Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(86)

They all turned. Directly above the Daemon Blade, the colors swirled, dense and fast. At the top of that twisting mass, the head of a male had begun to form.

All around them, flying shapes began to materialize. Wraith Daemons by the score, but also human-looking men and women dressed in fur or leather or naked, and armed to the teeth with knives and blades of every length and size. Suddenly, the human-looking ones—were they Daemons, too?—began attacking the wraith Daemons as if their lives depended on it.

Shite, Fox murmured.

One of the leather-clad men, a tall male with thick dark hair tumbling to his shoulders and black tattoos covering nearly every inch of his body and half his face, turned to the animals, the Ferals.

“Stop Satanan before he’s free! We can’t touch him, but we can hold off the Abominations.”

Abominations. The same term Strome had used for the wraith Daemons. The real Daemons looked human, just like the Therians and Mage.

Wulfe leaped toward the evil Ferals, who continued to chant as Satanan slowly formed in that swirling color, his neck and shoulders now visible.

It’s going to take all of us to breach the warding of that circle, he told his brothers, then realized Lyon would never leave Kara to fend for herself among the Daemons. If only the Ilinas could mist in.

Sending his senses outward, he realized they could.

The anti-Ilina warding must have been destroyed with Inir, he told his brothers. It’s gone. The only warding now is the one encircling the evil Ferals. Have the Ilinas mist Kara out of here.

The moment Kara was out of danger, the eleven good Ferals raced to the ritual stone. Around the edges of Wulfe’s mind, the smoke began to gather again, nipping at his control, at his conscience. Concern gripped his mind.

Natalie?

I’m fine, Wulfe.

But, dammit, she didn’t sound fine. She sounded as weak as a newborn kitten. His wolf whined in distress. Wulfe knew he didn’t dare disengage from the primal energies yet, but goddess, he’d better do it soon.

The good Ferals circled the evil. Within that swirling color, Wulfe could feel the darkness growing stronger. A pressure began throbbing in his chest and head, and he imagined that swirl of color calling him, trying to drag him toward it. Or trying to yank the soul out of his body. Was this what had happened to the rest of the Daemon race? Was it happening to the newly freed Daemons even now?

If the tattooed Daemon was right, the moment Satanan was loose, he’d snatch control of them all once more. This time, Wulfe included.

Roar, Satanan’s calling my soul. If he gets free, I may turn on you.

He’s not getting free.

As he watched, the evil Ferals suddenly shifted into their animals, turning to face the impending attack—a polar bear, white tiger, crocodile, lynx, black bear, and giant-ass wolverine. Powerful, yes, but too few against their far more experienced and more numerous opponents. Six evil against eleven good. It wouldn’t be much of a fight if the good guys could just get through the damn warding.

Spread out, Lyon ordered. Falkyn, get the Daemon Blade.

The little falcon shifter, their sole female Feral, was by far the fastest of the lot. On the count of three. One, two . . .

Suddenly, the polar bear shifted back into a man, grabbed the sword he’d dropped to the rock at his feet, and lopped off the head of the wolverine standing beside him, then whirled and took off the head of the white tiger.

Polaris . . . Ewan . . . was clearly free of the dark magic that Inir had used to control him.

Three! Lyon yelled.

Wulfe leaped, feeling the warding resist, then give with a soft, sucking pop. They were in! Falkyn zipped past him, barely visible from the corner of his eye. And then suddenly she was all too visible as she flew back onto the stone as if in slow motion.

As Hawke darted after his mate, Satanan laughed within that swirling storm of energy and color.

Inner warding. Falkyn’s voice was breathless in his head. Satanan’s warded himself in the middle.

As his brothers and Polaris took on the remaining evil Ferals, Wulfe leaped at the Daemon Blade and, just like Falkyn, flew back, slamming into the rock in a blaze of pain.

Wulfe! Natalie cried.

I’m okay. We’ve almost got him. But, goddess, he didn’t know if that was true.

As the animals battled around him, Wulfe scrambled to four feet and shifted back to a man. Breaching Daemon energy might require taking Daemon form. And, much to his surprise, Daemon form was not all monstrous.

“The Destroyer attempts to reclaim my soul!” yelled one of those fighting the wraiths.

“Shifter, hurry!” the tattooed Daemon called. “If Satanan regains control of us, you’re dead.”

And Wulfe had no doubt that was true, not when he could already feel Satanan pulling at his own soul. The smoke and shadows once more began to curl around the edges of his mind.

Wulfe thrust himself into that swirling mass of orange and red, fighting the darkness that sought to ensnare him. Suddenly, the warding parted, and he was in. Standing before him with eyes that glowed bright red in a hard, if distinctly human-looking face, was the High Daemon, Satanan, the most powerful, most evil being ever to walk the Earth.

Wulfe’s pulse pounded as he stared at his nemesis, at the dark hair blowing in every direction, caught in that wind of power, and at the broad shoulders covered in a silver robe. From the waist up, Satanan now appeared fully corporeal.