Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(101)

Wells gave a nod of approval. “Nice. They’ll track your phone’s GPS and confirm your location. They won’t do anything to the sergeant until they know you won’t show up. It’ll give us time to—”

“I will show up.”

Zeb growled. “Cosantir, no need to risk yourself. They will be armed and—”

“When I enter the Scythe car in Cold Creek, I will be in the heart of my territory.”

Darcy’s mouth went dry as she saw the power flickering around the Cosantir. And the fury banked in his black, black eyes.

She wouldn’t want to be the Scythe soldiers trapped in a vehicle with the chosen of the God.

“Brawd…” Fear showed in Alec’s green eyes before he sucked in a breath and turned to Darcy. “Darcy, we’ll stop by our place. Vicki’s black sweats will work well for sneaking around—and shifting unexpectedly. You’ll ride with me.”

She rubbed her damp palms on her jeans. “Okay.”

Alec shot Wells a look. “If you ride with me, we can finish planning on the way.”

Wells tilted his head. “Of course. Let me get supplies from my van.”

As Darcy moved toward the door, she saw Alec put a hand on his littermate’s shoulder, and her heart broke for them.

I’ll get her back for you. I will. She blinked hard and walked out onto the porch.

Thank the Gods that Owen and Gawain weren’t here. They wouldn’t be in danger.

And yet, everything inside her wished they would be with her.

*

As Owen and his brother loped back down the mountain trail, he was satisfied with their planning on how to reason with Darcy. The mountain lake had been peaceful, easing his emotions, and letting him think clearly.

Gawain had pointed out that Darcy hadn’t rejected them. She was simply terrified that the Scythe would hurt the people she loved—including him and Gawain.

The thought, true or not, that she loved him was enough to make his heart stutter.

They’d figured out some ways to ease her worries. If all else failed, they’d leave with her, maybe take her into Canada. Zeb, Shay, and Ryder had traveled extensively before settling in Cold Creek, and they’d know safe places. Most territories would be delighted to welcome a blademage, a tinker, and a cahir.

Regret nagged at him as he ran. He loved the Cascades. Loved this territory. Loved Cold Creek. Few Cosantirs were as evenhanded—or as powerful—as Calum.

Fucking Scythe. By the God, he really wanted to shred the weasels into bloody tatters of skin and flesh. Growling, he leaped a log and increased his speed.

With an annoyed chuff, Gawain kept up.

They wouldn’t get to see Bonnie’s cublings grow up. That hurt. Well, maybe someday he and his tiny family could return and…Owen almost stumbled. Maybe they’d be bringing back cubs of their own.

Behind him, Gawain hissed. He’d scented something or someone.

Owen slowed and smelled a bear even as he spotted it. Coming fast. Huge. A grizzly.

Ben.

Gawain moved forward to trot beside Owen as they met the cahir.

Ben trawsfurred without coming to a complete halt. “Need you now, cahir, at the lodge.” His Texas accent was thick in the gasped words. “The Scythe has Vicki. They want to trade her for the Cosantir.”

Vicki. The unborn cubs. The Cosantir. Fury blasted through Owen, and he snarled, his paw lifting, claws out.

Ben jerked his head. “Go.”

Owen took off, running down the trail, Gawain right behind him.

*

If your officer’s dead and the sergeants look white,

Remember it’s ruin to run from a fight;

So take open order, lie down and sit tight,

And wait for supports like a soldier.

Wait, wait, wait like a soldier…

This was proving to be a thoroughly fucked-up day—and reciting Kipling wasn’t helping. Vic snorted. Wait for supports? She despised waiting for backup and always had.

Sitting on the floor behind a bolted-down metal bed, Vicki scowled at her cell. For fuck’s sake, she was tired of being dumped in windowless basements. A recessed space held a tankless toilet. There was no other furniture. The bed’s blanket and sheet were now on the floor with her.

She leaned her forehead on the mattress. God, but she hurt like hell.

When they’d arrived at Darcy’s prison, the asshole beside her in the backseat had jumped out to talk to the gatehouse guard. Vic’d slid out and dashed for the gate. As her pursuers caught up, she’d deliberately fallen, and due to her I’m-a-bowling-ball shape, she’d landed hard and collected some ugly scrapes. Being backhanded by the pissed-off guard hurt worse.

None of the damage was important. She’d left her scent and her blood near the gate, and she counted the action a success.

The fight when she was kidnapped sure hadn’t been. God, she hoped Evangeline was all right. Vic shook her head. That sweet old woman had walloped one of the assholes with a table lamp. She hadn’t hit him hard enough though.

Vic had done better. She’d grabbed a table knife and rammed it into the biggest bastard’s heart. Unfortunately, the third attacker had knocked her off her feet.

She lifted her arm and grimaced. The shoulder joint still worked…barely. If she hadn’t had to guard her belly, she might have dealt with all three. “Dammit, kid, you sure screwed up my skills,” she whispered and rubbed her stomach.