So many people. So much movement. This shit was fucking overwhelming.
Fell hated it; Patrin loved it.
With Fell behind him, Patrin strolled into the largest tent on the festival grounds. They were early for the meeting, but life had taught him that a wise wolf surveys the terrain before calling the pack.
Filled with rows of folding tables and chairs, the tent space was almost empty. At one side of the tent, a space was open for entertainers or speakers. Being a good littermate, he chose a corner table at the other side so Fell would feel comfortable.
The light dimmed as a cahir blocked the entrance, positioned to check whoever entered the tent.
Fell studied the huge male. “Damn. Bet he’s a grizzly.”
“Glad he’s on our side.”
Shifters filtered into the tent. Pack leaders arrived. Cahirs took up an area on the left side of the tent. Owen, one of their sister’s mates, was there, and gave Patrin and Fell a nod.
“Darcy chose well,” Fell muttered. “Good male.”
“Aye, he is. So’s Gawain. Not that we’ll ever admit that to Darcy.” Doing so would flout the tease-your-sister tradition. Can’t have that.
Fell grinned.
Patrin leaned back, stretching his legs out. He rather envied Darcy for her new life. Rewarding work. Belonging. And she’d found mates to love.
Someday…
It was a shame Darcy’s friend, Margery, was already involved with the healer and cop. Such a sweetheart—and she was from Dogwood. Understood what they’d all been through. Would understand the dark places in a soldier’s soul.
“Patrin, Fell.” The greeting came from a group of their fellow soldiers. More and more entered the tent. With grins, comedic insults, shoulder buffets, the shifter-soldiers settled at tables and chairs around Patrin and Fell.
By the Gods, it’s good to see them again.
All the shifter-soldiers in the area had come to the festival in answer to the summons from Wells.
Since the Scythe were eager to capture more Daonain—especially those who’d escaped them, Wells was wise to arrange a meeting far away from shifter towns. This remote festival was a perfect location.
Near the open space for speakers, the Cosantirs settled in a cluster of tables. Calum, the North Cascades Cosantir was there, seated with Alec, and their mate, Vicki. Patrin had come to respect the small brunette female who’d served in the human military and as a spy before being turned Daonain.
Wells sat with Calum. Older, medium height, lean as a wolf after a hard winter, he had the eyes the color of ice and a mind more calculating than any feline. The human spymaster had been Vicki’s boss when she was human and was now the caomhnor of one of her cubs.
Wells wanted to destroy the Scythe almost as much as the shifter-soldiers did, and since the Scythe were human, the Daonain had let him take the lead.
When the spymaster rose, everyone went silent.
Wells didn’t bother with pleasantries or welcomes. “When the Scythe Seattle compounds were destroyed, the Director and the Colonel escaped.”
Patrin scowled at the reminder. That night, the Director had been called from his supper to meet the Colonel in downtown Seattle—and missed being trapped and killed in the compound by only a few minutes.
Wells continued. “Thanks to the shifter-soldiers’ effectiveness as assassins, the Colonel has a lot power. He was—and has been—careful that no one outside his Pacific Northwest division learned that his assassins were anything other than skilled humans.”
“Secrets have a way of coming out,” someone said.
“Yes,” Wells agreed. “The Colonel’s reputation suffered when the compounds were destroyed and the hostages released. He’s now scrambling to regain his influence.”
“What does that mean for the Daonain?” Patrin asked.
Wells gave him a nod. “First, the Director and Colonel have prioritized capturing shifters. Your territories, especially in the Pacific Northwest, already know this.”
The Cosantirs were nodding.
“Second. Because the information about you hasn’t been shared, if we can eliminate the Colonel’s division, a major danger to you would be gone.”
The Cosantir from Colville Territory frowned. “They’re manipulating your human government, breaking your laws. Why haven’t you eliminated them already?”
Wells’ mouth flattened. “I would if I could find them. Because of the risk to the Daonain, I haven’t called on my own resources to locate them. But, gentlemen, I can’t justify that for much longer.”
“You need help,” Alec said from where he sat.
“Exactly. I have leads. I need trained help to pursue them.”
Patrin eyed the spymaster. The human had proven his worth during the battle in Seattle. He was a canny fighter with a catlike talent for sneakiness.
Patrin glanced at Fell.
Gaze dark, Fell nodded. Even more than Patrin, Fell craved vengeance. Neither of them could move on with life until the danger to the Daonain was eliminated.
And they were experts at elimination.
“We’re in,” Patrin called.
A few of the cahirs added their voices. Almost all the shifter-soldiers did.
Patrin noticed one who was silent.
After meeting Patrin’s gaze, Oliver looked down. Physical strength, fighting and warfare skills—the werebear lacked them all. He wasn’t stupid. He just had more of a prey than predator personality. From the way his shoulders curved inward, he hated that about himself.
Guilt was a stupid emotion.
Patrin slid his chair over. “Oliver, we’ve had this talk before. You’re not a fighter. You won’t be useful for this kind of hunt, but there are other things you can do to help. Even when the Scythe are dead, the Daonain won’t be safe in this technological human-ruled world. If you want to defend our people, learn that technology. Fight with your mind. That’s where your strengths are and where you will have victory.”
Without waiting for a response, Patrin slid back to the table.
Fell nodded his approval.
The two of them had been the leaders of the shifter-soldiers, and although no longer in charge, it was difficult to let go of the responsibility.
Oliver was smart. Creative. He simply needed to use those talents to make a new life for himself.
Sympathy was an edgy weight in Patrin’s heart because starting over was easier with a littermate at one’s side. And Oliver had lost his.
Patrin bumped his shoulder against Fell’s. If Patrin ever faltered, his brother would be there. Together, they could face anything.
And when the Scythe were gone, if they were still alive, they’d see where the wind would take them.
Having left his vehicle at a trailhead parking area, Donal loped through the silver fir forest, heading for the festival grounds. The mid-afternoon sun was bright, the air warm and dry with the dusty tang of evergreens. Fir needles were soft underpaw.
Yet he couldn’t really enjoy the day—not with last night preying on his mind.
Aye, maybe it shouldn’t bother him so much. He might have more power than most healers, but it could still run out. Like last night.
That had been far too close.
All the remainder of the night, he’d stewed over the difficulty in drawing power from Farrah. She’d shared her energy with him before. It hadn’t been that long since he’d mated with her. The only thing that had changed was the bond between them.