“That’s good. I’m glad she has someone to help her through this.”
“Me, too. Just thought you’d like to know.”
The kid grinned. “Thanks, dude.” Dude, always dude.
“You’re welcome, dude.” And now he had them saying it.
He saw no need to share his worries with Xavier since the kid could never leave Feral House to see his sister again; nor could she ever know he still lived. They occupied two different worlds, now. Xavier and Wulfe one, Natalie the another. It was a fact Wulfe would do well to remember himself.
Returning to the table, he took his seat across from Fox and his new mate, Melisande, and dug into his meal.
“Everyone still able to shift?” Paenther asked, his tone nonchalant even as a thread of tension ran through his words.
It was no idle question. The Ferals had been at war with the Mage pretty much from the dawn of time except for a small period five millennia ago when the two immortal races had pooled their combined power and magic to defeat the High Daemon, Satanan, imprisoning him and his entire Daemon horde in a magical prison, the Daemon Blade. But some years ago, the powerful Mage, Inir, had become infected with a wisp of Satanan’s consciousness left behind all those millennia ago, a consciousness that had grown within Inir until they suspected that Satanan himself now directed the Mage in the battle to free himself and his horde from that blade.
The primary thing needed in order to accomplish that was the unanimous consent of all the Feral Warriors, a thing the real Ferals would never give. But Inir had found a way around that. He’d created a small band of evil Ferals, and now slowly destroyed the good ones through the curse that was turning them mortal and would soon, they feared, steal their ability to shift into their animals, if not steal their lives. They suspected that the charm had been made with Daemon magic, the most powerful force on Earth. Unfortunately, none of the usual methods of clearing the magic had worked. All they could do now was search for a cure. And pray they found it in time.
Wulfe was shoveling his last bite into his mouth when Lyon strolled into the dining room, Kara in his arms, tucked neatly against his chest. Though of average height, the woman looked tiny within the arms of her powerful mate. And very ill thanks to another of Inir’s diabolical attacks. But her arm was hooked around Lyon’s neck, her tired eyes bright with pleasure as she spotted the rest of the Ferals. As one, they rose and went to greet her.
Wulfe kissed her on the forehead, squeezing her hand, as Kougar patted her knee. One after another, they silently told their beloved Radiant how much they cared until her eyes were shining with unshed tears.
The Radiant was the one woman in all the world who could pull the energies from the earth that allowed the Ferals to access the power of their animals, to shift. Without that radiance, even without a dark charm fucking up the works, they’d eventually weaken and die, though it would take time—a couple of years.
But Kara had come to mean far more to them than simply their provider of radiance. Though she’d only been with them a short time, and had come to them believing herself human, she’d proved herself brave and loyal beyond compare, stealing all of their hearts, not just the heart of their chief, to whom she was now mated. If anything happened to her, they would all suffer. Lyon would be destroyed.
Lyon pressed a kiss to the top of his mate’s head, then joined them at the table, seating Kara to his right.
Kara smiled wearily. “I needed a change of scenery.”
“Twenty minutes, no more.” Lyon grabbed a plate. “Eggs? You have to eat.”
Her smile turned soft as her gaze met her mate’s. “You’re a tough nurse. But, yes, eggs would be nice.”
Lyon’s eyes filled with such love as Kara’s hand covered his much larger one, that Wulfe almost felt compelled to look away.
Around the table, the Ferals turned to their wives with a kiss or a touch, all moved by the deep love between their chief and his mate, all sharing the fear that the Ferals’ days were numbered. Only Wulfe and Vhyper remained single, which was a startling change from a year ago, when Wulfe had been the sole mated male. Nine months ago, his mate Beatrice, their previous Radiant, had been killed in a Mage attack. He’d mourned her, of course. Mating bonds between immortals were physical things that, when broken, damaged the one left behind. And he had been damaged in ways he was only beginning to figure out.
The thing was, as he watched his brothers with their mates, he knew that what he’d had with Beatrice had been pale and thin in comparison. Theirs had been a mating decreed by the goddess, as the Radiant’s mating always was. He’d hoped it would be a good one, like Lyon and Kara’s, but Beatrice had never been able to see past his scars. She’d allowed him to make love to her, but only on occasion, and only in full dark. He’d often suspected she’d fancied herself the Ferals’ queen and he the one designated to serve her sexual needs. But she’d never really wanted him. And he was certain she’d never loved him.
No, their relationship had not been satisfying to either of them, and while the severing of their mating bond had damaged him, her loss hadn’t crushed him as it should have.
As his gaze roamed the table, skipping from Hawke’s stroke of Falkyn’s cheek to Paenther’s eyes as he gazed at Skye, to Melisande’s head tipped against Fox’s shoulder and the soft kiss he placed on her crown, he felt an ache deep in his chest. An emptiness. A loneliness that he’d rarely felt so sharply. Because there was a woman that his heart had begun to long for. A human engaged to another. A woman who could not be his.
Natalie.
Jag dropped his fork suddenly, with a startling clatter, his face a mask of alarm.
Olivia grabbed his hand. “What’s the matter?”
“My animal . . .” He shoved to his feet so fast his chair fell back, slamming against the floor. With quick, hard strides, he moved away from the table, his back to them, ramrod straight, his fists clenched at his sides. Suddenly, he whirled to face them, his face a mask of shock, quickly turning to fury.
“I can’t fucking shift!”
The room went silent, even the Guards quieting. As one, the Ferals exchanged glances, the ramification of Jag’s statement rushing over them simultaneously.
Deep inside, Wulfe’s animal growled as if he understood. And he probably did.
“It’s begun,” Kougar murmured.
They were losing their immortality. Now, their animals.
Olivia rose and went to her mate, sliding her arms around Jag’s waist as he hauled her close in return.
Did this mean Jag would be the first to die? Goddess help them all. The moment they were gone, there would be nothing to stop Inir and his evil band of Ferals from freeing the Daemons.Paenther asked the question they were all thinking. “Maybe we need to attack Inir’s stronghold while most of us can still shift, Roar.”
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.