Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(4)

Wulfe dug his keys out of the pocket of his jeans and let himself into the cab.

If only he could keep Natalie safely out of this war. But the way she was glowing . . .

He shook his head, his heart heavy as he started the truck and headed home to Feral House.

Natalie Cash wasn’t safe at all.

Chapter Two

Wulfe pulled his truck into the wide circular drive of Feral House in Great Falls, Virginia. The three-story brick mansion was set among the trees in this upscale neighborhood near the Potomac River a dozen miles outside of Washington, D.C. Vehicles lined the drive, the house itself overflowing with people now. Lyon had recruited a large contingent of nonshifting immortals, Therian Guards, to back up the Ferals in their rapidly escalating battle to keep the Mage from freeing the Daemons.

Most of the Therian Guards hailed from the British Isles, and the strongest twenty had been moved into Feral House to help protect the Radiant. They’d quickly filled the extra bedrooms, the rest bunking on sofas and pallets in the living room, media room, and basement. Another 137 took up every spare bed in the local Therian enclaves and in the safe houses dotting the area.

While it rankled that the Ferals needed backup, not a one had argued against the move. Not when the enemy had Ferals of his own, now—fully functioning, if evil, immortal shape-shifters—while the original Ferals’ immortality had been badly compromised.

As Wulfe parked behind Kougar’s Lamborghini, the early-morning sun reflected off the dew still coating the roof shingles, making them sparkle. If only he’d find the mood inside as bright. If only they’d made a breakthrough in finding a way to reclaim their immortality while he was gone. But as he walked through the front door and saw the haggard faces of Tighe and Paenther as the pair descended one of the twin curved stairs that bracketed the huge foyer, that hope was dashed.

“Where’ve you been?” Paenther asked, his tone only mildly curious.

Several men and two women nodded as they passed. He recognized them only because Lyon had made them memorize the faces of the Guards. The house was full of the low murmur of voices, but the Guards were well disciplined and eminently respectful of the Ferals, and the place had not become the madhouse they’d feared. So far, the only real problem had been keeping them all fed.

“You went to Frederick, am I right?” Tighe’s short blond hair gleamed brightly beneath the light of the chandeliers as he reached the bottom step and reached out an arm, clasping Wulfe’s at the elbow as their forearms slapped in the greeting of the Ferals.

Wulfe didn’t deny it. “I couldn’t sleep.”

Paenther greeted Wulfe in the same fashion, his jet-black hair framing a face that looked one hundred percent American Indian, though the warrior was only three-quarters. Slashed across one eye were three long scars, what appeared to be claw marks and were in fact feral marks. Each of the warriors had them somewhere on their bodies, the mark of the animal spirits that lived inside them. Wulfe’s own feral marks were on his forehead above his left eye. But he doubted even his brothers knew that. What were three scars among so many?

“Did you see Natalie?” Tighe asked. All Wulfe’s brothers knew why he went to Frederick.

He opened his mouth to confide what he’d seen, then closed it again. The Shaman would know better than anyone else if there was something wrong with Natalie. Or with him, for that matter. Until that ancient male had a chance to look at her, he’d keep it to himself. The last thing Natalie needed was to be dragged back into his world and this mess, even if the thought of her in his life again sent a thrill of excitement winging through his mind. Xavier seemed content enough helping Pink in the kitchens and remaining a virtual prisoner of Feral House, but Xavier was a rare case. Most humans would never accept imprisonment for a lifetime. And Wulfe didn’t want that for Natalie. If for some reason they couldn’t take her memories and let her go again, she might wind up with the same choice Xavier had been given—life as a servant of the Ferals, or death.

She had a life, a home, a fiancé, and he wouldn’t steal those things from her, not if he had any other choice. He prayed that glow had just been his own vision messing with him.

“I saw her,” Wulfe admitted. “She’s developed a soft spot for the wolf.” The memory of her sweet smile as she’d greeted him, her soft hands in his fur, tugged the corners of his mouth upward. Until he remembered . . . His mouth turned hard. “She wasn’t alone.”

“Her fiancé?”

“Neither of them seemed very happy. He accused her of changing.”

Paenther snorted. “The woman went through hell. Of course it changed her.”

Tighe peered at Wulfe. “Is she starting to remember anything?”

“I don’t think so though she may be reliving some of it in her dreams. But even if she doesn’t remember, she knows her friends are dead. She knows her brother’s missing.”

“So she knows something terrible happened during the days she lost.” Paenther’s mouth tightened. “Sometimes the not knowing is the hardest.” He clasped Wulfe’s shoulder. “She’ll be okay.”

“It’s nice of you to keep an eye on her.” Tighe clasped his other shoulder.

“Have you seen the Shaman?” Wulfe asked, as Paenther started toward the dining room.

Tighe’s eyes narrowed. Stripes always saw too much.