Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8)(89)

A deep male voice he didn’t recognize answered him. “Release the primal energies, shifter. Send them back through her, back where they came from, and close the door.”

“How?” But even as he asked the question, he knew the answer. He found it written on the Daemon sliver of his soul.

Closing his eyes, he began to say the words—words he’d never known yet had always known. Words that repudiated the darkness, banishing it back into the bowels of Hell.

The darkness inside him resisted, trying to seduce, to beguile, but Wulfe had no need for power beyond what he’d always had. He needed Natalie. Only that. Only her. Though the darkness fought valiantly, it was no match for the determination of a man in love and, slowly, it lost its hold on him and slipped away. He felt it flee back through Natalie, back to where it had come from. Out of his head, his blood, his bones, draining, evaporating, until it was no more.

Taking a deep, cleansing breath, Wulfe blinked, feeling odd and yet wonderfully himself again. From his mouth, slipped another string of unknown words, words he knew would close the channel once and for all. Lifting Natalie closer, tucking her head against his chest, he bent and kissed her lips.

“Come back to me. Please come back to me.”

Her aura was gone, now. Amazingly, so too was the wound on her cheek.

She stirred in his arms and his heart began to beat again. Slowly, her lashes lifted. As she saw him, a small, calm, gray-eyes smile lifted her lovely mouth.

“You did it.”

A shudder went through him, and he pulled her tight against him. “We did it together,” he whispered against her hair. Inside, his wolf let out a howl of pure happiness.

Lifting his head, Wulfe faced his brothers. Behind them stood several dozen Daemons of the human-looking variety, each armed with a sword or knife, though none appeared to be actively threatening. In fact, unless he was mistaken, the expressions on most of their faces were a mix of gratitude and disbelief, of relief and wonder.

“I can stand,” Natalie said quietly, and he set her on her feet, if reluctantly, keeping an arm tight around her.

His brothers surged forward, gathering around him, slapping him on the back. Lyon grasped his forearm. “A hell of a job, Wulfe. One hell of a job.”

Wulfe handed his chief the Daemon Blade.

“Wolfman,” Jag crowed. “You just saved the whole f**king world.”

“Perhaps,” Paenther said quietly, drawing their attention back to the dozens of Daemons watching them, reminding them that although Satanan might be defeated, much of his horde was still loose.

The tattooed Daemon stepped forward. “We are in your debt, shifter.”

Lyon faced him. “You’re Daemons.”

“Most of us, yes. But there were many races subjugated and ensnared by Satanan, and all those who survived were freed this day.”

“The world you left is no more.” Lyon’s voice resonated clearly across the gathering. “The humans now number in the billions, and they’ve acquired great power. They don’t know the immortal races exist and they must never know if we wish to survive. Find a way to live in this world without discovery and without harming the other races, including the humans. Or we’ll be hunting you down.”

The tattooed male nodded. “Satanan’s way was never ours. We wish only to return to the mountains and live in peace.”

Jag snorted. “Good luck with that.”

The Daemon’s jaw hardened. “Many of those who were freed today have already escaped, many whose souls were long ago destroyed by Satanan. They have neither heard your warning nor would likely pay it any heed if they had. We will hunt them and destroy those who cannot be saved.”

Lyon nodded. “If you need assistance—and you may until you learn the ways of this world—we’ll help you. I am Lyon, Chief of the Feral Warriors, the shifters.”

The Daemon male nodded. “I am Strome, the last true king of the Daemons.”

Wulfe jerked. Around him, several of the others made noises of surprise.

The male eyed them curiously. “You have heard of me.”

Fox gave a small smile. “You’re something of a legend where we’re from, boyo.” None of them, it seemed, were willing to endanger Vivian’s life, not when she’d risked so much to help them.

Lyon looked around. “You may remain here, in this fortress, for as long as you wish. The owner no longer needs it. But the humans inside will be set free. Leave the humans alone. All humans.”

Strome turned to Wulfe. “You, shifter, are part Daemon.”

Wulfe nodded, wondering if they’d always know he was one of them. “Apparently I have a Daemon ancestor.”

Strome nodded. “Ciroc.”

That was the name Vivian’s Strome had given him.

A fur-clad Daemon stepped forward, his beard full, his shoulders nearly as wide as Wulfe’s. “I am Ciroc.”

Wulfe stared, a chill dancing over his skin. This male was his . . . how many greats? . . . grandfather.

Ciroc smiled with a startling pride. “You honor me and all who have come before and after me, son of my son of my son. Relinquishing, nay shoving away that kind of power was a sight to behold, a display of strength and nobility few men possess. Of any race.”

Strome nodded. “You honor all who challenge evil. You would be most welcome should you wish to join my tribe, shifter of Ciroc’s blood.”