Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(62)

“We’re going to be,” she gasped, “if you don’t free me soon.”

“Will you help us determine the souls of the males in these prison cells?” Lyon asked.

Sabine lifted her head and met his gaze, pain bracketing her mouth. “Do I have a choice?”

For a moment, Lyon said nothing. “If you lie about what you find, my wife may die. And not only will my own heart cease to beat, but without our Radiant, the Ferals will be unable to keep the Mage from freeing the Daemons. I imagine you’re familiar with the Daemons?”

Sabine glanced up, looking at Grizz with such a depth of fury that Wulfe suspected she’d happily yank his heart out of his chest if she didn’t need him to manage the pain.

“Let me down,” she snapped.

Grizz set her on her feet, keeping one arm tight around her, an arm she gripped with both hands.

“I am called the Shaman, Sabine,” the youthful-looking male said, stepping close to the cage. “I am ancient, despite my appearance, and once knew Nyads. I would touch you, if you’ll allow it, to verify you are what you say and that you’ve not been infected with the darkness that plagues the world.”

She stared at him. “If my pain at being near others is terrible, touching is ten times worse.”

Lyon stepped forward, his expression determined if not unsympathetic. “I’m afraid I must insist you cooperate with the Shaman, Sabine. You understand my concern.”

Sabine closed her eyes, her mouth tight, as if trying to gather her courage. She stepped out of Grizz’s embrace, but took his hand and gripped it tight as she walked to the bars of the cage and thrust her hand through.

The moment the Shaman took her hand, she threw her head back, her back bowing in pain. Grizz pressed himself against her, holding her as closely as possible, his jaw rigid. The male might have anger-management issues, but he was clearly suffering at the woman’s misery.

“A good soul,” Sabine cried.

The Shaman dropped her hand and stepped back gingerly. “She is Nyad, as she claims. And pure. There is no darkness here, I’m certain of it.”

Sabine sank against Grizz, and he pulled her tight against him. Wulfe could almost see the grizzly shifter flaying himself alive for hurting her.

“Why is she calmed by your touch?” the Shaman asked.

Grizz looked up and met the male’s gaze. “I have no f**king idea.”

“Finish this!” Sabine cried. “And then let me go. Please.”

Lyon strode to the door of Grizz’s cage and opened it. Grizz stared at him for a moment, then swept Sabine up into his arms and carried her into the open space.

Lyon motioned him to the cage where Castin watched with piercing eyes.

“Your hand.”

Castin pushed his hand through the bars of the cage.

Sabine hesitated, shaking now. Wulfe could see her terror of the touch to come and imagined being told he had to reach into the fire and grasp hold of a red-hot iron. Considering her reaction, he thought it might be just that bad for her.

Grizz, clearly thinking the same, shuddered, tipping his head against the top of hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

Slowly, Sabine reached for Castin’s hand and held on until she was quaking violently. “Old,” she gasped. “So much death, so much suffering. A good soul,” she cried at last and released the hand.

The Ferals watched the proceedings with a mix of fascination, hope, and unhappiness. Not a one would let a woman suffer needlessly and it cut at every one of them that they were forcing this woman to suffer now.

At Lyon’s direction, Grizz approached the cage of the silent, dark-skinned male with the watchful eyes. As the male extended his hand, Sabine took it weakly, and screamed. “Death. Pain.” She was trembling, now, shuddering. But her declaration was strong and sure. “A good soul.”

Goddess, how much more of this could she take? How much more of this could any of them take? Wulfe was ready to declare enough! They already had two they should be able to bring safely into their animals. But to leave the others in limbo, when they had this opportunity to learn the truth, was unthinkable. There was no choice but to force Sabine to press on, and Lyon did just that.

Grizz turned to the cages across the aisle, to where Lepard stood, his hand extended, his brows drawn.

Sabine didn’t reach for him. She was shaking so badly, Wulfe wondered if she could even if she wanted to. Grizz lifted her hand, his face lined with misery, and handed it to Lepard.

Sabine screamed, her body bowing in agony. But her pronouncement was the same as the others. “A good soul,” she announced in that singular voice that was hers and yet sounded almost a thing apart.

The moment she spoke, Lepard released her, and she fell against Grizz’s chest, gasping for air.

Grizz cradled her as gently as a child. “I’m sorry, Sabine. I’m sorry.”

“One more,” Lyon said. “Then yourself.”

“Can’t,” she gasped. “Can’t read Grizz. It’s why I can touch him.”

As if dragging leaden feet, Grizz turned toward Rikkert, who glared at him with a raw hatred the Ferals had yet to understand.

Grizz lifted Sabine’s hand to him, and the male took it carefully. Sabine’s scream was terrible, enough to shatter eardrums.

Finally, in that same, strong voice, she declared, “A good soul.” A moment later, she fell limp in Grizz’s arms.