A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(40)

Melisande curved her hand around her sword, and together they started off, shoulder to shoulder, her back and muscles tense with the knowledge that Mage could jump out at them at any moment, without warning.

But not twenty yards in, another path suddenly appeared on the left.

They exchanged wary glances. Fox shrugged, and they followed that path instead—a path that turned at right angles every ten to twenty paces, the stone walls remaining perfectly uniform.

“It’s a labyrinth,” she murmured, a trace of fear scuttling up her spine. “We could be lost in here forever.” And hadn’t Paenther warned of just that? People disappearing. And perhaps not victims of Mage violence at all, but simply lost in the maze.

“We won’t be.” Fox’s warm hand slid beneath her braid, curving around the back of her neck, his thumb stroking her, featherlight.

She stiffened at the touch, surprised . . . appalled . . . that she liked it. But of course she did. She was losing the cold veneer that had protected her for so long.

Desperate to cling to her shields, she jerked away, and he let her go.

Around the next corner, the labyrinth veered in two different directions, left and straight ahead.

Fox held out his hand to her, and she looked at him askance. Had she not just made it clear she didn’t want him touching her?

His gaze chided. “My gut’s telling me I’ll lose you if I’m not holding on to you, pet.”

Oh. She wasn’t convinced he was telling her the truth, but neither was she willing to risk it. With a huff of resignation, she slid her hand once more into his.

Sky blue eyes crinkled at the corners, laughing at her prickliness even as his large hand engulfed hers, squeezing gently, his fingers curving around her with fierce protectiveness. And she had no desire to pull away.

A moment later, she was giving thanks to the ancient queens when they passed, suddenly and startlingly, into another world.

“Never thought I’d see you again,” the old Indian said, as Grizz led Lepard into the small antiques shop in Amarillo. Of course, the Indian didn’t look old—he was immortal—but he played the American-Indian card to the hilt with his buckskin pants and vest thick with intricate and colorful beadwork. His black hair hung in a long braid down his back revealing a strong-boned face and skin a shade darker than Grizz’s own.

“I need help,” Grizz admitted.

Black eyes flashed. “Never thought I’d hear those words from your mouth.” He turned away as if dismissing him.

Grizz’s temper, always a volatile thing made all the more hair-trigger since he’d been marked a Feral, exploded. Fangs dropped from his gums, claws erupted from his fingertips. Gripping the edge of the nearest table loaded with junk, he flipped it, sending dozens of ceramic tchotchkes flying in a crash of breakage.

The Indian whirled, his face a mask of outrage that quickly morphed into one of shock. “You’ve been marked.”

“You don’t want to cross me right now.” The words came out a growl.

A flicker of fear lit those black eyes. “Never did.”

Grizz stepped through the breakage, ceramic crunching beneath his boot. His fangs and claws receded as he leaned his hands on the top of the glass case separating him from the Indian. “Do you know of any way to tell a good man from an evil one—a man born with evil in his soul?”

The Indian held his ground, his mouth tight as his gaze flicked to the wrecked store, then back to Grizz. “Which animal marked you?”

“The grizzly.”

The Indian snorted. “Figures.”

“Well? Can you help?”

The Indian shrugged. “I know of someone who might be able to. But she won’t do it.”

“Tell me more.”

“She’s ancient.”

“That’s not helpful, old man. Is she Therian?”

“Mage. Part Mage, at least. It’s said that Sabine can see all the way into a man’s soul.”

And what exactly did that mean? “Tell me where to find her.”

“Last I heard, she was living up north. The Rockies.” The Indian held up his hand, forestalling Grizz’s anger. “I know someone who might know where she is. He’s an artist. Lives in Montana. I hear he saw Sabine a while back—sixty or seventy years ago, now.”

“His name?”

“Yarren Brinlin.” He pointed to the painting of wild horses that hung above the table Grizz had overturned. “That’s his work there. I bought it from a gallery in Bigfork. Ordered it over the Internet. You can probably track him down without much trouble. Don’t tell him who gave you his name.”

With a brief nod, Grizz turned and left.

When they were back in the car, Lepard peered at him, a hundred questions in his eyes. “Can you trust what he says?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I couldn’t.”

“There’s bad blood between you. How far back do you go?”

“All the way. He’s my father.”

“Shit.” Lepard sighed. “So we’re driving to Montana, now?”

For the first time in a long time, Grizz smiled. Lepard was okay. “No. There’s a jet charter outfit near here. I know one of the owners.”

“Thank the goddess. So we find this Sabine and take her back to Feral House?”