Sniffing out the trail toward the children, she hesitated. Minette was there with the feisty small pups. Maybe she should guard the trail that led to them?
Then she caught a different scent, a wolf moving away from the trail. Margery. Dropping her nose to the ground, Heather made a circle as she smelled out the information.
Margery was trailing two humans.
By the Gods, what was the banfasa thinking? Girl, you can’t take on two armed men by yourself.
Heather followed the trail.
Carefully, quietly, Tynan walked through a dense thicket of brush to the flat area within the deep cover. With a grunt of effort, he lowered Warren to the ground.
The lad was groggy, still bleeding sluggishly from the knife wound to his chest.
After the first wave of kills, the mercenaries had realized wolves were attacking from behind, and they’d lain in wait.
Warren had blundered into a soldier crouched behind a tree, surprising them both. Even as Warren attacked, the soldier stabbed him. Tynan had been a second too late.
But the young wolf was still alive. He had a chance.
Tynan bent and caught the wolf’s muzzle in his hand. “Warren, listen. Stay here. Stay silent until the fighting’s over. If we win, we’ll be looking for survivors. You be one of them, you hear me? Hide and hold out. Promise me.”
Warren sighed. His ears flickered agreement.
Leaving his packmate was one of the hardest things Tynan had ever done.
The fighting was close to the festival grounds now. The packs had killed many, if not most of the humans coming from the north.
Wolves had died.
Tynan rubbed his chest over the ache. Some of those killed were from his Cold Creek pack. And three were from the wolves he’d led. There was nothing he could have done for them or to keep Warren from being hurt. His head knew that.
His emotions said there should have been something.
After assigning his wolves to maintain the line, he headed east and found Patrin and Fell, then Shay and Zeb. They moved into a copse of trees to talk.
“Sounds like some mercs arrived from the road. It’s time to get rid of them all.” Shay motioned toward the open meadow.
The festival perimeter was active with the sharp crack of rifles. Growls. Groans. Screams. No one was foolish enough to venture onto the open grounds.
Tynan nodded. “They must know their attack from the north failed. At this point, they’re probably hoping to capture a few shifters and retreat with what they can get.”
“They’ll get nothing.” Patrin’s gaze was dark. “And we can’t let any get away to report back.”
Tynan pulled in a breath. It was an ugly truth. Yet these mercenaries had come to capture females and cubs. For the good of the whole, they must be sent back to the Mother.
“In that case, the road needs to be secured to prevent them from escaping,” Tynan said.
“Agreed.” Shay eyed the south. “Since the cats and bears are handling the east and west, let’s leave half our wolves here to keep the north safe, then move through the other shifters to take the road. Patrin, Fell. Take your wolves on and deal with the roadblocks.”
A minute later, they were moving again.
As Tynan joined his wolves, heading south, he sniffed and watched for his littermate who was undoubtedly trying to keep people alive.
Tynan rubbed his chest, feeling the intact bond to his brother. Stay safe, Donal.
There’d been no opportunity to attack the two mercenaries before, and now Margery was out of time.
Hidden off the trail, she watched as the soldiers knelt behind waist-high boulders on the roadside.
Not nearly far enough away, gunfire sounded from a cluster of tall, wide-trunked redwoods on the south shoulder. The shooter was short and slender and dark haired.
Vicki.
The female directed her fire at a transport vehicle parked behind another one in the road. The second vehicle still had soldiers inside—who couldn’t get out without being shot.
They were shooting back at Vicki, who changed positions frequently.
More gunfire came from farther down the road to the east. And Margery could see more vehicles there. Wells must be there.
Between pinning down the soldiers in the transport and dodging return fire, Vicki couldn’t watch her back carefully enough.
With all the gunfire, screams, and shouting, she wouldn’t hear a yell of warning. She wouldn’t realize the danger until the two Scythe mercenaries shot her.
There was only one way to keep the brave female safe. Margery shivered. Two mercenaries. No diversion.
She wouldn’t survive this.
Regret washed through her—and anger. She’d barely found her life, found love. She almost whimpered as the ache of wanting to be with Donal and Tynan squeezed her heart.
But her time had run out.
The tallest merc leaned forward, his rifle coming up. Vicki was rising for her next shot.
With a howl of fury, Margery charged the closest soldier. Her shoulder struck, knocking him sideways. She lunged at the one with the rifle.
He wasn’t braced against her, and her weight hit him in the side. He landed on his back.
Spinning, she dove for his throat.
“Get clear, man!” the other soldier yelled.
Even as she ripped at her prey’s neck, he rammed a knee into her ribs and threw her back.
She saw the other human’s rifle pointed at her.
Something sprang at him. The muzzle of his rifle flashed.
The crack of the gunshot accompanied her into darkness.
The night was interminable. By the Gods, time seemed to flex and contract, seemingly only breaths between healing one wound and when another shifter was brought to him.
Earlier in the night, Donal had followed the scent of blood to find each wounded shifter and healed them there. But a while back, Tynan had found him and helped set up a healing station a short way north of the festival grounds. The clearing was surrounded by densely packed trees, so the injured were somewhat protected from stray bullets.
After positioning wolves to guard the area, Tynan had returned to the fight.
Donal scrubbed his hands over his face. There were too fucking many injured. They kept coming, and he had little power remaining, even though he was healing only the most critically wounded, leaving the less serious damage for others to bandage.
Nia, a female he’d mated last moon, carried in a young wolf, then frowned at Donal who was moving to the shifter. “Goddess bless, you look terrible, Donal. You need energy.”
He nodded, but…she wasn’t the first to try to help. He had no hope.
And, when she hugged him, he tried again, seeking the bond that should be there from the mating. There was no bond. None at all. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he said gently, not willing to tell her she hadn’t helped.
She kissed his cheek, shifted, and headed back out into the fighting. Mother of All, watch over her. Over every shifter.
And while you’re at it, the gift of some extra power wouldn’t hurt, he thought cynically.
Groans and whimpering came from the wounded lying on the ground around him. This was his worst nightmare—not having enough power to save everyone.
He went down on one knee beside a rough-looking werecat from eastern Washington.
“Sounds like the gunfire’s moved.” The shifter turned his head to hear better. “Gone farther away to the southeast and southwest.”