He’d first met her on that field of battle where the evil Mage had captured her and her friends to use as Daemon bait. He’d noticed her because she was pretty, but also because her stoicism in the face of such horror had drawn his respect. In the end, only three of the six humans had survived, and the Ferals had taken them back to Feral House and locked them up until they could steal their memories of all they’d seen. They’d only succeeded with the two women, and had subsequently sent them home. But Xavier was blind, and memories were stolen through the eyes. He could never go home again. And Natalie could never know that her brother remained alive. No one could.
Her grief made Wulfe ache.
Clearing the woods on the other side, he loped down the hillside to the deserted warehouse outside Frederick, Maryland, where he’d parked his truck. Sending his wolf’s senses outward, he reassured himself no humans lurked about, then shifted, calling on the power of the animal spirit that lived within him to change back into a man in a rush of joy and sparkling colored lights. The June morning was warm, the birds twittering in the trees above as the sun slowly rose in the east.
As he rounded the cab to fetch his clothes out of the open bed, he caught a glimpse of himself in the window—the crooked nose set among nearly two dozen scars, one of which slashed across his mouth, tugging his lip downward, giving him the appearance of a perpetual scowl. His was a face that made women scream, a face that sent children running into the night.
With a sigh, he tugged on his jeans. He hadn’t always been this way, of course. Centuries ago, in his youth, women had sighed over his beauty, claiming him the most handsome of males. At seven feet tall, he’d towered over his competition in every way. Despite that, he’d never thought himself vain or arrogant, which in hindsight had probably been the height of conceit. The fates had punished him for his hubris. In a single day he’d lost it all—his looks, the admiration of his peers, his self-respect. The goddess had, in her terrible wisdom, declared his soul flawed, then marked him so that everyone would know it. Marks he’d carried for centuries now, and would for the rest of his immortal life.
He shrugged into his T-shirt, then pulled on his boots. At least the wolf animal spirit hadn’t found him lacking. Three years after the scarring, the sole wolf shifter had died, and he’d been marked to be the next. It was said that the animal spirit always chose the individual it considered to be the strongest and most honorable among those of the Therian race that still possessed wolf-shifter DNA. So Wulfe had learned to give thanks for the goddess’s painful lesson. He’d been taught a terrible humility, then been rewarded for embracing it.
The lesson had been a steep price to pay, but he’d pay it again a hundred times over if it meant remaining a Feral Warrior, one of only a handful of shape-shifters left in the world. At the moment, the Ferals were all that stood between the races of the Earth, both immortal and human, and destruction by the Daemons, if the soulless Mage succeeded in freeing the fiends, as they were determined to do.
Wulfe dug his keys out of the pocket of his jeans and let himself into the cab.
If only he could keep Natalie safely out of this war. But the way she was glowing . . .
He shook his head, his heart heavy as he started the truck and headed home to Feral House.
Natalie Cash wasn’t safe at all.
Chapter Two
Wulfe pulled his truck into the wide circular drive of Feral House in Great Falls, Virginia. The three-story brick mansion was set among the trees in this upscale neighborhood near the Potomac River a dozen miles outside of Washington, D.C. Vehicles lined the drive, the house itself overflowing with people now. Lyon had recruited a large contingent of nonshifting immortals, Therian Guards, to back up the Ferals in their rapidly escalating battle to keep the Mage from freeing the Daemons.
Most of the Therian Guards hailed from the British Isles, and the strongest twenty had been moved into Feral House to help protect the Radiant. They’d quickly filled the extra bedrooms, the rest bunking on sofas and pallets in the living room, media room, and basement. Another 137 took up every spare bed in the local Therian enclaves and in the safe houses dotting the area.
While it rankled that the Ferals needed backup, not a one had argued against the move. Not when the enemy had Ferals of his own, now—fully functioning, if evil, immortal shape-shifters—while the original Ferals’ immortality had been badly compromised.
