chance Ariana has the answers in her head. She just has to find them.” Within the Queen of the Ilinas’ mind was amassed all of the knowledge of the queens who’d come before her. “As she’s fond of telling me, her personal encyclopedia of knowledge is neither indexed nor easily browsed. But if the answers are in there, Ariana will find them.”
“If,” Tighe muttered. “And even if she does, will it be in time?”
Fox rose and strode to Jag, gripping his shoulder, concern etched into the hard planes of his face.
There were no words of comfort, and they all knew it. Jag might be the first, but the others would follow. If they didn’t find a way to reverse the dark charm’s curse soon, they were all going to die. And Satanan and his terrifying horde would rise.
Chapter Three
After breakfast, Wulfe shifted into his animal and curled up outside the Shaman’s bedroom door so he wouldn’t miss his waking. At half past noon, Wulfe finally heard the Shaman stir, and leaped up. As he trotted back to his own room, he called to Tighe telepathically, a form of communication only possible when one or the other of them was in his animal, and only when they were in relatively close proximity.
The Shaman’s awake. If he’s willing, do you still want to go with us to Frederick?
I’ll meet you in the foyer in five, Tighe replied.
Reaching his bedroom, Wulfe shifted and dressed, and was just striding back down the upstairs hall when the door he’d been lying in front of opened, and the male he’d been waiting for stepped out.
The Shaman was unique in many ways—more ancient than the pyramids and gifted with an ability to sense magic that most Therians lacked. He looked like a young teenager from a couple of centuries past, his hair long and tied at his nape, his long-sleeved white shirt ruffled. But while his face remained youthful, lacking even the ability to grow a beard, his eyes held an unmistakable wisdom and compassion.
“Shaman, may I have a word?”
“Good morning, Wulfe. Yes, of course.”
Wulfe told him briefly about the odd glow. At the Shaman’s frown, a fist formed in his stomach.
“I need to see her,” the ancient said.
“I can’t bring her here. Can you spare a little time?”
“Yes, of course. I would enjoy the drive. The road often clears my mind.”
“Good. Great. Do you want to eat first?” He was in a hurry to get going . . . it had been hours, but the male deserved to get some lunch if he wanted to.
“If you’ll stop by Starbucks on the way out, I’m ready.”
“Deal. Let’s go.”
They found Tighe waiting for them in the foyer, an unopened package of Oreo cookies in his hand. “I told Delaney where we’re going and why,” he said, as the three headed out to Wulfe’s truck. “They can send Ilinas for us if they need us in a hurry.”
Ilina travel was a bitch. It might be fast as lightning, since the Ilinas’ natural state was mist, but it was a head-spinning, stomach-turning ride that they’d all rather avoid.
Wulfe and Tighe piled into the front seats of the truck. As the Shaman climbed in the back, Tighe handed him the Oreos. “When we get there, knock on Natalie’s door and tell her you’re selling cookies. Human kids do it all the time.” Tighe glanced at Wulfe ruefully. “Delaney rolled her eyes when I told her the plan. She said brownies sell cookies. What the hell does that mean? When I asked if we had any brownies, D just laughed and waved me out of the kitchen.”
“It’s got to be a human thing.”
“Clearly.” Tighe glanced at him carefully. “Any chance what you saw at Natalie’s has something to do with your Daemon blood?”
Wulfe’s entire body went tense, the question hanging in the air like a rancid thought. “Maybe. Hell if I know.” The evidence kept growing that he really did have Daemon blood, but he sure as fuck wasn’t accepting that gracefully. Daemons, the most evil, vile creatures to roam the Earth, and he was one of them? Okay, maybe not entirely. Any Daemon ancestor of his had to have lived more than five thousand years ago. Even for an immortal, that had to be generations and generations ago. Still . . . how was he supposed to accept that he was part Daemon?
