Leap of the Lion Read online

  Bah. What the crap was wrong with him? For years, he’d managed to keep Pine Knoll out of his mind. Was Gawain’s presence dredging up these ugly memories?

  Selecting a corner table far from the females, Owen turned his back and put his feet up on the windowsill. Nibbling on the muffin, he gazed out the window at the huge flagstone patio. The small playground Zeb had built was empty of cubs. On the far right, Zeb’s latest project, a built-in seat wall, curved around what would eventually be a circular fire pit. Down the grassy slope was a gurgling creek where silvery undines swam in a flashing game of tag beneath the footbridge. Past the creek, the dense forest sloped upward into the mountains.

  The sound of footsteps caught his attention, and he glanced over his shoulder.

  Carrying a cup of coffee, Gawain strolled into the room. It was still a surprise to see him as an adult, but grown up he was. Only a couple of inches short of Owen’s six-five, he had a full, neatly trimmed beard and wavy, light brown hair that reached surprisingly broad, muscular shoulders. Spotting Owen, he lifted his eyebrows in a silent question. Up for company?

  Owen suppressed a grin as he shoved a chair out with his foot. Whereas Owen had the manners of a tactless dwarf, Gawain could be as courteous as their high Fae ancestors were reputed to have been.

  Yeah, he’d missed his littermate over the years.

  As Gawain crossed the room, the giggling from the corner began again. If Owen’d been in animal form, his ears would have gone back. He shouldn’t be surprised the females had set their sights on Gawain since blademages were called by the Mother in the same way cahirs were called by the God. Females always pursued the God-chosen…whether they liked the male or not.

  Owen studied his littermate. He and his siblings had been conceived during a full moon Gathering, which meant they had different fathers, appearances, and personalities. With light brown hair and fair skin, Gawain looked and acted like a sociable, easygoing Scottish laird. Owen’s father probably had Latino blood—and perhaps the sociability of a wolverine, although Owen might have developed that trait all on his own.

  As Gawain took a seat, Owen eyed him. “Maybe you should sit somewhere else.”

  “What?”

  “With a cahir and a blademage at one table, how long before a female approaches to see if we want to fuck, even though the Gathering is over?”

  Gawain shook his head. “You’ve grown rather cynical, brawd.”

  “Maybe.” Owen’s mouth tightened. Maybe he’d been more optimistic at birth—before their mother showed her hatred. Or before Edwyn’s death when Owen had left with Bonnie and not returned. “Cynicism grows with experience.”

  Gawain took a sip of his coffee and glanced at the covey of females. “I don’t mind being pursued. And Cold Creek’s females are impressive.”

  “Nah, the females resemble those in other territories.” Unmated males were urged to sow their seed in more than one territory, and Owen had done his share of traveling.

  “In appearance, yes. But your Cosantir draws a high percentage of shifters with intelligence, flexibility, and acceptance into his territory.”

  Huh. “I try not to talk with the females I mate,” Owen muttered. “But Calum is an unusual Cosantir.”

  “You try not to…” Gawain stared at him and shook his head. “Brawd, you worry me.”

  A scream of laughter sliced through their conversation as the females’ voices rose.

  “The healer adores big breasts.” The buxom brunette cupped her breasts and bounced them. “Just think. He’s got a nice house and money. I’d be set for life.”

  “Poor Donal,” Owen muttered. “The predators are circling him like hawks after a chicken.”

  “I’d rather have one of the cahirs.” The blonde fluffed her hair.

  “Fat chance,” the brunette told her. “The only unmated cahir left is that brown-haired one who never talks. He might be all right if he had a lot of money, but…”

  “Owen’s nice.” The youngest bounced in her seat. “He liked me. I know it.”

  The brunette sniffed. “I doubt it. That cahir doesn’t…” Her voice trailed off as she obviously remembered he was in the room.

  When the females turned to look, Owen curled his lip in a snarl. “I’ll let the males in town know you three are out for money and a house—and that, in my opinion, they might as well fuck a human.”

  They were shocked silent at the coarse insult.

  He scowled at the youngest female, a slender redhead he’d mated with last night. “And I don’t like you; I don’t like any female. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to fuck you vultures one night of every month.”

