“We will, Margery,” Alice promised.
Given a task to accomplish, the others chorused their agreement. Surrounding Vicki, the small group climbed into the van.
The SUV started up, and Margery smiled in relief. Some would make it out.
As Thorson started loading the next vehicle, older teens settled down around Margery’s legs. And she resumed her bandaging job.
Farther down the bench, Donal was removing Idelle’s tracking devices. No more captives waited in line.
“Done. Go get bandaged.” Still on one knee, the black-haired Donal needed a couple of tries to rise before he could stand.
Idelle dropped down beside Margery on the bench, silently pointed to her bleeding arm, then blinked. “I can simply ask for help, can’t I? No one will hit us if we talk? I think I’ve almost forgotten how.”
Bitter chuckles sounded from the females sitting in a circle around Margery.
“I know. Me, too.” Margery patted Idelle’s shoulder, then bandaged the incisions.
“Donal, are you finished here?” A male with short brown hair walked over, pulling on a shirt. Broad-shouldered, big-boned, and tall, he radiated authority like heat from a bonfire.
Like a Scythe guard.
Margery froze. The females around her clustered closer.
Gaze on Donal, the male didn’t notice them. “We’ve got injured over there in the back.”
“All done here, Tynan. Take the—” Donal saw Margery, and his black brows drew together. “No, I missed one. Come here, lass.”
His deeply masculine voice made everything inside her want to comply.
But…move? Exhaustion had turned her legs to jelly, and her damaged ankle burned like a shackle of fire enclosed it. “Idelle, help me up,” she whispered.
Rising, Idelle offered her hands and pulled Margery to her feet.
After testing her ankle, she found her balance, and everyone scooted back to let her pass.
The intimidating male—Tynan—stood a few feet away, strapping on a big black weapons belt. Gun, black baton—all the gear needed to destroy someone.
He was a guard.
No, Margery. He was a shifter, not a Scythe brute. Yet past screams echoed through her head, and she couldn’t pull her gaze from the brutal weaponry as she limped past him.
Taking a seat in front of Donal, she clasped her trembling hands in her lap.
“I’ll be quick, lass. It’s not that painful.” His eyes narrowed when he realized she wasn’t looking at the scalpel. “No…you’re not afraid of being cut, are you? Perhaps of me?”
Her gaze flickered past him to the armed male.
“Of Tynan? Really?”
She braced for the blow.
Nothing happened. His gaze took in the bruise on her face, the older ones on her legs and arms from the guards’ canes. “Ah, I see. Those maggot-ridden humans.”
His softened gaze showed his understanding, and she relaxed.
“Paws on the path, lass.” His baritone softened to a compelling velvety smoothness. “You’re almost at the end of the journey. Let’s get this done so you can be on your way.” The scalpel flashed over her arm, and the first tracker popped out.
So quick. She had skill, but nothing like his.
He touched her thigh and moved her sleep shorts out of the way, his fingertips barely on her skin.
She frowned. How could he find the tracker if he didn’t touch her?
His fingers grazed her skin, up and down, sideways. His gaze met hers, the strain in his face obvious. “Sorry. I’m running on empty.”
Empty? He did look exhausted. His skin was pale; his lean, careful fingers were cold.
“There.” His hand curled around her thigh and held her firmly as he cut.
The splitting pressure was followed by burning pain. Gritting her teeth, she held perfectly still. Really, this was nothing compared to broken bones.
“Good lass. Almost done.” As he picked up the tweezers, she studied his face. Too sharply chiseled, too stern, yet as mesmerizing as jagged lightning against a black sky. On his right cheekbone was a silvery scar shaped like a crescent moon, and her eyes widened at the mark of a healer—a shifter called to serve the Goddess.
“One more second.” A brief pain jolted her as he pulled the tracker out. “Done. Let’s get you bandaged.”
He set the tweezers down. His gaze met hers—and held. The shaking inside her disappeared under a wave of warmth. A breath brought her his scent—the fresh green of softly growing grass beside a lake. It was a masculine scent, and suddenly she realized a male had his hand on her leg.
His fingers were lean. Slightly callused.
Suddenly, he swayed slightly, and his gaze went unfocused. His hand dropped, and he started to fall sideways.
Margery grabbed him around the shoulders. “Help!” Gently, she eased him down onto the concrete floor.
“By the Gods, Donal.” Tynan hurried over, crouched, and set his fingers against Donal’s neck.
Margery scrambled away from the guard—no, from the male shifter. Not a Scythe. Yet she couldn’t breathe until she’d reached what she felt was a safe distance away.
Without acknowledging her reaction, Tynan patted Donal’s cheek, getting no response. “Overdid it, didn’t you, boyo.” With a grunt of effort, he scooped up the healer and carried him to where several injured males lay near the garage wall.
Legs not cooperating, Margery stayed on the bench.
Gunfire still sounded outside. Yelling. Screaming. Someone shouted orders. The scent of blood and fear and sweat mingled with the stink of oil and gasoline inside the garage building. The shaking inside her grew.
Most of the captives were gone. The rest waited quietly near the older male, Thorson.
“Margery. You’re still bleeding.” Idelle hurried over, grabbing up the medical bag. Kneeling, she helped Margery wrap the incisions. “Where are they taking us? Do you think they’ll let us see our brothers? Are they here, do you suppose?”
“Here?” Margery stared at Idelle, then at the nightmare outside. Was Oliver out there? The Scythe had trained her littermate to be a shifter-soldier, but that wasn’t who he was. Quiet and sweet, the werebear should have been an artist—not a killer. The battle outside was no place for him. Please, don’t let him be out there.
Thorson’s rough voice echoed in the garage. “Any females left, load up in this van.”
With Idelle beside her, Margery limped toward the SUV at the far end of the garage.
Across the compound, a flickering light grew in one of the brick buildings. Were their rescuers burning everything down? Good. The bitter rage inside her flamed along with the wood. Those cells, cages, and laboratories had heard the screams of an entire village of shifters, had witnessed the torture and death of her family, her friends.
Burn it all.
Fighting against the shaking fury, she turned away and saw the injured.
Lines of them, lying on blankets near the back wall. Being Daonain, they’d insisted the females leave first.
The healer lay near the end, still unconscious. Two younger males were tending the wounded, and one called frantically to the big uniformed male, Tynan. “I can’t get the bleeding stopped.”
Putting a pressure dressing on another bleeder, Tynan shook his head. “Do what you can. I’ll be there in a minute.”