Healing of the Wolf Read online

Margery’s mouth was so dry, she couldn’t even swallow. But they couldn’t stay here. Guards, gunfire… None of that mattered. The infants must be saved. She forced her feet to move forward.

  No one else stirred. Just stared at the huge, naked male.

  No one trusted males.

  Seeing the frozen captives, Darcy shook her head. “Alec, I’d better lead.”

  “Aye,” he agreed after a second. “I’ll take rear guard.”

  As Darcy started across the lawn, Margery turned to the others and jerked her head, conveying an order of her own. Let’s go.

  Silently, the others rose and followed her. Behind Margery, Idelle carried the second cubling, Alice the third. They moved in a line across the soft grass, staying in the shadows.

  Suddenly, Alice’s baby began to cry.

  Loudly.

  Eyes wide as a fleeing deer, the girl froze.

  Oh no.

  Margery hurried back and took the babe in her free arm. Cuddling it, she rocked side-to-side, calming herself and the kit. “Shhh, shhh, shhh.”

  It quieted, staring up at her, pink lips pursed. Silent. Margery’s talent for soothing had won.

  Too late.

  “What the fuck!” a man shouted. “What was that?” Guards charged around the side of the building—straight at them.

  Their flashlight beams spotlighted Darcy in the front.

  “There’s the freak that escaped!” It was the worst Scythe guard—Huber.

  If he caught Darcy, he’d kill her.

  Instinct drew Margery forward to shield her, but she stopped mid stride. The babies. The babies in her arms were helpless.

  In a flash, Darcy dashed forward, luring the men away. They chased her like a vicious pack of dogs. More guards cut across the lawn, fanning out. Shooting at her.

  Margery turned to the captives. “Move farther back.” With babies in her arms, she couldn’t motion, but they heard her and faded back into the deepest shadows.

  A guard spotted her before she could follow. “Stop right there!”

  She froze. Arms full, she couldn’t run fast enough. If she tried to hide, the guard would see the others.

  Looming over her, he grabbed for one of the infants she held.

  She spun, keeping the babies out of his reach.

  “Freak bitch.” His cane struck her shoulders. “Give me that monster.”

  Blow after blow rained down on her, and her shoulders hunched under the agony.

  He will not get the kits. In captivity, all the babies had died; these newborns wouldn’t stand a chance. As fury rose inside her—all those deaths—she kicked backward with all her might. Her bare foot hit his knee.

  He shouted in pain and staggered back.

  A screech like ripping metal filled the night as the mother panther, Vicki, sprang on him—and tore out his throat. Without pausing over her kill, the cat raced across the grass toward more guards.

  Margery hurried into the shadows with the others.

  All over the compound, pistols barked, the sharp snaps louder than the yelling guards. Panthers were golden blurs across the dark lawn as they attacked the Scythe around Darcy. Shrieking and yelling, the guards died under the werecats’ fangs and claws.

  In the center of it all, Darcy collapsed.

  No!

  Owen and another big male ran to her. Held her.

  Darcy didn’t move.

  Loss sliced through Margery, and tears pooled in her eyes. If not for the warm weight of the infants in her arms, she would have dropped to her knees.

  After speaking to Owen, Alec turned and bounded in cat form back to her and the captives. He shifted to human. “Let’s go.”

  The females stared at him, many in tears, others frozen with fear.

  “Come on.” Motioning for them to follow, Margery moved toward him, breaking their paralysis.

  He led them around to the front and into the huge garage where the Scythe’s black SUVs sat in a long line. One of the three garage doors was open to the black night, showing flashes of gunfire, men running, animal shapes. A fire blazed across the compound, painting the darkness like a nightmare come to life.

  A gray-haired male rasped out a greeting to Alec. “That all of them?”

  “Yep. Gawain and Owen are with Darcy. She was shot.” Alec turned toward the door. “Vicki’s alive—and out there fighting. Joe, can you—”

  “Stubborn female.” The older male’s face was as harsh as his voice. A torn-off sleeve served as a bandage over a bloodied left forearm. “Aye, I’ve got this. Go fetch her.”

  “Thanks.” Alec turned to the captives. “Once your tracking devices are removed, we’ll get you out of here.”

  Margery felt her muscles loosen a tiny bit. The Scythe had said a tracking device was implanted in each hostage—a way to locate them if they ever tried to escape. Of course the devices needed to come out. How could she have forgotten?

  As Alec shifted and disappeared out the door, Joe yelled, “Donal, the females are here.”

  “Coming.” From the rear came a tall, lithely powerful male with black hair past his shoulders. Olive skin covered cheekbones as sharp as the peaks of the Olympic Mountains.

  Donal looked at the huddle of females. “I’ll start with the youngest. I’m afraid you each have two trackers to remove.” The rich, resonant timbre of his voice tugged at something deep inside Margery.

  “Two?” she asked.

  “Aye, arm and leg.” Donal motioned for Alice to come forward. “Come, cub. Sit on the bench here.

