Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(19)

“And?” Dread curled in her stomach.

“It will hurt when I clean the wounds, and when I take the bullet out.” He nodded at Gawain. “Can you hold her?”

Rather than answering, Gawain moved to where she could look at him. “Darcy. Will you let me hold you so you don’t move when the healer is working on your injuries?”

His eyes were a quiet blue, as calm as a high mountain lake.

“Yes,” she whispered.


Such a brave little female. Gawain had noticed that, despite being forced into a trawsfur and questioned by the Cosantir, the little female had been most terrified by the table. He wrapped his fingers around Darcy’s small, cold hand and studied her.

Black wavy hair fell to her low back and was streaked with dirt. Her heart-shaped face was pretty, but her cheeks were hollowed from lack of food. Beneath her tilted upper lip, her full lower lip trembled. Her dark brown eyes were wide, and the scent of fear hung in the air.

She was still scared. When he put his arm around her and she leaned against him, the act of trust squeezed his heart.

Donal set a bunch of ominous healer instruments on a wheeled table-tray. “Would you prefer to lie down or remain sitting, Darcy?”

Her gaze never left the tools. “Sitting, please.”

“Gawain, from behind, bear hug her with your arms over hers.”

Restrain her, but with muscle rather than chains. Gawain stood at the head of the table and slid her toward him until her back was against his chest and waist. Carefully, he wrapped his arms around her and pinned her arms to her sides.

She didn’t struggle, but he could feel her breathing speed up.

“This liquid helps with the pain.” Donal squirted something in the furrow across her ribs. “If you haven’t been healed before, you might not know we don’t use human pain medications. They blur a shifter’s mind, and if you’re scared, you’re liable to shift to cat form.” His lean face held a sardonic amusement. “A pissed-off cat, no less.”

Yeah, Gawain didn’t want to find himself holding an annoyed cougar.

Darcy’s resonant voice was husky with pain. “I understand.”

When the healer picked up a massive water-filled syringe with a narrow tube on the end, Darcy made an appalled sound.

To divert her attention, Gawain quickly asked, “Why did you think Donal would strap you to a table?”

“I want the answer to that as well.” Calum walked to the table opposite Donal.

Limping back into the room, Owen dropped onto the bench and put his leg up. Gawain nodded at him, thinking his littermate must have given Calum a very short report. Then again, Owen wasn’t much for chatter.

“Good timing, people. All of you can keep her occupied. I fear this is going to hurt.” Donal gave Gawain a warning glance.

As Gawain tightened his hold, the healer forcefully squirted water into the bullet gouge, holding a towel to catch the dirty, bloody fluid.

Gasping, Darcy jerked, but Gawain kept her still. When tears filled her eyes, he wanted to knock Donal across the room.

“You were going to tell us about a table?” Owen’s rough voice was oddly gentle.

After a second, she said in a hoarse voice, “They—they call themselves the Scythe. They strapped the adults to the tables. Cutting away pieces. Dissecting us. They killed many of the grownups, trying to discover what made us shifters. The rest died in the cages.”

The Cosantir’s face turned icy cold, and the same chill spread through Gawain’s bloodstream.

“Where did this happen?” Calum asked.

As Donal flushed the wound again, she whimpered and muffled it immediately.

By the Hunter and the Mother, she was a brave young female.

She pulled in a breath. “My home is—was—Dogwood. It was a tiny village, and all of us were captured by the Scythe.”

“Dogwood?” Gawain frowned. “Up in the mountains in Mt. Hood Territory?”

“You know it?” she asked.

“I lived in that territory until recently.”

Calum frowned. “Did they take both humans and Daonain?”

“We had no humans there. The population was all shifters.” Her breathing hitched. “They shoved us in trucks and burned the whole village. I could see the flames as we were driven away.”


Darcy struggled not to break down. But even the healer’s cleaning job was less agonizing than remembering the bodies in the streets. Their cozy cottage engulfed in fire. “We—Mum and my littermates—had only lived in Dogwood a couple of months.”

The healer put his syringe down. “All clean. Let’s get this wound closed, so you have one less place hurting you.” He flattened his palms over her ribs, bent his head, and closed his eyes.

Deep in the wound, a heavy tingling awakened. Like the slow melting of snow in the spring, the pain receded.

Donal lifted his hands. “One down. Take a minute to recover while I check Owen over.” After rewrapping the blanket around her, he motioned the cahir to precede him through the doorway.

A second later, the healer’s voice came clearly from the other room. “Did I not order you to take it easy with your foreleg? You’ve re-broken your wrist, you gnome-brained idiot.” The volume increased. “And what is this hole? By Herne’s hairy balls, you must have been moving slower than a drunken dwarf for a human to put a bullet in you.”