A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(43)

“I can’t, Fox.”

She was panicking. His fangs receded. “Melisande . . . angel. Look at me. Can you turn your head and look at me?” When she managed, he caught her gaze and held on tight. “I’m here. I’m here, sweetheart. We’re going to get out of this. The mob’s gone. They’re not going to hurt us. We’re going to escape.”

“No. We’re not. Fox . . .”

What would make such a fierce warrior panic? But he knew. Being a captive like this was something she’d done before.

Goddess.

He had to get her out of here.

And he didn’t have a clue how to escape.

Panic welled, ripping at Melisande’s breath as she struggled against the vines that held her fast, just like the chains that had trapped her so long ago. Memories reared up . . . terror . . . betrayal . . . pain. She fought them back, fought . . . and lost.

“Mel, I have a plan,” Fox said quietly beside her. “Trust me.”

Trust him. A shifter. The thought was nearly laughable, and yet . . . she did. And a moment later, Fox disappeared in a spray of sparkling lights, shifting to a mammoth fox, then downsizing faster than she’d ever seen him. The vines tried to tighten around him, she could see them contracting, but Fox was faster. And suddenly he was bounding free, a tiny fox, racing away from the grabbing foliage.

Away. Leaving her behind.

Trust me, angel, he said, as if he’d heard her thoughts. These damned vines! Moments later, There! I’m free of them. I think. Don’t go anywhere, Mel. I’ll be back.

Don’t go anywhere? Hoarse laughter burst from her throat, then died a quick death as terror overcame her again. Sooner or later, someone would come. Perhaps Mage sentinels, perhaps just more people of this odd, magical world. They’d take her into captivity. And then what? Hurt her? Kill her?

Sweat soaked her back, a cold sweat that had her trembling even as she struggled against the iron hold of the vines.

Fox, if you leave me, I’ll kill you, Feral. Someday, I’ll escape, and yours will be the first life I take.

I’m not deserting you, sweetheart. I’m grabbing weapons against the vines. I’ll be back in a minute.

And suddenly her fear shifted. Fox, you can’t come back here! The vines will catch you all over again.

Melisande, tell me what you know of Daemon temporal cages. Are they always accessed from a labyrinth?

She thought about it. No, I don’t think so. I’ve never heard of the Daemons using a labyrinth, though there are old stories of ancient Mage creating magical gauntlets with them.

It makes sense that a Mage would use Daemon magic to create that which he knew. In other words, a labyrinth. Tell me about the gauntlets.

It occurred to her that he was intentionally turning her mind from her predicament, forcing her to think of something else. Easing her panic. And it was working.

She thought about the old stories, from the times before the Sacrifice five thousand years ago, a time when the Mage still had full access to their great store of magical power. And as she thought, her breathing began to even out, her trembling to quiet.

The gauntlets were a series of trials. Usually horrific trials. If the captive . . . almost always a shape-shifter . . . survived or escaped one, he was thrown into the next. Eventually, most died. The few who made it through the entire gauntlet alive were experimented on, then killed.

Fox made a noise in her head that sounded like a grunt. No reward for the strongest and most clever.

No, she agreed. Not when they’re your enemy.

She felt something slide against the side of her neck as if rising from the cobbles, then gasped as it turned razor-sharp, cutting her flesh. It rose, briefly, into her line of vision, a bright orange vine where the others had been green, sliding across her throat and down the other side, sharp, cutting, deeper and deeper.

Fox! I’m out of time. One of the vines means to take off my head.

Wulfe whined at the sound of the buzzing. It tickled his wolf’s ears, vibrating through his head and body like an electrical charge sprinting along his skin.

Do you feel that? he asked his companions.

Feel what? Kougar asked in reply.

It sounds like we’re getting close to a power station.

I don’t hear it, Kougar said. He and Lyon hadn’t heard the voices, either.

With a mental frown, Wulfe continued on, following Estevan’s trail through the mountain forest, praying to the goddess they were on the right path this time. About an hour ago, they’d come upon a lake they hadn’t seen before on their perpetual loop around the mountain, and for the first time, they were slightly hopeful they’d finally penetrated the mountain’s mischief.

But that hope did little to lift their spirits. Several hours ago, Ariana had felt one of her maidens die, one of the two who’d gone with Jag and Fox. Assuming the group had come under attack, Ariana had tried to mist Kougar to them, but she’d been unable to find any of them. Ever since, they’d been riding a knife’s edge of tension, worried their friends were no longer alive. The only thing that kept hope from dying was the fact that Ariana was certain Melisande still lived even though she could neither find her nor communicate with her. If she was lost, but alive, so, too, they reasoned, were Jag, Fox, and Olivia.

All they could do was keep going.

It was midday, the sun high in a sky dotted with wispy clouds, the day warm, though not hot, even though Wulfe had spent the entire morning in his fur. The wolf was the best tracker of them all. If anyone could follow Estevan’s scent, it should be him.