Leap of the Lion Page 5

  Owen nodded. When he, Alec, and Ben worked as a cahir team, they dumped the sneaky undertakings on Owen. “Works for me.”

  Tynan shifted into a heavy-boned, muscular, silver-gray wolf.

  Owen sniffed, trying to catch the female shifter’s scent, but only caught the stench of humans. “Let’s go find her.”

  *

  Way to go, tinker.

  Darcy wanted to cry—but, hey, not an option for a cougar. It was so amazing that she’d actually trawsfurred. Only…the miracle had turned into a disaster. Because she couldn’t shift back.

  In the chilly September night, she lay curled up and shivering in a dirt hollow above a tiny stream. Her right hind leg, right foreleg, and ribs throbbed angrily. The gunshot wounds and the areas she’d cut with her knife were oozing and smelled foul. The wounds were infected.

  And she was trapped.

  Over the past…however long it had been…she’d kept trying and trying to trawsfur back to human form. No luck. As the humans would say, she was screwed. With her injured legs handicapping her and no experience, she hadn’t caught any food in the forest.

  As far as she could tell, Seward Park was a tiny peninsula, a “finger” projecting out into a huge lake. Whenever she’d tried to escape the park, the Scythe had blocked her escape. Yesterday, they’d brought in hunting dogs and more men.

  From experiments on the Dogwood captives, the Scythe knew tranquilizers drove shifters berserk, which explained why the hunters were shooting real bullets, aiming to disable her. They’d spotted her at dawn, and a bullet had grazed her ribs, slowing her even more. She’d escaped only because the park had opened, and the hunters retreated to their camp.

  They’d find her tonight.

  As her despair deepened, she rubbed her chin on her forepaws. She’d only be free and alive for a few more hours. When they realized she wouldn’t let them take her alive, they’d shoot to kill.

  Well, if she died tonight, at least she’d gotten to be a cougar. She closed her eyes, feeling the breeze ruffle her fur. As each hair tip moved, the wind’s touch felt like a caress.

  Her ears swiveled to catch the sound of a rustle in the grass. Ears that turned were so strange. And difficult to control. If she actually tried to make her ears or tail move, nothing happened. But now, with sickness and exhaustion overwhelming her, her feline instincts were taking over.

  A louder noise caught her attention, and she lifted her nose to scent the breeze.

  Only the forest fragrance.

  Last night, she hadn’t caught the scent of any Dogwood shifter-soldiers with the Scythe’s humans and dogs. What if the male villagers showed up to hunt her tonight? Her stomach knotted. To keep their littermates safe, they’d follow orders and capture her. However, in cougar form, she couldn’t speak to tell them about the second concealed tracker.

  Could her escape have gone any more wrong?

  Sure, it could have. Other shifter females or males might have been hurt during her breakout. That would have been intolerable.

  As almost silent footsteps sounded, her ears pivoted. She smelled the air, but the wind was wrong, blowing her scent toward whatever was coming.

  A naked man stepped out of the brush, sniffed, and his gaze fixed on her hiding place.

  On her.

  Cold terror flooded her. Run! She leaped out of the hollow toward the thickest underbrush. Pain stabbed into her wounded legs, and she hissed. Gathering herself, she leaped toward the—

  A cougar smashed into her, knocked her onto her side, and came down on top of her. He was heavy, so heavy, and more pain shot through her.

  Her claws emerged, and she twisted to bring them to bear.

  A terrifying growl reverberated in her ear. Teeth closed on the back of her neck, and each time she moved, his jaws bit down. The animal could sever her spine if he wanted.

  Panting in dread, she went limp.

  Her worst fear had come true—the Scythe had sent the shifter-soldiers.

  Tell them. She had to tell the males about the trackers right now. Her paws twitched as she tried to trawsfur back to human.

  Nothing.

  She lay still under the male and trembled.

  The naked human walked out of the brush. He was tall with short brown hair and a square jaw. His lack of clothing indicated he was a Daonain shifter and not human.

  “Conclusions, Owen?” the male asked. “If she’s not fighting you, I’d guess she’s not feral?”

  The cougar holding her down made a chirrup-purr of agreement.

  When the naked shifter drew closer, the teeth on her neck tightened to ensure she couldn’t attack the unarmed male.

  “I smell blood. Did you damage her?”

  The cougar made a low growl of no.

  Keeping his distance, the naked male circled her and made a grunting sound. “Her right hind and foreleg have infected wounds. Got a bloody graze across her right ribs deep enough to show bone. Either she has been poking herself with sticks or someone shot her. More than once.”

  The rumble of anger from the heavy cougar filled Darcy’s brain, and she flattened her ears, wishing she were as tiny as a mouse. A mouse might have a chance.

  The naked male stared down at her. “You need to trawsfur to human so we can figure out what to do.”

