Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(16)

Behind him, the shouting grew less terrified and more frustrated. Some idiot was still firing a weapon.

Traveling through the trees was slow going, and after a brief time, Owen dropped to the ground, winced when his foreleg almost gave out—damn broken bones—and raced for the road.

Satisfaction filled him at the sound of a pickup farther ahead. The cop had gotten the female out.

As Owen caught up, the truck showed no headlights and was going slow. Owen leaped into an empty spot in the truck bed, landed, and pain stabbed into his foreleg. Then his wounded hind leg bumped into a pile of crates. By the God. Hissing at the pain from fucking everywhere, he moved forward and pushed his muzzle against the rear cab window.

The female was curled in a miserable-looking ball on the floor.

Tynan met Owen’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. The cop touched his finger to his forehead in a salute, and the pickup surged forward.

As the distance from the humans’ encampment increased, the noise of shouting and firearms diminished. Tynan turned the headlights on.

The pickup approached the park entrance, which was bracketed by window-darkened black vans. The humans there sported rifles and holstered handguns. Leaving the tinted window up, Tynan slowed only slightly.

Smothering a snarl, Owen crawled under an overturned crate.

As Tynan drove past the vans, the guards didn’t attempt to stop them. It was their vehicle, after all.

A couple of minutes later, the pickup rocked to a stop beside their own cars.





Chapter Four





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The one named Owen had been shot. Because of her. Darcy hated that he’d gotten hurt and she was so, so grateful to him.

She was free and leaving the city.

After abandoning the Scythe pickup and putting her in Owen’s car, the males had driven their two cars to a parking lot. In a deserted corner, the men had dressed. Tynan bandaged Owen’s leg and said he’d drive them to Cold Creek in Owen’s car. When Owen insisted he could drive, Tynan rapped two fingers on the cahir’s swollen wrist. Owen’s pain-filled snarl lost him the argument, and he grumpily climbed into the passenger seat.

Darcy stayed stretched out on the back seat.

With Tynan driving, they headed north and onto the freeway.

For what seemed like hours, Darcy lay flat, tense with nerves. Car lights flashed by. Air brakes hissed on the massive trucks. Horns blared sporadically.

Then they were out of the city.

As the land rose, the car engine hummed a lower note, and the stench of gasoline and chemicals faded. First, there was the dusty scent of end-of-summer grass, then the sharper fragrance of evergreens. With a happy sigh, she curled into a ball and fell asleep.

Itching roused her. It felt as if ants were crawling all over her body. In the front seat, Owen absentmindedly rubbed his arm, and watching him made her itch worse. She lifted her hind leg to scratch her neck—and pain battered her senses. She snarled. How could she forget her leg had multiple holes in it?

Owen glanced back. “I’m surprised the itching didn’t wake you sooner. Damn vehicles.”

What did he mean? As she adjusted her position, she watched him rub his back against the seat cushion. Itching. Vehicles? The metal. Of course. She should have recognized the feeling from when she worked with engines. But then she only did repair work with her hands not her whole body. Closing her eyes, she set herself to endure.

“I’m surprised you can stand it,” Owen said to Tynan. “Constantly around metal. Surrounded by humans. Too far from the forests.”

Using the rear view mirror, Darcy could see Tynan’s grim smile. “Since I have blademages in my ancestry, I have more tolerance for iron than most Daonain. The city is irritating though.”

She tilted her head, enjoying the sound of his Irish accent.

“So why do you live there?” Owen asked.

“Well and someday maybe I’ll tell you. This isn’t the day.”

As silence fell, Darcy lowered her head and let herself drift off to the low hum of the motor and the throbbing burn of her wounds.

Dawn was breaking when Tynan pulled the car to a stop.

“I need to call and report we’ve arrived,” Owen said. “Be with you in a minute.”

“I’ll take her.” Tynan slid out and opened the back door. “Let’s be getting you into the house, lass. The healer’s expecting you.”

A healer. Dogwood had been too small to have a healer. Carefully, Darcy jumped off the backseat to the grassy lawn. The shooting pain of landing flattened her ears and made her hiss.

“On with ye.” Motioning her toward the house, Tynan took out a phone and started punching in numbers.

The door to the house opened, and a tall, thickly muscled male strode down the steps and to the car. A trim brown beard covered a strong jaw, and his wavy light brown hair hung to midway down his white cotton shirt. The porch light showed a scar on his cheekbone—a blade resembling a cahir’s but encircled by a full moon. As Darcy tried to recall what the symbol indicated, the male opened the passenger door and frowned at Owen.

Owen shoved his phone into his pocket. “Gawain.”

“Mother of All, brawd. You’re a bloody mess. What’ve you done to yourself?”

“What’ve I done? Wasn’t me filling the air with bullets.” Owen’s annoyed growl had Darcy trying to back up.