Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(84)

His wolf howled in delight.

“Kill them!” Inir shouted, and the dozen Mage sentinels who stood between the Ferals and their targets drew their swords and started rushing up the stone walkway.

Wulfe’s muscles bunched. I’ll crash the ritual while you stop Inir, Zee. Don’t kill him. We’re going to need his blood to reclaim our immortality, and I don’t know how much. Bite off a leg or two, and he won’t be able to get away. You’ll enjoy the taste when you’re in your cat.

Zaber grunted. He won’t get away. Let me take lead. I’ll heal. As Wulfe, still mortal, would not.

Go.

Zaber leaped forward, the stocky, muscular cat bulldozing the Mage, taking their slashing swords without slowing. But as Wulfe followed, one of those swords caught him, slicing through his shoulder in a searing flash of pain. And with the pain, the tendrils of darkness began to crowd in on him all over again.

Natalie.

I see them. I’m here. But her voice was losing strength, and it was long moments before the shadows reacted, and they backed off too slowly, as if at any moment, they’d spring again. Natalie was weakening. And the distance between them was growing too much.

Melisande, can you bring her any closer without endangering her? Maybe the woods on the other side of the fortress?

No problem, Wulfe. I’ll mist her there, now.

Thank, Mel. Hold on, Natalie. This will all be over soon. He prayed. And keep talking, if you can. Recite the alphabet or just keep talking. Your voice grounds me. And reassured him that she was okay.

Low, husky laughter sounded in his head, but there was a pained quality to it that made him ache. The alphabet it is.

Wulfe took two more wounds before he and Zaber fought past the sentinels and their blades. Finally, nothing stood between them and their targets.

Inir raised his hands, his eyes closing as if in prayer, though Wulfe suspected his intent was to draw magic. But Inir wasn’t Wulfe’s problem, not yet. He turned fully to the six Ferals gathered around the Daemon Blade. With a growl, he leaped, intending to fly into the middle of the circle. Instead, he hit a solid wall of energy that threw him back, hard, onto the stones. Pain shot through his spine.

He shifted to human and the moment he did, the warding became visible—a glimmering blue dome around the evil Ferals and the Daemon Blade. Wulfe lifted his hand, willing this warding to shatter as had the last, but nothing happened. Dammit.

With his fist, he tried to breach it in human form and nearly shattered the bones in his hand. He might as well have hit a brick wall.

Shifting back into his wolf, he called to his brothers. I can’t get through.

At the cry of a man’s agony, Wulfe swung his head to find Zaber tearing off one of Inir’s legs.

My lord! Inir cried. Why are you withholding your power from me?

Because I need it to rise!

But I am your servant, your right hand.

You are nothing, Inir. My vessel. My tool. And I need you no longer.

Wulfe grunted. After all these years, after all the death and misery Inir had caused, Satanan had forsaken him. Karma was a bitch.

Wulfe ran toward them, limping, one of his hind legs almost certainly fractured. Try to get through the warding, Zaber. I’ll handle Inir. And, goddess, would it be a pleasure.

As the sabertooth took off, Wulfe faced the male, the creature, responsible for so much pain. At Wulfe’s snarl, Inir threw up his hands, real terror in his eyes. Wulfe almost felt sorry for him. If Inir had been a good man controlled by Satanan’s will, he might have. But he knew better. And Inir would die. Soon.

Wulfe leaped, grimacing at the fire in his hip, and grabbed Inir’s other leg. With his massive jaws, he bit it clean off, the warm blood tasting right and fine in his mouth. The blood of his enemy. The son of a bitch would not escape his fate.

I can’t get through, either, Zaber said.

Wulfe limped toward him, meeting him halfway. Let’s try it together. They leaped as one, and Wulfe felt the warding give ever so slightly. But not enough. We need the others. Together, they’d be able to break through, he was certain of it.

While Zaber stood guard over Inir, Wulfe turned and loped back up the path to where the rest of the Ferals dispatched the last of the Mage. The doors to the fortress swung open, and Olivia stepped out, followed by a flood of Therian Guards. In their midst, he glimpsed Kara, and he wished Natalie were with her.

Belatedly, he realized she’d stopped talking to him.

Natalie? Melisande, is she okay?

She’s fine, Wulfe. But Melisande lied. If Natalie were fine, she’d have answered him herself.

The truth, Mel.

The truth is, she’s fighting Satanan with everything she has. You have to do the same.

What he had to do was help her. Concentrating, he found Natalie in his mind, in his heart, through that gossamer, fraying thread, and loved her violently, passionately, tenderly, pouring everything he had down that pathway between them, willing her to hold on.

A thin, weak pulse returned to him through that cord. Fear curled around his heart, the need to go to her clawing at his insides, but Melisande was right. They each had their battles to fight.

As the Therian Guard delivered Kara to her mate, Lyon took her hand and strode toward Wulfe. “Did you get through?”

“The warding’s too strong. It’s going to take more than two of us in our animals to breach it. But Inir’s down and ready for the ritual.”