Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(15)

Tynan retraced their path for a while, then angled north to keep their scent from the encampment.

The little female—and fuck, she really was little—limped along without a sound. The air brought him the scent of her illness—sick, infected, starving. She was weak and wouldn’t be able to run long at all.

How could he sneak her past the encampment without the hunting dogs catching her scent? If it came to a chase, he might manage to wipe out the canines, but the animals were backed up by humans with weapons.

Anger ran through him and sang for him to enter their fucking camp and teach them the dangers of threatening a Daonain female.

Being sensible sucked. With a huff of disgust, he put his mind to devising a better plan than shred them all.

When Tynan finally halted and glanced back, Owen scuffed the dirt. In the paw language used by cublings during games, the gesture meant stay here. The cop might be competent in the city, but Owen lived in a forest—and hunted hellhounds. He’d do the reconnoitering.

Shifting to human, Tynan stepped in front of the female. The guards were too close for explanations, so the cop gripped her scruff and went down on his haunches, showing her that they’d wait.

After a second, she sank, belly to the ground.

Good. She was trying, and Owen appreciated that. On the trail, when she’d stumbled and thumped her wounded leg against a log, she hadn’t made a sound. Even now, as tremors shook her body, she stayed silent. She was sick—and scared—and by the God, she was a brave little thing.

He gave her a nod of approval before sliding silently into the brush and moving upwind.

Before approaching the camp, he circled to approach from upward, crept closer, then took to a tree. From the high vantage point, Owen watched the hunters form a long line of men. The dogs were readied to go. Two guards were chatting near three black vans and two pickups to the right of the tents. Vehicles. Hmm.

Averse to metal, shifters rarely became mechanics. But as a teen, Gawain had learned to hotwire cars to help shifters who’d gotten themselves into awkward situations. City-dwelling Tynan might well know the trick.

Plan formulated, Owen headed back toward where he’d left the others, pausing to deal with one sentry. He generously put the human to sleep rather than gutting him.

Tynan and the female were still where he’d left them.

Owen shifted and crouched to murmur, “So, cop. Can you hotwire a truck?”

“That I can. Stealing a vehicle is your plan?” Tynan glanced at the female. “Right. I doubt she’d be able to walk out.”

“I doubt it, too.” Owen gestured to the south. Downwind. He’d be able to draw the dogs and men away from the cars and keep them entertained. “I’ll create a diversion over there. The vehicles are on the north side. Take the pickup closest to the road, head for the exit, and I’ll catch up.”

Tynan’s displeased expression showed what he thought of driving away without Owen, but he nodded.

Owen pointed to the path they should take. “The guard there won’t bother you.”

“We’ll be off, then.” Tynan stroked the female and motioned for her to follow. After shifting to wolf form, he led the way down the trail Owen had indicated.

Time to hunt.

A few minutes later, Owen reached the end of the south sentry line and dropped out of the tree on top of the scent-impaired idiot. A quick slash-slash resulted in rewarding shouts of pain.

He leaped back into the trees, skipped the next sentry, and chose one who was walking in terrified circles. The scent of fear was gratifying.

His own scent should be drifting to the dogs about now.

Crouched on the branch, Owen waited for the right moment. The tip of his tail lashed. His haunches tensed.

The human turned.

Without a thought, Owen sprang, landed on the man’s back, and drove him onto his face. When Owen sank his fangs into the man’s shoulder, the pain-filled scream of terror was long and loud.

Shouldn’t be anyone asleep in the camp now.

Between the scent of cougar and the screams of pain, the dogs went into a frenzy. With several men shouting orders, chaos ensued.

Unheard in the uproar, an engine started up.

Huffing in satisfaction, Owen nipped the hunter’s ear to provoke another scream. And realized his mistake when shots peppered the area, snicking the leaves, and thwacking the tree trunks.

Owen snarled. The idiots were firing blindly, even with their own soldier in the line of fire.

A bullet hit the human, and his scream of agony sparked more gunfire.

Something thumped Owen’s leg—and pain burst like wildfire though his hind leg. A hiss escaped as he fought his cat instincts for control. The squirrel-brained humans had shot him.

Fuck, it hurt. His claws emerged, digging holes in the human beneath him. More screams.

Growling low in his throat, Owen darted into the underbrush. His leg flared with pain with every movement. He pulled in a deeper breath. Suck it up, cahir. He knew how to deal with pain. When killing hellhounds, a cahir fought—no matter how badly he was damaged—or that cahir died.

He needed to shake off the dogs and quickly. Trotting into a creek, he headed northward, staying in the water until the wind no longer blew his scent toward the dogs. With a grunt of pain, he sprang into a tree directly from the water, leaving no scent markers on the bank. A keen hound might catch his scent, but the wind was now in his favor.