He’d thought it just a rumor that his wolf clan was descended from those monsters. He’d never believed it, not for an instant, not until a week ago, when he alone had been able to see the labyrinthine warding Inir had used to protect his stronghold in the mountains of West Virginia—warding riddled with Daemon magic. He alone had been able to get his Feral brothers through the worst of it. And even more damning, he alone had begun to hear Inir and Satanan conversing . . . in Inir’s head. Satanan hadn’t even risen yet. He still only existed within Inir’s body, little more than a wisp of consciousness. Yet, Wulfe continued to hear the two of them chatting from time to time.
Finally, he’d stopped denying the obvious and accepted that he had Daemon blood. After all, good or bad, it gave him advantages the Ferals needed in this war against Inir, and increasingly, against Satanan himself. Still, what it meant for him in the grander scheme of things, he had no idea. And it was freaking the hell out of him.
Wulfe turned on the radio to his favorite country-music station, and the three lapsed into silence, each lost to his own thoughts. Twice the Shaman called Ariana, suggesting she research specific events that Wulfe had never heard of—the incarceration of the King of Marck in the Buldane pit, and the plague of Opplomere. As promised, the ride appeared to be helping the Shaman think.
All it did was make Wulfe more impatient to get back to Natalie.
They were only a couple of miles outside Frederick when Wulfe began to hear the voices again. The hair rose on his arms.
If you’d killed the Radiant when you had her, you wouldn’t be having this trouble. You could have simply stolen the new one.
That’s assuming I could identify the new Radiant and catch her before she reached the Ferals, my lord. An unlikelihood. Besides, I needed the current Radiant to bring my new Ferals into their animals. This will work. We have Radiant’s blood. Just not unascended Radiant’s blood. My sorcerers will find a way to make it what it must be. I’ve already felt the first of the Ferals’ lights go out. One is no longer registering as a shifter. Once the others follow, and we’ve perfected the blood, you and your horde will be freed.
Wulfe’s hands clenched around the steering wheel at the disclosure of Inir’s grand plan. The ritual to free the Daemons required the blood of an unascended Radiant—a newbie, which Kara hadn’t been in months. As long as they kept Kara safe, they’d assumed Inir couldn’t perform the ritual. Apparently, they’d assumed wrong.
“Wulfe?”
At the sharp note in Tighe’s voice, Wulfe glanced at his friend.
“You’re about to snap the steering wheel. What’s up?”
“I heard Inir and Satanan again.”
“And?”
Wulfe told Tighe and the Shaman what he’d heard.
Tighe growled, pulled out his phone, and called Lyon, relaying the information.
Wulfe glanced at Tighe when he’d disconnected the call. “What did Lyon say?”
“Not much. He’s still not giving up on finding the ritual to make us mortal again.”
Wulfe just hoped they found it in time.
Minutes later, as they drove slowly past Natalie’s house, Wulfe felt something sigh inside of him. His wolf gave a whine of excitement at the prospect of seeing her again, but both man and animal spirit were going to be disappointed this time. Only the Shaman would be going up to the door.
Wulfe parked his pickup across the street and turned off the ignition, forcing himself to
stay put while the Shaman climbed out of the truck and crossed the street, cookies in hand.
“Do you think she’s home?” Tighe asked.
“We’ve wasted two hours if she isn’t. It’s Sunday. Xavier says she’s an optometrist with a practice in town. Sunday and Monday are her days off.”
“Doesn’t mean she’s home.”
“Doesn’t mean she’s not.”
“She could be running errands.”
“She could be doing any of a hundred things.”
They were both watching the Shaman ring the doorbell, neither paying any attention to the conversation, which had devolved quickly.
Be home, Natalie. He needed the Shaman to tell him that she was fine. Please let her be fine. She deserved that, deserved a life without the threat of Daemons though if the Ferals didn’t find a way to stop Inir, all humans would soon know that terror.
The door opened. Wulfe’s heart began to thud in his chest. Natalie. She stood in the doorway in a pair of white shorts that accentuated her long, long legs, and a soft blue T-shirt that highlighted the blues and greens in her shockingly bright aura. At least he knew it hadn’t been a trick of his wolf’s eyesight. Dammit.
Tighe whistled. “That’s some glow.”