  Alice took a step back. Her voice wavered. A male in authority wasn’t to be trusted. “Margery?”

  “Yes, sit down. This is good.” Pushing away pity, Margery kept her voice firm to quell the youngling’s panic. “We want that Scythe nastiness out of our bodies. The sooner the better.”

  Biting her lip, Alice sat, but gave Margery a pleading look. “Please?”

  “All right.” Margery looked around.

  With Alec’s help, Vicki had shifted to human and was dressing. The babies would have her care soon.

  Margery handed the infants she held to the females who looked the most stable and settled beside Alice on the long, wall bench.

  She took the girl’s cold little hands. “I’ve got you, lambkin.” Pulling in a breath, she nodded to the patiently waiting male. “We’re ready.”

  Donal crouched in front of Alice with the deadly grace of a panther shifter. His expression softened at the girl’s fear. “I took the trackers out of everyone’s brothers, little one. I’m getting quite fast at it.”

  “You saw my littermates?” Alice squeaked. “Are they all right?”

  “Tynan said all the shifter-soldiers made it here.”

  As the male pulled out a scalpel, Alice gripped Margery’s hands harder.

  Blade in one hand, the male ran his other hand over Alice’s upper arm, made a tiny cut, and popped the device out. Alice only squeaked once. Donal tossed the tiny tracker into a nearby trash bin.

  Pushing the leg of Alice’s sleep shorts up, he traced his fingertips over her thigh and made an irritated sound. “The one is deep and will hurt more, lass. I’m sorry.”

  He looked at Margery. “Can you—”

  Knowing what he needed, Margery wrapped her arms around the girl, immobilizing her in a hug. “We’ll both hold really still.”

  The male was quick; she had to give him that. One swift—deep—slice, and he tweezed the tracker out.

  Tears ran down Alice’s cheeks, but her sobbing was quiet. They’d learned to suffer in silence.

  “All done, sweetie,” Margery whispered. “All done.”

  “Thorson,” Donal called to the older one. “Can you bandage her up, please?”

  The grizzled male scowled. “You’re not going to heal the youngling?”

  “Goddess help them, I can’t. We’re not in territory, and I’ve barely enough power left to locate the trackers.” Donal motioned to Gallia to sit on the bench a few feet down.


  Power? What kind of power did he have?

  “Herne’s hooves, I hadn’t realized.” Thorson motioned to Alice. “Come, cub. Let’s get that bleeding stopped.”

  Alice cringed away from him. She’d been captured so young that the only males she’d known were her brothers—and the brutal human guards. At least Margery could—sometimes—recall that most males weren’t like their captors.

  “Sir.” Margery braced for a blow in case the tough old male reacted badly. “I can bandage Alice and the others.”

  “You know first aid?” Thorson growled the question.

  Having given Vicki her infant, Idelle took a timid step forward to address both males. “Margery is…” She hesitated—smart captives didn’t volunteer information. “Our young are comfortable with her.”

  “Makes sense, Thorson. Remember how Darcy was terrified of us?” Donal patted Alice’s hand and nodded to Margery. “The help is appreciated.”

  His eyes held a silver hue, so like the moon she’d dreamed of, mesmerizing. Beautiful.

  He moved down the bench to Gallia, breaking the spell.

  A bit stunned at the impact of the silver-gray eyes, Margery shook her head and smiled at Idelle. “Will you help hold the younglings for him?”

  “I will.” Idelle settled beside Gallia on the bench.

  “You’ll need this.” Thorson set a backpack of medical supplies next to Margery. As she rummaged for saline and dressings, he gave her a nod of approval and walked away.

  One by one, as Donal finished with them, the younglings came to Margery, bleeding and shaking, and she bandaged the incisions. Afterward, each settled at her feet, crowding tightly around her legs. Taking comfort like little chicks from their mama hen.

  “Thorson, the front gate is cleared. Load ’em up,” a male yelled.

  Thorson opened the door of the closest SUV and pointed to the youngsters around Margery. “Youngest cubs first.” He turned and motioned to the new mother. “Vic, you and the babes, too.”

  Hope rose inside Margery. Maybe, maybe, they’d all get free. Not willing to court disappointment, she shoved the emotion down and turned to the cubs around her. “Alice. You go. Gallia and…” She picked out enough to fill the van.

  They rose, oh, so reluctantly, unwilling to leave the safety by her side.

  “Younglings,” she told them firmly, “that new mother over there has three little babies. She needs you to help her.”

  “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 scen
t 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.”

  Margery frowned, looking more closely.

  Another injured male had froth on his lips, and each labored breath made a whistling sound. A pierced lung? The other young male stood over him, obviously at a loss for what to do.

  Dear Goddess. The healer was down. And the helpers weren’t trained.

  She took a step forward. Would they be angry if she offered to help?

  Her chin went up. Too bad. The males had been injured saving the Dogwood villagers. Some might be brothers of the hostages. They might die here, bleeding out from lack of skillful tending.