  The order was like a kick to her belly. Everything in her surged forward, trying to do as he asked…and failing again. The sound she made was more of a kitten’s whimper than a cougar’s snarl. Her shivering increased.

  “By the Lady, we don’t have time for this.” The male frowned at her. “Now, female.”

  The teeth clamped on her neck released her. As magic tingled in the air, the cougar on her back was replaced by a huge male in human form. He rose to his feet.

  The shorter male put his hands on his hips. “Got a suggestion, Owen?”

  Darcy tried to stand.

  “Don’t move, female.” Even in human form, the one named Owen had a growl that shattered her courage. Several inches over six feet, he had straight, rich brown hair to his shoulders, dark stubble along a strong jaw, and thick, dark brows. He looked…mean.

  When moonlight glinted across a blade-shaped scar on his cheekbone, she went still. Every Daonain knew the symbol for a cahir—a warrior of the Daonain.

  He looked at the other male. “Tynan, I don’t think she can shift.”

  “Of course she can shift. She’s fully grown, not some thirteen-year-old girl.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m sure if you explain that to her carefully, she’ll trawsfur right back.”

  Tynan gave the cahir a narrow-eyed look before turning his attention back to her. “You can’t change to human form, lass?”

  Darcy shook her head from side to side. If they were Scythe, they wouldn’t talk with her. Although maybe their friendliness was a trick. If only her brain were working better. Still, why would they bother to talk? They wore knives and could simply cut her throat. Or bite through her spine. No discussion needed.

  “Getting a wounded cat past the dogs and hunters will turn into what Calum’s mate calls a clusterfuck.” The annoyance in Owen’s low, rough voice was oddly reassuring…because he was on her side.

  “No choice.” Tynan’s voice had the lilt of an Irish accent. “Cosantir’s orders.”

  Cosantir? Darcy pulled in a breath of relief. A Cosantir, the God-empowered guardian of an entire territory, would never work for the Scythe. These males couldn’t be Scythe shifter-soldiers. Whatever were they doing in a city?

  Oh, if she could only talk with them.

  “Are you going to come with us nicely, female?” Owen’s question was blunt.

  There was nothing she wanted more…but this was wrong. They couldn’t get her past the Scythe guarding the exits. She’d tried. The thought of putting these males into danger made her heart hurt. But she couldn’t speak and explain.

  More importantly, they were offering her a chance to save the other villagers. She had to let them try. She nodded to
Owen.

  And if she died trying to escape? By the Mother’s sweet blessing, she would die in the company of her own kind.

  “You know the area. Shift and lead us out, Tynan.” Owen trawsfurred and waited for the female to follow the wolf before bringing up the rear.

  Tynan retraced their path for a while, then angled north to keep their scent from the encampment.

  The little female—and fuck, she really was little—limped along without a sound. The air brought him the scent of her illness—sick, infected, starving. She was weak and wouldn’t be able to run long at all.

  How could he sneak her past the encampment without the hunting dogs catching her scent? If it came to a chase, he might manage to wipe out the canines, but the animals were backed up by humans with weapons.

  Anger ran through him and sang for him to enter their fucking camp and teach them the dangers of threatening a Daonain female.

  Being sensible sucked. With a huff of disgust, he put his mind to devising a better plan than shred them all.

  When Tynan finally halted and glanced back, Owen scuffed the dirt. In the paw language used by cublings during games, the gesture meant stay here. The cop might be competent in the city, but Owen lived in a forest—and hunted hellhounds. He’d do the reconnoitering.

  Shifting to human, Tynan stepped in front of the female. The guards were too close for explanations, so the cop gripped her scruff and went down on his haunches, showing her that they’d wait.

  After a second, she sank, belly to the ground.

  Good. She was trying, and Owen appreciated that. On the trail, when she’d stumbled and thumped her wounded leg against a log, she hadn’t made a sound. Even now, as tremors shook her body, she stayed silent. She was sick—and scared—and by the God, she was a brave little thing.

  He gave her a nod of approval before sliding silently into the brush and moving upwind.

  Before approaching the camp, he circled to approach from upward, crept closer, then took to a tree. From the high vantage point, Owen watched the hunters form a long line of men. The dogs were readied to go. Two guards were chatting near three black vans and two pickups to the right of the tents. Vehicles. Hmm.

  Averse to metal, shifters rarely became mechanics. But as a teen, Gawain had learned to hotwire cars to help shifters who’d gotten themselves into awkward situations. City-dwelling Tynan might well know the trick.

  Plan formulated, Owen headed back toward where he’d left the others, pausing to deal with one sentry. He generously put the human to sleep rather than gutting him.

  Tynan and the female were still where he’d left them.

  Owen shifted and crouched to murmur, “So, cop. Can you hotwire a truck?”

