Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(8)

Wulfe’s entire body went tense, the question hanging in the air like a rancid thought. “Maybe. Hell if I know.” The evidence kept growing that he really did have Daemon blood, but he sure as f**k wasn’t accepting that gracefully. Daemons, the most evil, vile creatures to roam the Earth, and he was one of them? Okay, maybe not entirely. Any Daemon ancestor of his had to have lived more than five thousand years ago. Even for an immortal, that had to be generations and generations ago. Still . . . how was he supposed to accept that he was part Daemon?

He’d thought it just a rumor that his wolf clan was descended from those monsters. He’d never believed it, not for an instant, not until a week ago, when he alone had been able to see the labyrinthine warding Inir had used to protect his stronghold in the mountains of West Virginia—warding riddled with Daemon magic. He alone had been able to get his Feral brothers through the worst of it. And even more damning, he alone had begun to hear Inir and Satanan conversing . . . in Inir’s head. Satanan hadn’t even risen yet. He still only existed within Inir’s body, little more than a wisp of consciousness. Yet, Wulfe continued to hear the two of them chatting from time to time.

Finally, he’d stopped denying the obvious and accepted that he had Daemon blood. After all, good or bad, it gave him advantages the Ferals needed in this war against Inir, and increasingly, against Satanan himself. Still, what it meant for him in the grander scheme of things, he had no idea. And it was freaking the hell out of him.

Wulfe turned on the radio to his favorite country-music station, and the three lapsed into silence, each lost to his own thoughts. Twice the Shaman called Ariana, suggesting she research specific events that Wulfe had never heard of—the incarceration of the King of Marck in the Buldane pit, and the plague of Opplomere. As promised, the ride appeared to be helping the Shaman think.

All it did was make Wulfe more impatient to get back to Natalie.

They were only a couple of miles outside Frederick when Wulfe began to hear the voices again. The hair rose on his arms.

If you’d killed the Radiant when you had her, you wouldn’t be having this trouble. You could have simply stolen the new one.

That’s assuming I could identify the new Radiant and catch her before she reached the Ferals, my lord. An unlikelihood. Besides, I needed the current Radiant to bring my new Ferals into their animals. This will work. We have Radiant’s blood. Just not unascended Radiant’s blood. My sorcerers will find a way to make it what it must be. I’ve already felt the first of the Ferals’ lights go out. One is no longer registering as a shifter. Once the others follow, and we’ve perfected the blood, you and your horde will be freed.

Wulfe’s hands clenched around the steering wheel at the disclosure of Inir’s grand plan. The ritual to free the Daemons required the blood of an unascended Radiant—a newbie, which Kara hadn’t been in months. As long as they kept Kara safe, they’d assumed Inir couldn’t perform the ritual. Apparently, they’d assumed wrong.

“Wulfe?”

At the sharp note in Tighe’s voice, Wulfe glanced at his friend.

“You’re about to snap the steering wheel. What’s up?”

“I heard Inir and Satanan again.”

“And?”

Wulfe told Tighe and the Shaman what he’d heard.

Tighe growled, pulled out his phone, and called Lyon, relaying the information.

Wulfe glanced at Tighe when he’d disconnected the call. “What did Lyon say?”

“Not much. He’s still not giving up on finding the ritual to make us mortal again.”

Wulfe just hoped they found it in time.

Minutes later, as they drove slowly past Natalie’s house, Wulfe felt something sigh inside of him. His wolf gave a whine of excitement at the prospect of seeing her again, but both man and animal spirit were going to be disappointed this time. Only the Shaman would be going up to the door.

Wulfe parked his pickup across the street and turned off the ignition, forcing himself to stay put while the Shaman climbed out of the truck and crossed the street, cookies in hand.

“Do you think she’s home?” Tighe asked.

“We’ve wasted two hours if she isn’t. It’s Sunday. Xavier says she’s an optometrist with a practice in town. Sunday and Monday are her days off.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s home.”

“Doesn’t mean she’s not.”

“She could be running errands.”

“She could be doing any of a hundred things.”

They were both watching the Shaman ring the doorbell, neither paying any attention to the conversation, which had devolved quickly.

Be home, Natalie. He needed the Shaman to tell him that she was fine. Please let her be fine. She deserved that, deserved a life without the threat of Daemons though if the Ferals didn’t find a way to stop Inir, all humans would soon know that terror.

The door opened. Wulfe’s heart began to thud in his chest. Natalie. She stood in the doorway in a pair of white shorts that accentuated her long, long legs, and a soft blue T-shirt that highlighted the blues and greens in her shockingly bright aura. At least he knew it hadn’t been a trick of his wolf’s eyesight. Dammit.

Tighe whistled. “That’s some glow.”

“You can see it.”

“Clear as day.”