Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(104)

When his brother thumped onto the lawn, Gawain turned, and they exchanged head rubs.

Be safe, brawd.

Staying in the shadows, Owen loped toward the far manor house. His job was to help Alec get Vicki out and then assist Darcy with the villagers. Gawain saw Owen pause at a small building near the back wall. Was that the generator?

Gawain took a step in that direction, wanting to find their mate.

But Owen picked up speed and disappeared into the night. Darcy must have already moved on.

With a huff, Gawain crept toward the front, skirting the floodlit sidewalks, and freezing whenever a guard appeared. He needed to find Ryder before the cat pitched a grenade in a machine gun pillbox and set all hell loose.

There was a better way, if it worked. If he was in time. His muscles were tense, expecting the first explosion.

Then he saw a cougar, belly to the ground, creeping beside a hillock. Thank the Goddess, Gawain had made it in time—assuming the male would stop.

Gawain gave a slight hiss, hoping it would be enough. It took a second hiss, but the cougar froze and turned its head.

Gawain moved enough Ryder could make out his shape.

The male turned and retraced his steps.

Gawain motioned for him to follow and led the way to the dark recessed stairwell at the back of the embrasure. At the bottom of the stairs, he shifted and whispered, “When I yank the door open, you eliminate whoever is inside. Quietly.”

No noise. No warning. Much better plan.

The cougar stared at Gawain’s empty hands, and if a cat could look skeptical, this was one.

Ah, well. The magic Gawain had requested of the Mother still burned in his veins. If he was lucky, there would be enough for all three sites. Setting his palm against the cold metal plate, he reached out to the deadbolt and sang the song of steel.

Obedient to his will, the metal slowly softened into jelly.

At his feet, the cougar waited, tail twitching with doubt and impatience.

With a grim smile, Gawain yanked the door open.

*

Her first task completed, Darcy had stayed in human form and sneaked across the grounds to Z Hall, evading the patrols. Her fear increased with every step she took toward the source of her nightmares—Z Hall. Now, crouched behind the waist-high privet hedge, she’d frozen completely. I can’t do this.

Alec had gone after Vicki. Darcy’s job was to get her female villagers down to the back door.

She forced herself to look up at the tangle of ivy covering the wall. Little Alice was up there. And Margery. This was their chance. She couldn’t leave them.

Pulling in a breath, Darcy set her jaw. On the third floor, every window was locked shut to ensure no hostage would jump to her death. On the second floor, some of the staff’s windows were cracked open to let in fresh air.

Darcy wiped her clammy palms on her thighs, picked the nearest window, and started climbing the vines.

Reaching the second floor, she slid through the window, walked across the dark room, and jerked back. Oh Goddess.

In a pool of blood, a human lay staring up in death. His throat had been ripped out.

Swallowing down nausea, Darcy took a step forward and stopped. Over the stench of blood, she could smell a shifter. Not Alec. That was Owen’s scent.

Her heart did a fast flip of joy before fear enveloped her. Owen. Here. Where Owen went, Gawain would go. No. Please no. The Scythe would shoot them, lock them up, kill them. Her Gawain and Owen would die.

Her body shook as terror consumed her—memories of slaughtered bodies, staring eyes, the stench of death, screaming and moans and…far worse…silence.

She fought for control. Stop. A shudder ran through her. If Gawain and Owen were here, they had their tasks.

So did she, something no one else could do. Her villagers needed her—she was the only one they’d trust. The only one they’d follow without panicking. Must go.

Wiping sweat from her face, she edged around the body, through the door, and hurried down the hallway.

Opening the door to the stairs, she came face-to-face with a guard.

For years, she’d watched the weapons practice in the yard. Had tried to duplicate their moves. Now her body responded instinctively. Strike to the throat, silencing him. Kick to the balls to bend him over. Hammer-fists on the back of the neck.

At the crunch of bone, she gasped. She’d hit too hard. Wells had said, kill anyone you see, but she’d never, never planned to.

He lay on the floor. Heart slamming into her ribcage, she stared at him, bitterness and sorrow filling her.

Keep going, tinker. You have work to do.

As she dragged the human into the janitor’s supply room, her mouth was so dry she gagged when she tried to swallow. She’d had no choice. He’d have yelled for help. The village females would be killed. But…this wasn’t her. She fixed things; she didn’t break them—didn’t break people. She swallowed again.

No time to stop. Her people needed her. Beside the body was a mop in a bucket. Grabbing it, she stomped on the handle and broke it in half. There, she had a weapon.

Running now, she fled to the stairs and upward. On the third floor, she eased open the door.

Feet up on the desk, a guard watched a movie on his tablet.

She sprang across the five-foot gap, swung the mop handle, and cracked him right across the head. The chair tipped backward, spilling him out.

Don’t look. Don’t think about the feeling of something breaking or the sound. Trembling, she snatched the keys from the desk and pushed the green button to open the door to the hostage hallway. Trotting through, she unlocked the first door and whispered urgently, “Into the hall. We’re getting out of here.”