The man’s camo clothing blended into the foliage and shadows…but foliage didn’t move in a straight line. And even when a human tried to be silent, hard-soled boots made noise.
She stalked him. Assessed his equipment—helmet, the goggles that let him see better at night yet hindered his peripheral vision. A rifle.
From where should she attack?
Her stomach twisted. I’m not a killer.
But she was now. Deep within, bonds ached where some had been broken. Members of her pack were dead. Grief firmed her resolve, even as her wolf instincts surfaced, and she bared her fangs at the cub-killer.
Because above her, a tree branch creaked under a young shifter’s weight. Athol. Hector was in another tree. And Jamie.
The cubs were prepared. This part was hers to do. To keep them safe. Ignoring her fear, the pain in her side, the soul-deep sickness, she moved her tail.
Ready.
A rock hit the soldier’s jaw from the side, two more struck his bizarre goggle things.
He grunted—“Fuck!”—and staggered back. His rifle barrel dropped down as he grabbed his face.
Springing upward, Margery ripped his throat open, pushed back, and darted away.
Never stop moving.
The first human she’d attacked had stabbed her. Only her ribcage had kept the knife from finding her heart. The long painful slice along her side still burned. Still bled.
Behind her, the mercenary hit the ground with a thud as he choked on his own blood. The body spasmed, gurgled, and went still.
Panting, sickened, Margery dragged the body off the trail.
Leaving her kill, she moved farther—enough she couldn’t scent the blood—and sank beneath a thimbleberry bush. If she’d been human, she’d have been sobbing. I’m supposed to heal.
She barely kept from whining.
Slowly, she regained her composure. The cubs would be waiting—and if she didn’t do this, they would.
A scent drifted to her. A panther—adult male. No, two of them. Approaching her hiding place.
The brush moved as the two shifters joined her. Owen and Ryder. Owen shifted, edging close enough to whisper into her ear. “Good technique with the cubs but let us take the groundside part now. Go deeper into the bushes and stay safe. There are injured, banfasa. We need you alive to help them.”
He stroked a hand down her fur, and she almost whimpered at the sense of companionship.
When she nodded, he shifted back to panther and moved out. As he and Ryder split up, several treeway kits followed each male.
Leaving her alone.
She squirmed deeper into the brush and simply…stopped. Everything stopped. The black haze of exhaustion engulfed her. How long could someone be terrified and sick and angry?
Paws quivering, she lay there, feeling the cold dirt under her belly. Wanting only to be home, to be lying in bed, Tynan’s arm over her waist, Donal’s shoulder under her head, surrounded by their scents.
Instead, she heard the rustle of clothing. The crunch of conifer cones and needles being crushed underfoot.
Humans on the trail. Two of them.
How could they not smell the stench of blood? Of death?
“Hear that?” one whispered as a rifle fired: crack, crack, crack.
The gunfire was distinctive. Heavier. Purposeful.
“Sniper,” the other whispered. “Probably on the road to pin down our reinforcements.”
“Take him out, and we’ll get a bounty.”
They moved away, not toward the festival grounds, but southward toward the road.
A sniper? Vicki was guarding the road on this side. In human form so she could shoot.
Margery slid out of the bushes and moved silently after the mercenaries.
They circled to the east of the crack-crack-crack noise. They’d be behind where Vicki was aiming.
Fear trickled like icy water into Margery’s veins. She had to stop them, but…two armed soldiers. No help to take them down. Not even the diversion of a cubling in a tree. Gods, how could she do this? She was a small wolf, not a panther or bear.
But it was Vicki…
Her memory held up the picture of Vicki cuddling her tiny cubs. Laughing about drunken sex. Standing beside Margery to face Pete.
Margery growled, low and deep. No one was going to kill her friend.
The Scythe had attacked. So many, many of them. Fear iced Heather’s veins, even in wolf form. All she wanted to do was flee the area.
On the way to the grounds, she and Donal had attacked and killed two more mercenaries.
The second time hadn’t been any easier than the first, and she’d thrown up again.
How could anyone do this for a living?
Then they’d come across a wounded werebear. The bear had killed its target, but apparently the human had gotten off a shot first. After she and Donal pulled the bear off the trail, the healer shifted to human and went to work on the appallingly gory bullet hole.
Heather rested a hand on Donal’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper, “I’m going to circle this area to make sure there’s no Scythe nearby, then join the perimeter guard.”
He gave her an assessing look, undoubtedly seeing the blood streaking her skin and face, the bruises from where a fist had caught her. The horror in her eyes at having killed.
How she was barely holding on.
But he simply gave her a half-smile of acknowledgment. They’d do what they had to do.
The werebear was conscious and almost healed. She caught his gaze, then motioned to Donal.
The bear nodded a silent agreement. Once the healer finished, the bear would guard his back. Because bears were exceptionally good at that sort of thing. And healers were precious.
Shifting to wolf, Heather moved out to circle around Donal.
East. Clear.
North. Clear.
West. Clear.
South…not. There was a faint scent of gun oil, sweat, chemicals. Human.
She followed a tiny trail through the brush, sliding up behind a Scythe mercenary. He hadn’t found Donal. No, he was kneeling at the edge of the festival grounds, rifle to his shoulder.
Planning to shoot across the grounds at the shifters on the opposite side.
To scat with that.
She attacked him from the side, going for the throat—the only quick way to kill. He threw himself back, so it wasn’t a clean bite, but her fangs punctured an artery.
She darted away, wary in case he went for his rifle that he’d dropped. But, blood spurting between his fingers, he was only half-conscious. And then dead.
Sickness churned in her guts, but this time she held it down.
By the Mother… She’d always considered herself a tough bitch, but this was ghastly.
Panting, she gave herself a shake.
No time to have a breakdown. She could see and smell the mercenaries. Too many of them closing in on the festival grounds.
Fine. They might have fancy technology to use at night, but she had a nose and good ears.
Silently, she worked her way through the forest, pleased for once to be on the smaller side. There was better cover lower to the ground.
On the way around the perimeter, she heard a struggle and found a mercenary grappling with a male wolf. She lent a hand—well, her fangs—and the human lost.
The wolf flicked his ears in thanks, and they went their separate ways.
On the west side, she caught Owen’s and Ryder’s scents, and her tail made a wagging motion. If they were here, Emma and the young cubs they’d escorted were away and well hidden.