  “That I can. Stealing a vehicle is your plan?” Tynan glanced at the female. “Right. I doubt she’d be able to walk out.”

  “I doubt it, too.” Owen gestured to the south. Downwind. He’d be able to draw the dogs and men away from the cars and keep them entertained. “I’ll create a diversion over there. The vehicles are on the north side. Take the pickup closest to the road, head for the exit, and I’ll catch up.”

  Tynan’s displeased expression showed what he thought of driving away without Owen, but he nodded.

  Owen pointed to the path they should take. “The guard there won’t bother you.”

  “We’ll be off, then.” Tynan stroked the female and motioned for her to follow. After shifting to wolf form, he led the way down the trail Owen had indicated.

  Time to hunt.

  A few minutes later, Owen reached the end of the south sentry line and dropped out of the tree on top of the scent-impaired idiot. A quick slash-slash resulted in rewarding shouts of pain.

  He leaped back into the trees, skipped the next sentry, and chose one who was walking in terrified circles. The scent of fear was gratifying.

  His own scent should be drifting to the dogs about now.

  Crouched on the branch, Owen waited for the right moment. The tip of his tail lashed. His haunches tensed.

  The human turned.

  Without a thought, Owen sprang, landed on the man’s back, and drove him onto his face. When Owen sank his fangs into the man’s shoulder, the pain-filled scream of terror was long and loud.

  Shouldn’t be anyone asleep in the camp now.

  Between the scent of cougar and the screams of pain, the dogs went into a frenzy. With several men shouting orders, chaos ensued.

  Unheard in the uproar, an engine started up.

  Huffing in satisfaction, Owen nipped the hunter’s ear to provoke another scream. And realized his mistake when shots peppered the area, snicking the leaves, and thwacking the tree trunks.

  Owen snarled. The idiots were firing blindly, even with their own soldier in the line of fire.

  A bullet hit the human, and his scream of agony sparked more gunfire.

  Something thumped Owen’s leg—and pain burst like wildfire though his hind leg. A hiss escaped as he fought his cat instincts for control. The squirrel-brained humans had shot him.

  Fuck, it hurt. His claws emerged, digging holes in the human beneath him. More screams.

  Growling low in his throat, Owen darted into the underbrush. His leg flared with pain with every movement. He pulled in a deeper breath. Suck it up, cahir. He knew how to deal with pain. When killing hellhounds, a cahir fought—no matter how badly he was damaged—or that cahir died.

  He needed to shake off the dogs and quickly. Trotting into a creek, he headed northward, staying in the water until the wind no longer blew his scent toward the dogs. With a grunt of pain, he sprang into a tree directly from the water, leaving no scent markers on the bank. A keen hound might catch his scent, but the wind was now in his favor.

  Behind him, the shouting grew less terrified and more frustrated. Some idiot was still firing a weapon.

  Traveling through the trees was slow going, and after a brief time, Owen dropped to the ground, winced when his foreleg almost gave out—damn broken bones—and raced for the road.

  Satisfaction filled him at the sound of a pickup farther ahead. The cop had gotten the female out.

  As Owen caught up, the truck showed no headlights and was going slow. Owen leaped into an empty spot in the truck bed, landed, and pain stabbed into his foreleg. Then his wounded hind leg bumped into a pile of crates. By the God. Hissing at the pain from fucking everywhere, he moved forward and pushed his muzzle against the rear cab window.

  The female was curled in a miserable-looking ball on the floor.

  Tynan met Owen’s gaze in the rear-view mirror. The cop touched his finger to his forehead in a salute, and the pickup surged forward.

  As the distance from the humans’ encampment increased, the noise of shouting and firearms diminished. Tynan turned the headlights on.

  The pickup approached the park entrance, which was bracketed by window-darkened black vans. The humans there sported rifles and holstered handguns. Leaving the tinted window up, Tynan slowed only slightly.

  Smothering a snarl, Owen crawled under an overturned crate.

  As Tynan drove past the vans, the guards didn’t attempt to stop them. It was their vehicle, after all.

  A couple of minutes later, the pickup rocked to a stop beside their own cars.

  Chapter Four

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  The one named Owen had been shot. Because of her. Darcy hated that he’d gotten hurt and she was so, so grateful to him.

  She was free and leaving the city.

  After abandoning the Scythe pickup and putting her in Owen’s car, the males had driven their two cars to a parking lot. In a deserted corner, the men had dressed. Tynan bandaged Owen’s leg and said he’d drive them to Cold Creek in Owen’s car. When Owen insisted he could drive, Tynan rapped two fingers on the cahir’s swollen wrist. Owen’s pain-filled snarl lost him the argument, and he grumpily climbed into the passenger seat.

  Darcy stayed stretched out on the back seat.

  With Tynan driving, they head
ed north and onto the freeway.

  For what seemed like hours, