Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(87)

A smile broke across that hard mouth, a smile of such evil, such malevolence that Wulfe’s skin crawled.

“You are mine, shifter.”

Wulfe didn’t bother to answer. Instead he lunged for the blade that lay on the rock between them, the swirling red-and-orange energy flying from its etched and enchanted steel. But before his fingers could close around it, Satanan’s hand shot up, palm out, and Wulfe was slammed back against the warding. Pain tore through his back, then raced through his flesh as if he’d been electrocuted. He struggled to right himself, to pull free of that blazing current, but he couldn’t move.

Inside his head, the shadows multiplied, as if fed by his pain, ready to steal his mind even as Satanan prepared to steal his soul.

Wulfe roared with frustration. He would not let this son of a bitch win! Struggling to concentrate when his mind was consumed with pain, he gathered the primal energies that continued to rush through his body, then threw the power as Satanan had. But the High Daemon only laughed, threw back his head, and inhaled it. With horror, Wulfe felt his soul, his very life force trying to follow.

Goddess, goddess, goddess. He couldn’t fail. Natalie was counting on him, as were his brothers and, hell, the whole damned world.

“Wulfe?” Lyon called.

He was going to have to pull the energies harder. Which would hurt Natalie. It might even kill her.

His mind screamed in denial. His wolf howled in misery, then growled low, reminding him without words that above all . . . above all . . . Satanan could not be allowed to win. As he faced the greatest evil the world had ever known, Natalie’s words came back to him. You were born for this. You were born who you are, what you are, because at this critical moment in time, only a Daemon-wolf could possibly stand against a consciousness as powerful as Satanan’s. This is your destiny, Wulfe. Claim it!

As if Natalie felt his hesitation, at that very moment, a pulse of energy flowed into his heart through that wisp of a mating bond. A soft, loving energy filled with the infinite strength of Natalie’s will. Her body might be weakening, but her determination to help him succeed remained as strong as ever.

Together, they would win the day. Or die trying.

The fear that he would lose her flared in his mind, but he shoved it back. Letting the world fall to Daemons would not save her. Their only way through this maelstrom was together.

Taking a deep breath, Wulfe pulled on the power, on the primal energies. They came, as they had before. And then suddenly they were rushing into him a dozen times faster and harder than before. What the f**k? Natalie. She was helping him, pulling them with him.

No! Instantly, he shut down the flow. It was too much. They were going to kill her.

Again, he felt that pulse of pure love, one with a decided edge of demand. Hell.

Satanan’s hips had formed, now, and his thighs. Only his lower legs and feet remained trapped by the swirling mass of color. They were out of time.

With a prayer to the goddess, he took a deep breath and called once more on the primal energies, embracing the rush this time because he had to and because, woven within that swirling, terrible power, he felt Natalie’s calm certainty, her courage, her love.

Calling on the power inside of him, Wulfe finally broke free of Satanan’s invisible hold. But when he pushed forward to try again to retrieve the blade, Satanan’s power slammed into him like a two-hundred-mile-per-hour headwind, and he couldn’t move. Lifting his hand, he tried calling the blade to him, but that didn’t work any better. Dammit. He couldn’t push forward, let alone attack.

All the while those primal energies swirled inside him, smoke and shadows, gleeful of the darkness, of Satanan’s evil. One wrong step, and he was going to become lost in that dark power, whether his own or Satanan’s.

A faint pulse of soft, loving energy brushed his heart, making his gut clench with anguish. Natalie’s brightness, her strength and light were almost out. Pulling the energies was killing her, yet he couldn’t stop. He had to win.

Satanan began to laugh. His legs had formed, his feet were becoming visible as the red-and-orange swirl slowly died. The pull on Wulfe’s soul grew stronger by ten. He could feel it being sucked out of his body!

Desperation tore through him, his muscles straining against the unnatural power. He was a Feral, dammit!

A Feral. Only part Daemon.

In a flash of insight, he finally understood. It had taken his Daemon form to breach the warding, but only in his non-Daemon animal form was he protected from Satanan’s growing control. Only in his wolf would he prevail.

As the animal inside him gave a howl of approval, Wulfe shifted with ease and joy into his furred form and lunged for the Daemon Blade. As he’d hoped, his wolf’s body slid through the power blast as his man’s . . . his Daemon’s . . . could not.

Snatching up the blade in his teeth, Wulfe tossed the magical steel into the air, then shifted back, and caught it with one hand. Without pause, he whirled and stabbed the Daemon Blade deep within Satanan’s chest.

The High Daemon roared with fury, the scream echoing across the mountain and far into the sky. And a second later, Satanan disappeared, sucked back into the blade.

Shadows began to fly at Wulfe from all directions, following Satanan, vanishing, one after another, by the score.

With a roar of triumph, Wulfe lifted the blade aloft, the wind whipping at his face and hair, energy crackling over his skin. Victory sang in his blood. And more.