“You can see it.”
“Clear as day.”
Crud. Strike two. He’d really hoped it was him.
As he watched, the Shaman reached out his hand as if to shake hers. Natalie looked bemused, but she shook the proffered hand with a friendly smile. Probably, human children didn’t shake hands with their cookie customers. A moment later, she turned away but didn’t close the door, and the Shaman continued to stand there. When she returned, she handed the Shaman what appeared to be a few dollars and he, in turn, handed her the Oreos, shook her hand again, and turned away.
“Well?” Wulfe demanded as the ancient male climbed into the truck a minute later.
“I sense Daemon energy though what that means, I do not know. It may be a lingering effect of the energy all of you were exposed to on the battlefield in Harpers Ferry.”
“Then all three of the humans who survived that battle might have been affected. Xavier hasn’t shown any signs of it, yet,” Wulfe said.
Tighe grunted. “We’ll have to send someone to check on the screamer.” The teen, Christy, had done little but scream the entire time she’d been in their prison. “Can we leave Natalie in the human world looking like that?”
“I believe so,” the Shaman said. “Few humans can see auras. But someone should keep an eye on her.”
Wulfe eyed him sharply.
The Shaman held up his hand. “Just keep an eye on her.”
Tighe glanced over, met Wulfe’s gaze. “It might be safer to bring her back to Feral House.”
“No.” The word left his throat like a shot. Lyon would only command her locked up in their prisons again. While the Ferals never took human life without reason, Daemon energy might be deemed reason enough. He wouldn’t risk it. “She stays here.”
Tighe nodded, sympathy in his eyes as if he’d heard the thoughts rolling through Wulfe’s head.
Wulfe turned to the Shaman. “How do we cure her?”
“I have no idea.” The Shaman sighed. “I’m sorry, Wulfe. My expertise is Mage magic, not Daemon.”
Tighe reached over and clasped Wulfe’s shoulder. “You’ve had worse assignments than keeping an eye on a beautiful woman.”
In truth, there was nothing he’d enjoy more than watching over this woman even if he’d have to remain in his animal to do it. “I wonder if she’ll let a wolf in the house,” he mused. It might be worth a try. Tonight, he’d find out.
When they got back to Feral House, Tighe took him aside. “Be careful, buddy.”
Wulfe lifted a brow.
“She’s human.”
“So?”
“I’m just saying, you’re strung tight about this. I knew you had a soft spot for her, but I think it’s more than that. A lot more.”
Wulfe’s jaw tightened. “It doesn’t matter. She belongs to another male, and even if she didn’t, my severed mating bond has screwed me up good.” Not to mention, he didn’t know what in the hell was going on with his Daemon blood. He shook his head. “I’d never pursue her.”
Deep inside, his wolf whined unhappily.
Tighe nodded. “It would be best if you kept your distance. Then maybe, when this is over, you can forget about her.”
That was just it, though. He couldn’t forget about her. Not for one damned minute.
Tighe shrugged. “I’m just saying, humans don’t live long, buddy.”
Wulfe snorted. “The way things are going, neither do we.”
But he understood Tighe’s concern, and he shared it. The last thing he wanted or needed was to have his heart ripped out of his chest in fifty or sixty years—a blink of an eye if he managed to get his immortality back. Because fifty or sixty years was all Natalie had. Maybe far, far less.
The rain started just as Wulfe pulled to a stop behind the deserted warehouse. It was early evening, approaching sunset, though the sun was hidden behind thick rain clouds. He turned off the ignition and climbed out, tossing his keys beneath the vehicle so the rain didn’t ruin the electronics. Stripping, he shoved his boots and clothes into the backseat, then locked the doors and shifted into his wolf.
A thrill of pleasure snaked its way through him as he reflected on the fact that Lyon had officially given him the job of keeping an eye on Natalie Cash. Unfortunately, there was really nothing else for him to do. Not unless word came of another newly marked Feral for them to hunt down and throw in the prison beneath Feral House. Or they got a lead on the two escaped new Ferals, Grizz and Lepard.
