Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(8)

For hours, she’d been walking, angling south and east, through an industrial district, over an enormous huge highway, and finally back into residential neighborhoods. Horrible city. Why would anyone choose to live in an area bounded by concrete boxes and streets and stinking of gasoline?

Block after block after block. Eventually, she’d have to detour around some giant lake in the middle of the city…if she ever reached that point.

At the next intersection, the hair on her nape rose. She was being watched. A casual glance to the left showed nothing. To the right…

Parked at the curb, a black van with tinted windows waited. The disturbed air at the exhaust pipe showed the engine was running.

She turned to head the other direction and glanced behind her.

Another dark van rolled slowly down the street.

No, no, no. Her mouth went dry; her pulse roared in her head. How had they found her so quickly?

The bridge. The Scythe must have had spotters, cameras, or something.

Despair was a metallic taste in her mouth. She broke into a run, knowing her flight spotlighted her as surely as if she’d screamed look at me.

She sprinted down the sidewalk, turned into a one-way street, and lost the car behind her. Speeding through a barren stretch of smaller apartment dwellings, she spotted another Scythe vehicle.

Run faster.

The car’s engine revved as she darted around another corner. Reaching the next intersection, she started to veer right…and scented green. Trees. Forest. Water. Within one breath, her body took over, yanking her left and straight for the wilderness. A wilderness in the center of a city. How could this be?

She ran past the signs at the entrance—Seward Park—and angled into the shadows beside the road.

The vans followed her in. Their tires screeched as they stopped. Men erupted from the vehicles, shouting orders.

Sharp popping sounds came from behind her. The road ahead sparked and spat concrete at her. Bullets—they were shooting at her. Trying to bring her down.

A slicing pain burned into her already damaged right leg, and her knee buckled. She fell, rolled, and tried to scramble to her feet. Her leg failed.

Terror consumed her, complete and utter panic, and she keened with protest. Using one leg and her hands, she lunged forward, unable to stop, unable to surrender.

As she blundered out of the shadows, the light of the waxing moon poured down over her, spotlighting her to her enemies. The need for shelter, for escape, filled her until nothing was left.

Oh, please.

Then she was running. Running. She bolted into the underbrush, through the huckleberries, and far into the fir forest where the darkness was impenetrable. She tripped on something, realized it was her shirt, and bit at the offending fabric until it shredded under her teeth. Her shoes were gone. Her leggings had split and hung off one paw.

Paw? She had paws. And a tail. And—

The yelling behind her grew closer.

On three legs, she fled, fear digging its claws into her fur as she ran and ran and ran.





Chapter Three





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The sun was well up when Owen Treharn left the diner on Cold Creek’s Main Street. He stopped for a moment to stretch and try to shake off the ugly emotions rasping over his skin. Last night had been the full moon when shifters gathered to ensure the Daonain race would continue. From moonrise to moonset, he’d mated female after female. He didn’t even know how many.

He shook his head. Who would have thought he’d ever tire of full moon Gatherings?

Admittedly, sex was enjoyable, sure, but wasn’t there supposed to be more? And dealing with females? Fuck, he’d rather fight a hellhound.

The hours of mating hadn’t helped his wrist either. Grimacing, he rotated his left wrist. Felt as if a beaver was gnawing on it with dull teeth.

He snorted. He’d always been willing to die for his people, and when the God had called him to serve as a cahir—a warrior of the Daonain—he’d been overjoyed. Funny how in the stirring bard tales of glorious sacrifice, the aftermath of battle and the irritating injuries went unmentioned.

At least the pain had eased up. And the busted bones had been for a good cause, since his attack had kept a hellhound from ripping Ben’s arm off. His big grizzly partner had managed to break free, but the hellhound fractured Owen’s wrist in the process.

The North Cascades healer, Donal, had closed the gory bites, but busted bones didn’t fuse together quickly. It’d taken him two days at a slow human’s walk to get to his remote cabin. Yesterday, he’d returned to Cold Creek in cat form, but the bones weren’t quite healed, and mating all night hadn’t helped.

Fuck, he was tired. Despite two cups of coffee, he felt as if his tail was dragging in the dust.

With a grunt, he scratched his stubbled jaw. He needed to shave. Feeling hair on his face reminded him too much of adolescence when he’d claw himself by accident, belatedly realizing he’d unexpectedly trawsfurred into a cougar. Damn embarrassing. His brother, Gawain, who’d rarely trawsfurred by accident, would merely grin in sympathy. His other littermate, Edwyn, had gloated, even though his control had been even worse.

Edwyn. Owen’s mood ran downhill like an avalanche of mud. Spoiled rotten, Edwyn had been an entitled, unlikable brat. If denied something, he’d go after it anyway, no matter how much damage he caused.

But, by the God, he shouldn’t have died. First, one female had ruined him from birth, and another had sent him to his death.