A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(70)

The male watched him with quiet curiosity. “It’s a bit of a tale. I heard a rumor that the Ferals aren’t trusting the newly marked.”

Damn. And how had that gotten out already?

“So you thought you’d offer your services to Inir instead?” Fox’s tone sounded acidic even to his own ears.

Castin’s eyes narrowed only slightly. “I came to kill him.”

Fox blinked, not sure what to do with that. Perhaps the male wasn’t a villain through and through. Fox had known him once and had thought him an honorable male. But men changed. And men lied.

“There’s dark magic involved, Castin. You’re infected with it.”

“I feared as much. It’s the pull of it I’m following. Are you infected as well?”

Fox cleared his throat, struggling to mask his anger. “No.” At least . . . hell. He wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “Inir has our Radiant. We were hunting her and fell into the labyrinth.”

Castin snorted. “I’ve been wandering the thing for days.”

“As have we. Keep an eye out for the Mage, will you, while I pull my companion out?”

With a nod, Castin turned away.

“Angel,” Fox called softly.

Melisande grabbed the rope and climbed with a grace and ease he envied. He reached for her as she neared the top, and pulled her out, though she could have done it easily enough without his assist.

Castin turned around, then did a double take. “Melisande?” A bright, disbelieving smile lit the usually taciturn warrior’s face, as if he were genuinely delighted to see her. As if he had no recollection of betraying her.

Fury flayed Fox, jealousy beating at him. They’d been lovers.

But Melisande’s face turned dark with hatred, her hand grasping the hilt of her sword.

Out of the corner of his eye, Fox saw movement in the rocks. Mage. “We have company,” he warned. Mage sentinels were beginning to crawl out from the rocks like a plague of rats, half of them mounted on horses.

Castin frowned at Melisande even as he pulled his sword to fight. Melisande threw Castin a hate-filled promise of a battle to come when this one was over. Fox pulled his knives, grimacing against the pain that told him he still hadn’t healed. And the Mage just kept coming.

Melisande was shaking, choking on her hatred as she turned from Castin to face the attacking Mage. How dare he act as if she were a long-lost girlfriend he was delighted to see. As if nothing had happened. As if killing and/or torturing eight innocent Ilinas was nothing!

“Let’s pull this battle away from the pit,” Fox said, coming up beside her. “Give no quarter. Every one of these feckers stands between us and Kara.” He stayed close to her side as they raced out onto the snowy plain, as if he didn’t entirely trust her not to attack Castin instead of the Mage.

Truth to tell, it was a near thing. Seeing Castin again had brought it all back as if that first, horrible night had happened hours ago and not five millennia—the torches set at intervals around the glade, gleaming on the flowers that had been cast onto the pond. Blankets had been laid out, laden with food and overflowing casks of wine. The summer air had been thick with the scent of flowers, forest, hot bodies, and the perfume of Ilina mating scents.

But there had been a tension in the air that night that she hadn’t understood. When she’d asked Castin about it, he’d admitted only that they were worried about their inability to call their animals. But the celebration would take their minds off it. The beauty of the Ilinas would turn their thoughts to more joyous pursuits. And she’d believed him.

Fool.

She jerked her mind back to the present and counted more than a dozen Mage, half of them on horseback. As she and the two shifters pushed through the powdery snow, the mounted sentinels circled them, cutting them off.

The cave leaped into her mind as she’d first seen it that night, after fighting her way back to consciousness. Flickering torches, the smell of mildew and damp fur. The cheetah chieftain standing over her with eyes awash in an unholy light. Her arms were tied above her head as they would remain for three years. But her legs were free.

She’d tried to kick out at him as he’d knelt as her feet, but he’d grabbed her ankles in one hand, his shifter strength far greater than her own. Lifting her feet into the air, her hips off the ground, he’d driven two stakes into her lower back, one after the other, then dropped her, mounted her, and raped her as she’d screamed. Then he’d left her and returned with half a dozen of his warriors.

Shaking her head, focusing on the present, she watched the Mage leader draw his sword, his sentinels following.

“Back-to-back,” Fox ordered, and the three formed a tight circle, shoulder to shoulder, as they prepared to take on the enemy. As the leader of the Mage battalion gave the order to advance, the three sprang forward as one.

Melisande struck out at the nearest Mage, one on foot, channeling her raging fury. She dove, spun, sliced through his hamstring, then his back as she leaped to her feet behind him. How she wished it was Castin’s flesh beneath her blade. As the Mage fell to one knee, unable to stand, Melisande spun, sword out, and lopped off his head.

As the blood spurted up from his neck, another memory slammed into her, watching the blood spurt from the chest of a young cheetah, a male only a handful of years past his maturity, as she held his warm heart in her hand. He’d begged her for mercy, terror in his youthful eyes, but she’d given him none. Just as he’d ignored her screams as he’d driven into her in that cave.