Passion Untamed (Feral Warriors #3)(31)

Striding back into the bathroom, he shut the door, stripped, and took a hot shower, washing the smell of the caverns and the witch off his skin. As he dried himself, he made his decision. He'd give her into Roar's keeping. Let his chief decide what to do with her. Because, enchanted or not, he obviously wasn't thinking clearly when it came to this particular witch. And there was too much at stake for him to make any more errors.

Paenther dressed quickly, in a clean pair of black leathers and a black silk shirt, buckling his knife belt around his waist.

The witch was no longer his concern.

If only, for one damned minute, he could stop wanting her.

Chapter Nine

Skye stood within her prison cell deep below Feral House, once more dressed, her back against the wall. Her body quaked as she struggled for breath, fearing what Paenther would do when he returned, dreading Birik's retribution. How many times had Birik told her if she ever escaped him, he'd make her long to return...or long to die?

If only she could escape them both. But where would she go?

Home. She'd go home.

Tears heated her eyes as the longing for her mother nearly overwhelmed her. But she didn't know how to find her. Her world had been so contained, so secure, she had no frame of reference within the human world to lead her back there. No idea what human town they'd lived near, or even what state. No way to contact the people she'd loved.

And no way to know if they, too, had lost their souls and were now part of Inir's army.

She brushed at the tear that rolled down her cheek. It didn't matter because she'd never be free. Escape was impossible. The Feral Warriors would never let her go. She wasn't sure they'd even let her live once she'd told them what she knew about Birik and the Daemons.

The memory of what she'd witnessed doubled her over until she thought she would be sick again. The terror of those poor people still pulsed through her blood, their screams ringing forever in her head. The foul smell of the Daemon himself felt permanently burned into her nose.

She pressed the back of her fist against her mouth. All the more reason she could never let Birik catch her again. He would only try to use her power to free more of those things. Even if he didn't get Paenther, too, he'd search for another way until he succeeded in freeing more.

And she'd die before she helped him set loose another of those monsters.

Slowly, she sank to the floor, cold from the bleakness of the future before her. Her old life was over. And she had none to replace it. She could never go back. Yet trapped in the Ferals' prison, there was no way to go forward. Was this it, then?

She pressed her head back against the wall, tears falling freely as Paenther's words replayed in her head. Whether we choose to let evil live, or we fight to destroy it, defines our lives. Choose, Skye.

She snorted softly. She had no choices.

But she'd made one, hadn't she? She'd freed Paenther and accidentally removed herself from Birik's control in the process. And it had been the right choice, no matter what happened to her.

When the Ferals came to interrogate her, she'd tell them everything she knew. Maybe, in some small way, she could help them defeat Birik and his Daemons. Maybe in some small way she could make up for all the suffering she'd caused with her gift.

Then, if they still felt they had to destroy her, so be it. What was one life when so many would die, when so many creatures had already died, because of her?

With a hard shudder, she pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms tight around them.

So be it.

But, dear Mother, I don't want to die.

As Paenther descended the stairs with Evangeline, Lyon opened the front door to the Shaman. To all appearances, the man who stepped into Feral House was little more than a boy, a fifteen-year-old dressed in costume - a ruffled white shirt and black breeches from a bygone era. He nodded to Lyon, then looked up to meet Paenther's gaze, his eyes ancient in his youthful face.

The Shaman gave a brief nod. "Warrior."

"Shaman." A growl rumbled in Paenther's throat. "Get me out of these shackles."

"I'll do what I can."

When he reached the foyer, Paenther motioned the Shaman into the living room. Like every room in Feral House, the walls were covered in original oil paintings, most dating from the midnineteenth century.

While Paenther took a seat on one of the deeply cushioned chairs, the Shaman pulled up a footstool and took hold of one of Paenther's arms, pressing his slender fingers around the manacle. Closing his eyes, he began to chant, murmuring words under his breath from a language Paenther had heard him use before, one he himself didn't know. Minute after minute passed, long, tense minutes where Paenther forgot to breathe, his mind and body concentrating so hard on willing the Shaman's magic to work.

When the Shaman opened his eyes and pressed his lips together unhappily, Paenther wanted to yell his fury.

The Shaman shook his head. "I'm sorry. It's strong, strong magic, warrior. I'm going to have to do more research to see if I can find another way."

Paenther closed his eyes, wrestling down the fury inflamed by his frustration. He needed to be able to shift! As long as he wore these shackles, he remained a prisoner to the Mage.

He speared the Shaman with his gaze. "The witch is in the prison. Lyon wants you to bind her magic."

A flash of venom tightened the Shaman's mouth as he nodded. Like his own, the Shaman's fate had long ago been decreed by a Mage attack. He'd been a youth at the time, and the attack had ended his growth into manhood. Though he was one of the oldest Therians alive, he looked like a young teen and always would.