Wulfe trotted through the woods, the rain soaking his fur and his mood, because there was zero chance Natalie would come out to see him this time, and slim to no chance she’d let a soaking-wet wolf into her house. Otherwise, he didn’t mind the rain. The day had been warm, and the cool rain felt good against his hide.
They’d tracked down the screamer, Christy, without much trouble and confirmed that she had no odd glow. Nor did Xavier. Which meant that whatever was going on with Natalie was hers alone.
Inside, his wolf gave a howl of misery. Neither man nor animal spirit liked it, not one bit.
As he reached the edge of the woods, he eyed the house with the yellow siding that he knew to be hers. The kitchen light was on, but he couldn’t see any sign of Natalie. Wait. There she was. She crossed the kitchen, the overhead light turning her hair to gold. His stomach did a little flip, but as he sat on the wet ground, the rain splattering against his snout, his heart felt heavy in his chest.
Natalie had already been through so much, even if she didn’t remember most of it. She wasn’t supposed to be in danger anymore, yet in his gut he felt it circling around her. The need to protect her clawed at his insides.
Somehow, he had to get her to let him in.
As the rain pattered against her kitchen windows, Natalie dropped the last teaspoonful of apple-spice cookie dough onto the baking sheet in front of her, slipped the cookie sheet into the oven, and set the timer. Baking had always been her comfort activity, that and work, and both were getting her through now. In the month since the incident, she’d made a dozen cakes, two dozen pans of brownies, and at least sixteen different cookie recipes. Her neighbors were starting to complain that she was trying to fatten them up, but she had to do something with the fruits of her crisis since she ate few sweets herself.
And there was no doubt she was in crisis. Especially after this morning.
Leaning back against the kitchen counter, she wrapped her arms around herself and closed her eyes, fighting back the thoughts that constantly flayed her—the days she had no memory of, the police investigation that continued to go nowhere. And the pounding, grinding grief. The police believed Xavier was dead, and she refused to accept that, but where was he?
She blinked back the tears that burned her
eyes and turned to the sink to wash her mixing bowls. Her gaze caught on the package of Oreos, drawing a bemused smile and a disbelieving shake of her head. What had made the teen come to her door selling store-bought cookies? He’d almost certainly been up to something though she hadn’t sensed anything malicious. She’d detected a faint accent in his voice, so perhaps he’d been an immigrant or exchange student looking for a little extra cash and going about it in an odd way. Or he might have been a drama student having a little lighthearted fun with her. She probably wouldn’t have actually bought the cookies, but she’d always been very, very good at reading eyes, and in his she’d seen a wealth of kindness.
She loved looking at people’s eyes. Perhaps because she was an optometrist. Or maybe that was part of the reason she’d become an optometrist in the first place. She’d never been entirely sure. But from the day her youngest brother had been born blind, she’d been fascinated with eyes.
Oh, Xavier, how I miss you.
The ache beneath her breastbone pulsed so harshly it nearly doubled her over, the grief overwhelming her in that instant. Breathe. Just breathe.
Slowly, she pushed past it and began to clean up the kitchen. By the time she was done, the smell of freshly baking cookies filled the air but did little to tempt her. After what had happened this morning, her appetite was well and truly gone. She’d done the right thing, she knew that. But never in her life had she felt so alone.
If only her mom were in town. Picking up the phone, she made the call she’d been putting off all day.
“Natalie,” her mother said, her voice breathless with both hope and dread as it always was these days. “Any news?”
“Not about Xavier.” If only she had some good news to share. “Rick and I called off our engagement this morning.”
“Oh . . . honey.”
Natalie could hear the scrape of a kitchen chair against tile and imagined her parent sinking onto it, gripping the table unsteadily against this latest blow. The unmistakable sound of sobs filled her ear, and she closed her eyes, wishing she’d been able to deliver this blow in person instead of over the phone. But her mom was in Birmingham, visiting her sister, and planned to stay there another week. Someone was bound to break the news to her long before that if Natalie didn’t tell her first.
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