  The younger one burst into tears and fled…followed by the other two.

  “By the Goddess, Owen.” Gawain shoved to his feet. “What is wrong with you?”

  Guilt made Owen growl as he stood. “Did you hear them? Donal deserves better. Fuck, even I deserve better.”

  “You made that little female cry.” Gawain grabbed his arm and yanked him forward. “You can’t—”

  “Back off, brawd.” Owen slammed his palm against his brother’s chest.

  Gawain staggered back, knocked over a chair, and regained his balance. “You mindless moose.” Head down, he charged Owen, his head impacting Owen’s sternum. Painfully. A table and chairs crashed under their weight.

  As Owen broke free and nailed Gawain in the jaw, Shay shouted from across the room. “By the God, stop!”

  Not a chance. Adrenaline crooned a battle song in Owen’s ears. He hadn’t had a good fight—a fun fight—with anyone in years. A grin pulled at his mouth—until Gawain’s fist wiped it away.

  Scat on the trail. When had his brother learned to punch?

  Blinking away the swirling stars, Owen spat, “Flabby feline, that the best you can do?” Readying an attack, he spotted a tall, dark-haired, olive-skinned, leanly muscular man at the kitchen door.

  It was Calum. Oh fuck.

  How long had the Cosantir been watching? “Stop, brawd.”

  Gawain halted. Looked. His hand relaxed, and he took a step back.

  “Sorry,” Owen said under his breath.

  Gawain nodded, and a corner of his mouth curved up. Slow to ignite, the blademage’s temper was hotter than the fire in his forge, but his anger died quickly, and he held no grudges.

  Owen’s anger didn’t contain as much heat, but could take hours…days…to disappear.

  Then there was Calum. The God-called guardian of the North Cascades Territory kept firm control over his temper, and his anger was as icy as the glaciers covering the highest mountain peaks.

  Gawain’s fury could be intimidating. Calum’s wrath was deadly.

  Might as well see how badly his whiskers were about to be trimmed. Owen gave a slight bow and attempted a smile. “Good morrow, Cosantir. Do you remember my littermate, Gawain? He’s a blademage from Pine Knoll in Mt. Hood Territory.”

  Calum’s normally gray eyes were dark with the presence of the God.

  Owen heard his littermate make a soft sound at the impact of the black gaze.

  “I remember Gawain,” Calum said.

  “Cosantir,” Gawain acknowledged quietly.

  Calum’s faint English accent grew terser with his anger. “Three females ran from the room.”

  By Herne’s hairy balls, females were more trouble than anything on the planet. What was he supposed to say? I’m sorry would be a lie. “They annoyed me.”

  “Nia was crying.”

  The youngest one. “She boasted that I liked her. She lied.”

  Calum’s voice held a chill that matched his eyes. “If a young one has only experienced a Gathering or two, she might misread a mating for something more. Childish boasting is harmless. Even if irritated, an honorable adult doesn’t cut down a tree to move a branch out of his path.”

  No argument could stand up. As Calum had noted, the female was young and inexperienced. Owen bowed his head. “I was overly harsh.”

  T
he evenness of Calum’s voice was more menacing than a shout. “You are often overly harsh with the females. You may well regret your intolerance when you try to win a mate.”

  Owen stared at him. “I will never lifemate.”

  Calum lifted a brow. Rather than answering, he appraised the room, and Owen winced. Several chairs were busted. A painting lay on the floor, the frame broken. “It seems you are also angry with your littermate,” Calum said. “Was there a reason?”

  He hadn’t done anything right this morning. “Not really, Cosantir.”

  An eyebrow rose. “Indeed. Aside from females, your judgment of people tends to be quite accurate. If you dislike your littermate so much, should I drive him from my territory?”

  For Herne’s sake.

  Beside Owen, Gawain stiffened—and stood his ground.

  “No, Cosantir. My brother is a fine shifter. Strong and honorable. A talented blademage. We simply have a history which lies uneasily between”—no, that wasn’t right—“with me.”

  Gawain looked over and a corner of his mouth lifted, his emotions right there on his face for everyone to see. How could they have been birthed by the same female?

