Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(83)

“And I’ll keep you tethered. Stay away from the darkness.”

He smiled. “Deal.” He kissed her soundly, then ran to join the others just as Zeeland . . . Zaber . . . shifted into a saber-toothed tiger with a furious roar.

Deep in his mind, Wulfe heard his wolf howl in answer.

Thank the goddess. His animal was back. But he felt his wolf spirit’s pain, felt him at a distance. The Daemon energy might have cracked the wall the dark charm had erected between them, but it hadn’t destroyed it.

He pulled on his animal, trying to shift, but nothing happened. Dammit. The wolf whined and snarled. Then pain shot through his body in a searing rush, and slowly, slowly, in a spit of dark lights, he managed to shift.

“How’d you do that, Wolf-man?” Jag shouted.

Daemon blood.

“I’m starting to envy you, Dog.”

As the Therian Guard surged forward to take on the Mage sentinels, the Ferals charged. Wulfe and Zaber took point, a huge wolf and sabertooth tiger, attacking sentinels only when they had to, preferring to just run them down. This was not the battle that mattered.

The wind began to howl again, rain slashing, hail pounding, lightning bursting across the sky as Inir’s evil Mage died by the dozens. As Wulfe and Zaber approached the gate through which the sentinels had rushed from the castle, the heavy metal bars of the portcullis began to descend.

Acting on instinct, Wulfe shifted back to a man in the same flare of pain and dark, spitting lights, then lifted his hand and, with the force of his mind, stopped the gate’s descent, halfway down. He grunted. Daemon power was damn useful. Shifting back into his wolf, he dove under the gate after the sabertooth. Behind him, the other Ferals ducked beneath the half-lowered gate and followed them into the courtyard. Massive, steel-reinforced, wooden doors barred their access to the castle itself, but Wulfe sensed no magical warding blocking their way.

Wulfe looked at that door. Zaber, let’s take it together on the count of three. One, two, three!

The two huge beasts made a running charge, lowered their heads, and plowed through the massive doors, splintering them.

With a triumphant growl, Zaber leaped through the opening, and Wulfe dove through after him, the other Ferals following close behind.

As more Mage ran at them, the Ferals drew their swords. “We’ve got these, Wulfe,” Lyon shouted. “Keep going.”

Come on, Zee, it’s up to us. Wulfe raced forward, leading the way through the massive castle, running down one shadowed corridor after another. As he ran, the smoke began to curl in from the edges of his mind as if the darkness sought control again. His wolf snarled.

In his head, he heard Satanan’s voice. It’s taking too long!

My lord, the blood is not truly that of an unascended Radiant, so it will take time. But the ritual is working. The blade is opening.

The Daemon shifter nears, and he is not mine. His channel key interferes.

Can you tear him loose without breaking the connection?

Of course.

Wulfe’s heart dropped to his stomach. Natalie?

No answer.

Natalie!

When she still didn’t answer, he tried another route. Melisande?

Something’s happening, Wulfe. Natalie ran, and I caught her, but she’s not herself. She’s fighting me.

Dammit, dammit, dammit.

Wait. I think she’s snapping out of it.

Wulfe? Natalie’s voice. I don’t know what happened.

Satanan feels you tethering me. He’s trying to stop you.

He won’t. A bright pulse of her energy flowed through the slowly tarnishing thread that connected them, a pulse layered with determination. You battle him on your end, shifter, I’ll battle him on mine. Just the sound of her voice sent the smoke and shadows scurrying away.

He felt a fierce surge of pride and gratitude that the goddess had gifted him with the love of such a strong and glorious woman.

He wouldn’t fail either of them.

Finally, he and Zaber burst through yet another thick door and into the pouring rain. They were on the back side of the castle, overlooking the cliffs behind the stronghold. On the rocks, not twenty yards below, six bare-chested men stood in a circle ringed by fires that flickered and spit in the rain. On the rock at their feet lay a dagger.

The Daemon Blade.

Wulfe recognized four of the males—Polaris, Lynks, Croc, and Witt. The other two must be the pair Inir had forced Kara to bring into their animals when she was a captive here. They knew Lynks was an ass**le—a coward and a pedophile. Polaris, whom they’d known as Ewan, was a good man who they believed to be the one the animal had meant to mark, but he’d been subsumed by the dark infection carried to him by his animal spirit, and an unwitting pawn of Inir ever since. Whether the other four had honor or evil in their souls was anyone’s guess.

Outside the circle, watching with eager eyes, stood a man dressed in a blood red ceremonial robe, his short hair, even wet, gleaming with a copper sheen. Deep within his Daemon blood, Wulfe sensed Satanan’s consciousness in the male. With a surge of hard satisfaction, he knew he was staring at Inir.

Inir is in a bright red robe, he told Zaber and the other Ferals. His hair’s as copper as his eyes. As Inir turned toward him, Wulfe realized his last observation was all too true. Inir’s Mage eyes weren’t just ringed in copper, they were copper through and through. And in them, Wulfe read dismay and a sudden, raw desperation.