A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(21)

“Fuck.” Jag pushed himself to his feet beside Fox. “Next time I’m taking the Hummer. Every time I travel by Ilina, I swear I’ll never do it again.”

“We just saved you hours of travel time,” Melisande snapped.

Jag glared at her. “What are you doing here?” Like most of the Ferals, Jag didn’t like her. Unlike most, he had no bridle for his tongue.

“Jag . . .” Olivia punched her mate in the arm and turned to the two Ilinas. “We’re grateful for your help.”

“Just don’t stab us in the back,” Jag muttered, then turned away, dismissing them as he looked around. “There.” He pointed down the hill to a dirt road some hundred yards below. “Is that Castin’s truck?” He grabbed Olivia’s hand and started forward.

Fox winked at her . . . winked . . . then smiled at Phylicia as if she were the darling of his heart, before he turned and followed Jag.

Oh, she was going to rue her decision to join his team, that was already blindingly clear. Swallowing another huff, she started after them, Phylicia at her side. The sun was shining, the late-spring day warm but lacking the summer humidity that would arrive soon enough. She breathed in deeply, savoring the smells of the forest. No plants grew in the Crystal Realm, no trees, no flowers. She’d missed them bitterly during the long years they’d been forced to fake their extinction.

Minutes later, the small group fanned out around the late-model blue Chevy pickup with Canadian license plates. Plates they’d already confirmed were registered to Castin. She tried to imagine the male she’d known in those prehistoric times driving a pickup truck and failed, utterly. She’d never lost her heart to him, thank the heavens, but she’d liked him. A lot. And never imagined he was capable of such savage betrayal.

Jag threw Fox an expectant look. “Time to shift, Foxy. Let’s see if we can pick up a scent.”

“After you, boyo.”

The two shifters moved a little deeper into the trees, and Jag began to strip off his clothes. They must be hiding from prying human eyes, though she’d seen nobody out here, because none of the Ferals possessed an ounce of shyness about their bodies. Shifters never had. And no Ilina was ever offended by a bit of male nudity. Far from it. A quick glance at Phylicia told her she was waiting avidly for Fox to begin to strip as well. But when he made no move to do so, Melisande suspected he was one of the Ferals who retained his clothes and weapons through the shift.

Jag disappeared in a spray of colored lights, and moments later, a full-sized jaguar stood in his place—his head nearly black, his rosettes becoming more and more pronounced the farther they moved down his body.

Foxy? the jaguar shifter prompted, telegraphing his thoughts to all of them.

As she watched, Fox closed his eyes, began to sparkle, then disappeared. In his place stood a huge fox, the size of a Great Dane, with glorious red fur, black legs, and a face that was far too engaging.

Might want to downsize it a bit, Foxylocks. Don’t want to scare the humans if we run across any. Even as Jag spoke, he shrank himself to the size of a jaguar-shaped housecat.

Feck. Give me a minute. I still haven’t gotten the hang of this.

Melisande found herself biting back a smile, which was a novel experience.

Slowly, the fox began to shrink.

That’s it, Jag coaxed. A little more. It’s harder than it looks. It took me several years to get the hang of it. You’re a natural. There, he said when the fox looked just about right. That’s enough.

But Fox apparently wasn’t any more adept at turning off the sizing than turning it on because he just kept shrinking. Bloody hell, I’m the size of a squirrel.

Jag’s laughter rang in her head. Hey, Itty-bitty. You get any smaller, and you’re going to have to ride on my back.

The fox sneezed . . . or snorted. But a moment later he was growing again.

There! Jag said. And this time the fox stopped. Perfect. You look like a run-of-the-mill red fox.

Together, the two animals trotted out of the thicker trees and back to the waiting women. His mouth open, the fox appeared to be grinning as his gaze met hers, intelligent laughter lighting those eyes. Yes, entirely too engaging.

Jag paced in circles, close to the truck, then looked at the fox. Got his scent?

Feck, no. The animal closed his mouth and began to sniff at the ground. Wait . . . I smell something. Therian.

You’ve got him, then. Let’s go.

As the four-footed pair loped into the woods, Olivia followed them, Melisande and Phylicia bringing up the rear. Melisande had seen the Ferals shift often enough, particularly in recent weeks, but she’d never watched a new Feral. And she’d found Fox’s struggle with his newfound powers surprisingly winning, which she’d never admit to him in a thousand years. He’d turned neither angry nor embarrassed, and he appeared not to care at all that Jag continually called him by some ridiculous nickname or another.

Clearly, the Greek god didn’t take himself too seriously. If he weren’t a shifter . . . or a male . . . she might actually find that she liked him.

The shifters moved swiftly, but the women had no trouble keeping up even at a walk. They’d traveled more than a mile when she began to hear the shifters’ conversation in her head. They must be broadcasting it to all of them.

We’d make better time with longer legs, boyo. There’s no sign of humans.