  Calum’s eyes narrowed. “History shouldn’t become a weight tied to a shifter’s tail.” His attention turned to Gawain. “I’ve heard you and your Cosantir are at odds.”

  Gawain probably had cause. Last Beltane, Owen had watched the Pine Knoll Cosantir acting the fool.

  Calum looked at Owen. “Cahir, you have risked your life for our people. I won’t invite someone here who makes you unhappy.”

  Unhappy. That wasn’t what he felt when his brother was around. Not any longer. Owen collected his laggard wits and offered his Cosantir the truth of his heart. “I would be pleased to have Gawain here. I would also be pleased to punch him when he annoys me.”

  The darkness disappeared from the Cosantir’s eyes, and his quicksilver grin appeared. “That seems clear enough. Gawain, the North Cascades Territory could use a blademage. You are welcome to move here.”

  Gawain’s eyes lit.

  “He’s only welcome if he and the idiot cahir clean up the mess they made,” Zeb growled from the kitchen.

  “We will, Zeb.” Owen frowned. “Cosantir, Shay said you wanted to speak to me?”

  “Aye. I have a task for you, cahir.”

  Owen bowed his head. “Your will, Cosantir.”

  “Although I’d considered sending Alec, now I believe you are a better choice.” Before Owen could feel complimented, Calum added, “A visit to a city might remind you of what is important in life.”

  “A city?” By the God, cities were full of…humans. And metal and concrete. And humans. Where they gathered in large numbers, their putrid odors would make a skunk gag. Owen smothered his objections. Calum chose only what was best for the Daonain.

  Didn’t mean Owen would enjoy the assignment.

  “A female cougar shifter has been seen in a Seattle park for a number of days.” Calum frowned. “Possibly, she blundered into the city and can’t find her way out, or she might be feral.”

  “No, not feral.” Gawain’s brow wrinkled with his dismay.

  Owen suppressed his own hiss of protest. Feral shifters had to be killed, and cahirs did the killing. Over the years, he’d returned five feral males to the Mother, and he remembered each gut-wrenching death. Each name. But he’d never had to kill a female. Although most females he’d encountered were self-centered and sneaky liars, he’d rather rip off his tail than physically hurt one.

  “After you pack, come to the bar to get the keys to the car,” Calum said. “Tynan will meet you near the park.”

  Tynan. Healer Donal’s littermate lived in the fucking city and worked as a cop for humans. The male must be crazier than a bee-stung badger. “You sure he knows what he’s doing?”

  Amusement lit Calum’s eyes. “I daresay he knows better than you, cahir.”

  Ouch. Owen bent his head, said, “Your will, Cosantir,” and retreated while he could.

  Gawain fell into step beside him.

  Owen stopped. “What’s up?”

  “I’ll clean up the dining room and fix what we busted.” Gawain hesitated. “Thank you for what you said to the Cosantir. I’d hoped to talk with you before meeting him.”

  “Talk about what?”

  Gawain rubbed his hand over his beard. “Brawd. We haven’t been… After Edwyn died, it was difficult to be together. Made his absence more painful. I know you felt the same. But the missing bond is scarred over now, and I miss you.”

  His littermate had always been appallingly upfront. Owen shut his eyes, remembering how it had felt as if a piece of himself had been ripped away when Edwyn died. Yet, as with a missing limb, the wound had closed. “What did you want to talk about?”

  “I’m moving out of Pine Knoll no matter what. But if my presence here causes you pain, I’ll find a different territory.”

  “No. Stay.” The Cosantir was right that the territory needed a permanent blademage. The last one had been ancient, rarely worked, and had recently moved to Elder Village.

  And it was time Owen stopped hiding in a corner like a wounded cub. He scrubbed his face with his hands as if he could groom the awkwardness away and tried a smile. “I’ve missed having someone to fight with.”

  “Oh. In that case, far be it from me to deprive you of your fun.” With an evil grin, Gawain casually shoved Owen face-first into the wall.

  Well, fuck. Owen gingerly shook his head, ears humming as if he’d bumped into a beehive. The fucking blademage had put on some serious muscle.

