A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)(76)

Wulfe pulled his sword from the neck of the dead warrior at his feet and turned, ready to take on more. The stuff this mind-f*cking world threw at them just kept getting weirder and weirder. Kougar assured them the savages weren’t real. Or shouldn’t be real, at any rate, which was of little comfort when they were trying to dig the Ferals’ hearts out of their chests.

Knees soft, swords gripped tight, Wulfe prepared to take on the leading edge of the enemy. Suddenly they were gone. In the blink of an eye, the savages, the sand, the beach were all gone and the four Ferals were once more standing in the woods, on the mountain. Back in West Virginia, by the looks of it.

“What the f**k just happened?” Jag demanded. “Not that I’m complaining.”

Kougar sheathed his sword. “If I had to guess, Fox found the key and disabled the magic.”

“Go Foxylocks,” Jag cheered.

A structure of some sort, far in the distance, caught Wulfe’s eye, and he started up the hill to get a better look at it. As he cleared the trees, he saw what had caught his attention and whistled low. “Come see this.”

Far in the distance, high atop a rocky cliff, sat a mammoth stone mansion.

“Inir’s stronghold?” Jag asked, coming up beside him.

“Probably,” Wulfe replied.

Lyon wasted no time. Shucking his jeans and sword, he shifted into his lion and took off at a run, his mane flying back from his ferocious, determined face. Kougar lunged for Lyon’s jeans. As he shoved them in the backpack Wulfe and Jag stripped and tossed him their pants as well. Kougar strapped their swords on his back, then, as one, the three shifted into their animals in a spray of colored lights and took off after their chief.

In his head, Wulfe heard Lyon call to both Kara and Fox. He heard no answer, but they were still several miles from the stronghold.

They’d traveled less than half a mile when Wulfe did begin to hear voices. Voices he’d heard before.

I’ve collected more than four dozen humans for your consumption, my lord. Will that be enough?

Adequate, yes. My horde will disperse the moment they’re free.

The voices faded. Wulfe’s scalp went cold. His horde. Satanan. It wasn’t Inir and a minion he’d been hearing, but Inir and Satanan? Holy. Shit. And suddenly the earlier discussion he’d overheard made a terrible kind of logic. Chills snaked down his spine, turning his blood ice-cold.

I sense one of mine.

That’s not possible. The Ferals killed them all.

Not one of those. This is different. Blood calls to blood.

Wulfe swallowed, his stomach twisting in on itself, forming a lump the size of his fist. No one needed to know. But for the next mile, his conscience flayed him. He had to tell them.

I’ve been hearing the voices again, he told his friends. Just now. And earlier. I think one of them is Satanan’s.

Three large animal faces swung to stare at him.

He’s been freed? Jag exclaimed.

I don’t know, but his horde hasn’t. He said they’ll disperse the moment they are.

Kougar joined in. Satanan isn’t free, then. At least not physically. I’ve suspected for a while that the essence that infected Inir was stronger than most. And Inir, or Satanan through Inir, has been working to strengthen it. It’s not unreasonable to think that Satanan is now fully conscious within Inir.

How are you hearing them, Wulfe? Lyon asked quietly.

And that was the real question. The one he didn’t want to answer. He hesitated as the lump in his stomach slowly turned to lead. He was the only one who could see the warding. Warding that was made of Daemon magic, Kougar had said. He was the only one who could hear the High Daemon speak.

Blood calls to blood.

Perhaps the goddess had known what she was doing when she gave him these scars all those years ago. Perhaps his outside matched his inside more than he’d ever believed.

There’s a legend, he told them, that the wolf clan, at least my branch of it, was descended from the mating of a female wolf shifter and a Daemon. I never believed it before. Now I think it might be true.

Fuck, Wulfe, Jag said. You’re part Daemon?

Wulfe’s head began to pound.

Melisande knelt at the huge fox’s side, stroking him, burying her hand in his fur. He’d shifted without warning and lay down, not moving.

“What’s happening, Fox?”

My animal has been compromised.

“What do you mean?”

The flashbacks. I haven’t told you about all of them. Inir infected my animal spirit with darkness after he cut it out of Sly, one of my predecessors. It’s not the same as the seventeen—I’m not infected—just the animal spirit. But he’s starting to be able to control my shifting . . . and my actions. He won’t let me move.

“That’s what happened last time, isn’t it? My easing you helped you regain control.”

Yes. The fox spirit seems to be strengthened by your touch.

Taking a deep breath, she pressed her hand to the top of Fox’s furry head, closed her eyes, and called on her gift. But though she felt her hands warm, Fox didn’t move.

“I’m not helping you.”

You are. But the darkness is growing stronger.

Melisande refused to give up. She dug deeper, pulled harder, until sweat broke out on her brow. Finally, she felt him shifting beneath her palm. Snatching her hand away, she sat back on her heels, catching her breath, as he turned back into a man.