As Wulfe parked behind Kougar’s Lamborghini, the early-morning sun reflected off the dew still coating the roof shingles, making them sparkle. If only he’d find the mood inside as bright. If only they’d made a breakthrough in finding a way to reclaim their immortality while he was gone. But as he walked through the front door and saw the haggard faces of Tighe and Paenther as the pair descended one of the twin curved stairs that bracketed the huge foyer, that hope was dashed.
“Where’ve you been?” Paenther asked, his tone only mildly curious.
Several men and two women nodded as they passed. He recognized them only because Lyon had made them memorize the faces of the Guards. The house was full of the low murmur of voices, but the Guards were well disciplined and eminently respectful of the Ferals, and the place had not become the madhouse they’d feared. So far, the only real problem had been keeping them all fed.
“You went to Frederick, am I right?” Tighe’s short blond hair gleamed brightly beneath the light of the chandeliers as he reached the bottom step and reached out an arm, clasping Wulfe’s at the elbow as their forearms slapped in the greeting of the Ferals.
Wulfe didn’t deny it. “I couldn’t sleep.”
Paenther greeted Wulfe in the same fashion, his jet-black hair framing a face that looked one hundred percent American Indian, though the warrior was only three-quarters. Slashed across one eye were three long scars, what appeared to be claw marks and were in fact feral marks. Each of the warriors had them somewhere on their bodies, the mark of the animal spirits that lived inside them. Wulfe’s own feral marks were on his forehead above his left eye. But he doubted even his brothers knew that. What were three scars among so many?
“Did you see Natalie?” Tighe asked. All Wulfe’s brothers knew why he went to Frederick.
He opened his mouth to confide what he’d seen, then closed it again. The Shaman would know better than anyone else if there was something wrong with Natalie. Or with him, for that matter. Until that ancient male had a chance to look at her, he’d keep it to himself. The last thing Natalie needed was to be dragged back into his world and this mess, even if the thought of her in his life again sent a thrill of excitement winging through his mind. Xavier seemed content enough helping Pink in the kitchens and remaining a virtual prisoner of Feral House, but Xavier was a rare case. Most humans would never accept imprisonment for a lifetime. And Wulfe didn’t want that for Natalie. If for some reason they couldn’t take her memories and let her go again, she might wind up with the same choice Xavier had been given—life as a servant of the Ferals, or death.
She had a life, a home, a fiancé, and he wouldn’t steal those things from her, not if he had any other choice. He prayed that glow had just been his own vision messing with him.
“I saw her,” Wulfe admitted. “She’s developed a soft spot for the wolf.” The memory of her sweet smile as she’d greeted him, her soft hands in his fur, tugged the corners of his mouth upward. Until he remembered . . . His mouth turned hard. “She wasn’t alone.”
“Her fiancé?”
“Neither of them seemed very happy. He accused her of changing.”
Paenther snorted. “The woman went through hell. Of course it changed her.”
Tighe peered at Wulfe. “Is she starting to remember anything?”
“I don’t think so though she may be reliving some of it in her dreams. But even if she doesn’t remember, she knows her friends are dead. She knows her brother’s missing.”
“So she knows something terrible happened during the days she lost.” Paenther’s mouth tightened. “Sometimes the not knowing is the hardest.” He clasped Wulfe’s shoulder. “She’ll be okay.”
“It’s nice of you to keep an eye on her.” Tighe clasped his other shoulder.
“Have you seen the Shaman?” Wulfe asked, as Paenther started toward the dining room.
Tighe’s eyes narrowed. Stripes always saw too much.
“He’s still asleep, I imagine,” Kougar said, entering the foyer from a different hallway behind them. “He and Ariana were up until dawn.”
Kougar’s mate, Ariana, and the Shaman had been working tirelessly to figure out a way to counter the effects of the dark charm the evil Mage, Inir, had somehow snuck into Feral House, a curse that was rendering them mortal. They’d found the charm—a chunk of crystal of some sort—and destroyed it. But the damage had already been done.
“Any luck?” Tighe asked.
Kougar shook his head, not bothering to elaborate as he strode past them, following Paenther down the hallway to the dining room. No elaboration was necessary. How many ways were there to say, We’re fucked?