  *

  The trip to Seattle had taken so long that Owen’s skin felt infested by a thousand fleas. It was a shame Gawain hadn’t been assigned to this damn trip instead. The idiot enjoyed human forms of transportation and didn’t see anything insane about trapping a body in a small metal box on wheels. Then again, blademages loved metal. Crazy fools.

  Owen’s foot twitched on the gas pedal, but the Cosantir had warned him about speeding. If caught exceeding the posted “speed limit” numbers, he could get locked in a small iron cell with no view of the sky.

  The thought made him want to curl into a ball.

  Almost there. Off to the right, the setting sun glinted off a spindly mushroom-headed tower that rose from a forest of atrociously tall buildings. “What a fucking ugly place.”

  A few minutes later, he escaped the multilane highway called I-5 onto quieter streets. As instructed, he drove past the Seward Park entrance and parked a short distance north.

  A man in jeans and a hoodie leaned against a parked car. Around six feet tall. A bony face with a square jaw. Short, brown hair with reddish tints. Tynan had visited Cold Creek a time or two to see his littermate, the healer.

  Owen parked, jumped out, and tucked the car key into his knife sheath. Along with the stench of the city, he could smell lake water, freshly cut grass, fir trees—and the faint wild scent of a shifter. “Tynan.”

  “Good to see you, cahir.” The cop held out a thin hooded sweatshirt. “Put this on.”

  Frowning, Owen did so. “Why? And why meet this far outside the park?”

  “Because this section of the road has no street cameras. Closer in, there are people and cameras. Pull the hood up, keep your head down, and let’s go.” Doing the same, Tynan led the way down the sidewalk. Nearing a black van with darkly tinted windows, he said in a low voice, “This is one of the vehicles hunting the female. Slouch and keep your head turned.”

  As the hair on the back of Owen’s neck rose, they passed the van. Humans were within. And he caught the scent of gun oil.

  Avoiding the park entrance, Tynan crossed the grass at the northernmost corner into the park. His voice held a distinct Irish lilt as he said, “It’s a pretty park, this old growth forest in the city’s heart, and I often run here of a morning.”

  Owen wanted to ask what kind of fucked-up Daonain would live in a city, but this wasn’t the time…if there ever w
as one. He’d rather expected the notorious city-living shifter to be wild-eyed and half-crazy. Instead, Owen could feel the rock-solid nature of Tynan’s personality. For whatever reason the wolf chose to live surrounded by humans, it wasn’t because he was insane.

  Following Tynan, Owen strolled past bushes, various buildings, a parking area, and finally into a forest that would have been at home in the North Cascades Territory.

  “Have you figured out what the female is doing here?” Perhaps she was a youngster who’d taken a dare to enter the city and gotten herself lost.

  “I don’t know why she’s here; I do know why she hasn’t left. Vans—like the one we passed—are parked at the entrance and along the adjacent streets, monitoring every person who leaves. When I scouted yesterday, I also discovered some humans camping out.” Tynan glanced back, and anger simmered in his eyes. “They’re hunting her.”

  Fury rose in Owen. Humans were hunting a female of the Daonain? “Do they believe they’re out to capture a wild animal—or a shifter?”

  “Oh, and the hunters know she’s more than a cougar. Animal removal would normally be handled by the Department of Fish and Wildlife. This group isn’t with the state, yet they obtained permission from someone. The company name on their vehicles is magnetic—easy to put on and easy to remove.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The park caretaker says they’ve been here two or three days. Last night, they brought in hunting dogs.”

  Owen barely suppressed a snarl.

  As twilight faded into full dark, Tynan veered onto a deer trail, moved through the dense underbrush, and stopped. “Right, we’ll leave our clothes here.”

  Owen nodded. Most of the city stink had disappeared under the moist green fragrance of the forest. Douglas firs and orange-barked madrone towered over ferns, vining blackberries, and huckleberries. After stripping, he moved his hunting blade from his calf to his forearm, seeing Tynan do the same. The magicked weapon sheaths would trawsfur with them and be inconspicuous on their furry forelegs.

  Tynan studied him for a second. “Alec calls you ghost cat. Says, on a hunt, you’re the most cunning, silent shifter he’s ever seen. So I’ll get us close to the humans, and you can lead us around them.”