Tynan paused and could make out the form of a Scythe in front of them. A tall bulky male in camo body armor. The mercenary’s head was turned to the right. He must have heard the kill.
As Warren moved straight toward the human, Tynan circled to the side.
Closer.
As planned, Warren lunged and savagely bit the back of the human’s leg.
With a panicked grunt of pain, the human turned left and swung his rifle toward Warren’s head.
Tynan sprang upward from the right. His jaws closed on the throat and clamped down, tearing flesh and cartilage away.
Blood splattered across the brush and ground as the soldier fell. His rifle thudded against a tree trunk. As his boots hammered in the soft dirt, he seized…and died.
A faint whine came from Warren. Shivering and panting, the young male stared at the dead body.
First kill.
Tynan had been about Warren’s age when he’d helped his Irish uncles kill a feral shifter. Afterward, he’d puked up probably every meal he’d eaten in the previous few days, then been too shaky to stand.
Knowing the lad would always carry the ugly regret of having taken a life, Tynan padded over, leaned against the other wolf, and licked his nose. Reassuring Warren that he’d done well.
After a minute, Tynan lifted his head. Ears swiveling, he listened. Stealthy movement. The crunch of human boots farther ahead. Time to go.
No whines or whimpers indicated a problem with the rest of his wolves, although no battle went without casualties. Tynan stiffened his resolve. Shifters would die tonight, but if they didn’t act, they all would be captured or die. This was the task before him.
Warren shook hard, fur fluffing, then looked at Tynan. Ready for the next.
Good lad.
Tynan led the way forward.
The pregnant females, elderly, and young were safely hidden in the caves. Donal hated to leave them. Every instinct said to protect the most vulnerable of them all.
But the labyrinth of caves could be easily defended by the two older cat shifters who remained as guards. Breanne, one of the clan’s best shooters, would stay, too. Wells had supplied her with three pistols and a wealth of reloads.
The shifters who’d carried cubs here had already started back. Donal had lingered to heal a baby’s scraped arm so the pup would stop crying and not give the location away.
Outside the cave entrance, Donal circled to the right, looking for Breanne.
Well concealed, she was located with an excellent field of fire to defend the caves. As he approached, she went white and staggered. Her hand pressed to her chest.
He hurried over and took her hand to assess. No injury. “What’s wrong, Bree?”
“Oh Gods, Donal, one of our wolves just died.” Her skin was clammy. “I felt him die.”
The alpha female’s pack bonds would tell her if a wolf had returned to the Mother. Fear shot through Donal. No…no, it wasn’t Tynan.
His gut unclenched. Their littermate bond was intact; his brother was all right.
But a wolf had died.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
She leaned against him, tears glimmering in her eyes. Then her mouth firmed, and she straightened. “Get going, healer. The clan is going to need you.”
The sun’s rays were dimming. Under the trees, darkness grew, even as the moon rose in the east.
The shifters had started their attack, Herne the Hunter aid them.
How many would die tonight?
“Watch carefully—and stay safe.” Donal gave Bree a quick squeeze around the shoulders and shifted to cat form.
Partway back, Donal veered onto a deer trail that paralleled the bigger path between caves and festival grounds. Because there might now be humans hunting them.
Anger burned inside him, hot and hungry.
Over the winter, he’d cared for survivors of the Scythe compounds. Seen the damage, mental and physical.
He’d held Margery after her nightmares. Seen her scars. Watched her limp. No matter how foolish he’d been about healers not lifemating, there was a bond of love between them.
Right now, he was grateful she’d taken off for Canada with Oliver. At least she would be safe. If he and Tynan survived today, they’d go after her. Track her through the forest. Follow her all the way to Canada if need be. He’d beg her forgiveness for being slower than a squashed snail at figuring out the truths between love and duty.
He paused, catching a faint sound. A rhythmic crunch, like what a boot-clad man might make on the thick forest duff.
None of shifters would wear boots today.
The human was on the wider trail and headed toward to the caves. The noise came closer and passed him to his right.
Lowering his body, Donal stole through the undergrowth to that trail and spotted his prey. The dim light was no problem for a werecat. Unfortunately, the human wore odd-shaped goggles—probably night vision enhancement—and was studying a handheld device. Flickers of red showed on the display.
Could he be tracking the elderly and pregnant shifters by the lingering heat in footprints?
Exposing his fangs in fury, Donal stalked forward—and spotted movement in the underbrush left of the soldier.
Moonlight reflected on yellow eyes. A wolf. Red-brown fur with darker saddle and tail. The rare white tip on the tail identified Heather.
Focused on the human, she didn’t see Donal. Before he could catch her attention, she leaped at the soldier’s throat.
Brave wolf.
The human had fast reflexes. Blood pouring from his neck, he dropped everything and grabbed her fur. Her weight sent him staggering backward.
Donal sprang from behind. His jaws closed on the human’s nape to sever the spine. At the gut-wrenching crunch, Donal dropped…the body.
Heather backed away. Shifting to human, she dove into the bushes. Vomiting.
His own stomach unsettled, Donal pulled in calming breaths. He’d be all right. This wasn’t his first kill. And death was a familiar companion to a healer.
Clamping his jaws around a boot, he dragged the corpse behind a thicket of huckleberries. The device followed. Back on the trail, he scuffed up the evergreen needles to hide the signs of combat…although if the humans used heat sensors, his precautions would fail.
Heather returned in wolf form. Ears forward, she bobbed her head in a thank you, then trotted toward the festival grounds.
On the parallel trail, Donal went the same direction.
A minute later, gunfire and screaming broke the silence of the night.
Gods, Gods, Gods, how many had she killed? The taste of blood was like a foul paste in Margery’s mouth.
Gunfire and screams echoed off the mountains and tree trunks, seeming to come from everywhere. Her sensitive wolf’s ears rang until she felt half-deafened. The acrid stink of gunpowder created nose-wrinkling eddies in the air.
The ugly sounds and scents revived memories of the attack on Dogwood, over and over. Her muscles twitched, wolf instincts ordering her to flee. Run away! Far, far away.
She couldn’t.
Here, on the east perimeter, she was one of the ground fighters for several treeway cubs. Stationed on branches above, the young shifters followed her, waited until she was positioned near the enemy, and cast their big rocks.
While she attacked from below.
Her nose caught the stink of another, and she sank lower. Saw the human’s uniform, weapons. Again, she fought against panic. Again, she won.