As Wulfe moved to follow Kougar, Tighe stopped him with a hand to his arm, his gaze sharp. “What’s up, buddy? What’s really going on with Natalie?”
“Would you quit being so damned perceptive?” Wulfe growled.
Sympathy tightened Tighe’s expression, but he didn’t give way.
Wulfe sighed. “She has an aura, a bright blue, green, and gold one. I’ve never seen anything like it, on her or anyone else.”
“Have you ever seen auras?”
“No. Maybe it’s just another of my newly awakened, strange-ass Daemon talents.”
“But you’re worried something’s wrong with her.”
“Yeah.” Hell, it was twisting his gut in knots.
Tighe nodded with quiet understanding and clasped his shoulder again. “Maybe we can convince the Shaman to drive out there with us later and take a look at her.”
Wulfe stiffened. “I’d scare her half to death.”
“You don’t know that. She wasn’t scared of you the last time she saw you.”
“She’d just been attacked by a Daemon. And she doesn’t remember any of that, now. Or me.”
Tighe’s expression turned thoughtful. “It might be safest if the Shaman knocked on her door alone. He can pretend to be a kid selling popcorn or cookies or something. Kids are always coming by here selling popcorn or cookies.” The Shaman might be thousands of years old, but thanks to a Mage attack in his youth, he still looked fifteen.
“Okay. Thanks, Stripes.”
Together they headed to the dining room, stepping through the archway into the large, formal room. Around the mammoth dining table sat most of the other Ferals and their wives. Only Lyon was missing. And his mate, their Radiant, Kara.
Zeeland alone among the Guards sat at the dining table with the Ferals. One of the highest-ranking, he was a close personal friend of a couple of the Ferals. To Wulfe’s knowledge, no one had ever told the other Therian Guards that they weren’t welcome at the main table, but they seemed happy enough out on the patio where the morning sun filtered through the summer trees, or at one of several card tables that had been set up in the open space between the main table and the hallway.
As Wulfe and Tighe started across the dining room, Tighe’s mate, Delaney, strolled out of the swinging door to the kitchen, a tray of sweet rolls in her hand that she placed on one of the card tables. Seeing Tighe, she smiled and joined them.
Tighe hooked his arm around her shoulders. “How’s it going in there?”
Delaney’s smile turned rueful. “As well as can be expected with five women and one blind male in the kitchen. Pink’s not happy, but with so many mouths to feed, she needs the extra hands, and she knows it. Some of the Guards have offered to help with the cooking, but that was a complete nonstarter. Pink won’t even let them in the kitchen.” She shrugged. “We’re handling it.”
Tighe gave her a quick kiss. “Don’t overdo it.”
She grinned at him. “I may be pregnant, but I’m immortal, now, remember?”
Tighe grinned back at his wife. “And I thank the goddess every day for that.”
With a low laugh, Delaney headed back to the kitchen. As Wulfe and Tighe neared the main table, the other Ferals rose, greeting them as if it had been weeks and not hours since they’d seen one another. Humans rarely understood the need that the animals—most of the animals—had for touch. Hawke and Falkyn could take it or leave it, as could Vhyper. But the cats and canines were another matter.
Despite the warmth of the greeting and the sunshine pouring in through the back windows, the mood in the room felt heavy and thick with frustration. No one at the main table spoke as Wulfe grabbed a plate from the stack in the middle and began stabbing thick slabs of smoked ham off of one of the platters. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Xavier coming toward the table from the kitchen, a pitcher of juice in one hand, a blind man’s cane in the other. Wulfe’s gut tightened at the sight of Natalie’s brother.
“Three more steps head-on, X-man,” Jag said.
Xavier, the only bright spot in the room, grinned and took three more steps. Jag lifted the pitcher out of his hand. “Thanks, dude.”
“X . . .” Wulfe said, pushing himself from his seat and joining Xavier as the young man made his way back to the kitchen. “I stopped by to check on Natalie this morning.”
Xavier’s face fell, his expression hiding nothing. “Is she okay?”
“She looked good. Her fiancé was with her.” Not lies, not really. Natalie had looked lovely. And her relationship with her fiancé would probably be fine.