Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(86)

As for running the trails, she preferred being in the middle.

Recently, she’d realized Owen monitored the sounds around him. Whenever she fell behind, he’d slow without even looking around. Behind her, Gawain kept a comfortable distance, not close enough to crowd her, but near enough he could help if she got into trouble. The day she’d miscalculated a leap and slipped off a boulder, he’d been beside her in an instant.

Today… There was no way she could convey how grateful she was for their overprotective presence.

With every mile, her anticipation and anxiety rose. Once, Owen had to take them off the trail to avoid a couple of backpackers. Gawain and Owen had perched in trees. She’d hid in the underbrush and had to endure Owen’s disapproving stare. He felt cats belonged in the trees.

Unlike her, most cats didn’t fall out of trees.

At the top of a rise, Owen came to a stop.

When Darcy joined him, he glanced at her and lifted his nose. She sniffed. Humans. Food and sweat and garbage. Metallic scents. Gasoline. Gun oil. And under the stench drifted the elusively wild fragrance of shifters.

She took a step forward—and Owen blocked her path, ears back.

Gawain’s heavy paw came down on her neck. Don’t move.

But, but, but… Her villagers, her brothers were there. Reason trickled slowly into her brain—if her brothers were there, so were the Scythe.

Watching her carefully, Owen motioned with his head toward the trail’s edge. His glance at Gawain was easy to read. They were to stay here and wait.

No, she needed to go with him and…and she’d probably get him killed. Her heart sank. Owen was called “Ghost Cat” because he could move through the forest without a sound.

She sure couldn’t. With a low whine, she nodded.

Gawain chirruped softly and led her off the path. He stopped at a bare patch in the thick underbrush where they could watch the trail.

When they were settled, Owen flicked his ears at them, then sprang into a tree with a power and grace that dried her mouth. A second later, he disappeared.

Waiting was painful.

She tried to lie quietly, but the tip of her tail wouldn’t stay still.

Lying next to her in the tall, pink-stemmed salal, Gawain purred softly, put his big paw on her neck again, and started to clean her fur.

She wanted to scold him, to tell him to stop, that she was too upset. Yet the sound of his deep purr, the feel of being pinned down, and the slow lap of his rough tongue filled the tiny space with a serene peace.

*

The moon hadn’t risen yet, and the path Owen followed was dark. His paws made no sound in the thick duff.

The trail ended at an eight-foot wall of side-by-side, vertical logs with the ends sharpened to points. His history books called it a stockade.

The scents were stale. No sounds of occupation came from within. The shifter-soldiers must be out training or on a mission.

Fuck, the thought of disappointing Darcy was a splinter in his heart.

He studied the property with narrowed eyes. Tiny glints of light told him the closest houses were several forested acres away. Aside from the untouched rear, the forest was cleared well away from the outer stockade, and floodlights studded the walls. Anyone approaching would be lit up like a comet in a black sky.

Staying at the forest’s edge, he circled to check out the front. A rough dirt road fronted the property, and entry was by way of a long driveway through the stockade gate. Owen would guess that an attack through the front would be lethal.

Growling under his breath, he returned to the rear where the forest grew right up to the stockade. He’d bet the Scythe and shifter-soldiers used the door in the log wall to enter the forest.

He veered away from the floodlights that were pointed toward the trees and dropped down on the trail again. Very well traveled, wasn’t it? The idiots were using the same path each time they came and went from the forest. Not a mistake any of Calum’s shifters would make. But the Scythe wouldn’t notice, and of course, these Daonain had been captured as children.

Quietly, he climbed a tree, going high enough to view the inside of the stockade. Bare earth surrounded two houses. On the right, the building had bare windows with iron bars. A small interior light illuminated barracks-style beds and tables. Clothing was strewn here and there. A few books lay around.

On the left, the house had a very sturdy door, a garage, and a satellite dish. Shutters covered the windows. At a guess, the staff lived there where they had privacy—and could defend themselves against the big nasty shifters.

As he’d suspected, no one was home. This would be a good time to check out the interior.

He moved down to a thicker branch and sprang to the top of the stockade fence, aiming for a flat-topped 6x6 post. He landed, dug his claws into the wood to secure his balance, and jumped down behind the barracks.

An earsplitting alarm went off. Wah-wah-wah-wah. A floodlight spotlighted him.


As a distant alarm went off, Darcy sprang to her feet, ears flat to her head. The sound was one she knew all too well—something had set off a Scythe security alarm.

Owen. They’d caught him.

She’d barely moved before Gawain blocked her. When she tried to shoulder past him, his hiss of discouragement stopped her.

A growl got her nowhere—and if she tried to run, he’d flatten her.

After checking to ensure they were concealed, she shifted to human. “That’s a security alarm. Owen’s been caught.” A tearing sensation ripped through her chest at the thought of him being hurt. Of lethal, sarcastic, gentle, grumpy Owen being shot.