Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(12)

Gawain’s eyes lit.

“He’s only welcome if he and the idiot cahir clean up the mess they made,” Zeb growled from the kitchen.

“We will, Zeb.” Owen frowned. “Cosantir, Shay said you wanted to speak to me?”

“Aye. I have a task for you, cahir.”

Owen bowed his head. “Your will, Cosantir.”

“Although I’d considered sending Alec, now I believe you are a better choice.” Before Owen could feel complimented, Calum added, “A visit to a city might remind you of what is important in life.”

“A city?” By the God, cities were full of…humans. And metal and concrete. And humans. Where they gathered in large numbers, their putrid odors would make a skunk gag. Owen smothered his objections. Calum chose only what was best for the Daonain.

Didn’t mean Owen would enjoy the assignment.

“A female cougar shifter has been seen in a Seattle park for a number of days.” Calum frowned. “Possibly, she blundered into the city and can’t find her way out, or she might be feral.”

“No, not feral.” Gawain’s brow wrinkled with his dismay.

Owen suppressed his own hiss of protest. Feral shifters had to be killed, and cahirs did the killing. Over the years, he’d returned five feral males to the Mother, and he remembered each gut-wrenching death. Each name. But he’d never had to kill a female. Although most females he’d encountered were self-centered and sneaky liars, he’d rather rip off his tail than physically hurt one.

“After you pack, come to the bar to get the keys to the car,” Calum said. “Tynan will meet you near the park.”

Tynan. Healer Donal’s littermate lived in the fucking city and worked as a cop for humans. The male must be crazier than a bee-stung badger. “You sure he knows what he’s doing?”

Amusement lit Calum’s eyes. “I daresay he knows better than you, cahir.”

Ouch. Owen bent his head, said, “Your will, Cosantir,” and retreated while he could.

Gawain fell into step beside him.

Owen stopped. “What’s up?”

“I’ll clean up the dining room and fix what we busted.” Gawain hesitated. “Thank you for what you said to the Cosantir. I’d hoped to talk with you before meeting him.”

“Talk about what?”

Gawain rubbed his hand over his beard. “Brawd. We haven’t been… After Edwyn died, it was difficult to be together. Made his absence more painful. I know you felt the same. But the missing bond is scarred over now, and I miss you.”

His littermate had always been appallingly upfront. Owen shut his eyes, remembering how it had felt as if a piece of himself had been ripped away when Edwyn died. Yet, as with a missing limb, the wound had closed. “What did you want to talk about?”

“I’m moving out of Pine Knoll no matter what. But if my presence here causes you pain, I’ll find a different territory.”

“No. Stay.” The Cosantir was right that the territory needed a permanent blademage. The last one had been ancient, rarely worked, and had recently moved to Elder Village.

And it was time Owen stopped hiding in a corner like a wounded cub. He scrubbed his face with his hands as if he could groom the awkwardness away and tried a smile. “I’ve missed having someone to fight with.”

“Oh. In that case, far be it from me to deprive you of your fun.” With an evil grin, Gawain casually shoved Owen face-first into the wall.

Well, fuck. Owen gingerly shook his head, ears humming as if he’d bumped into a beehive. The fucking blademage had put on some serious muscle.

*

The trip to Seattle had taken so long that Owen’s skin felt infested by a thousand fleas. It was a shame Gawain hadn’t been assigned to this damn trip instead. The idiot enjoyed human forms of transportation and didn’t see anything insane about trapping a body in a small metal box on wheels. Then again, blademages loved metal. Crazy fools.

Owen’s foot twitched on the gas pedal, but the Cosantir had warned him about speeding. If caught exceeding the posted “speed limit” numbers, he could get locked in a small iron cell with no view of the sky.

The thought made him want to curl into a ball.

Almost there. Off to the right, the setting sun glinted off a spindly mushroom-headed tower that rose from a forest of atrociously tall buildings. “What a fucking ugly place.”

A few minutes later, he escaped the multilane highway called I-5 onto quieter streets. As instructed, he drove past the Seward Park entrance and parked a short distance north.

A man in jeans and a hoodie leaned against a parked car. Around six feet tall. A bony face with a square jaw. Short, brown hair with reddish tints. Tynan had visited Cold Creek a time or two to see his littermate, the healer.

Owen parked, jumped out, and tucked the car key into his knife sheath. Along with the stench of the city, he could smell lake water, freshly cut grass, fir trees—and the faint wild scent of a shifter. “Tynan.”

“Good to see you, cahir.” The cop held out a thin hooded sweatshirt. “Put this on.”

Frowning, Owen did so. “Why? And why meet this far outside the park?”

“Because this section of the road has no street cameras. Closer in, there are people and cameras. Pull the hood up, keep your head down, and let’s go.” Doing the same, Tynan led the way down the sidewalk. Nearing a black van with darkly tinted windows, he said in a low voice, “This is one of the vehicles hunting the female. Slouch and keep your head turned.”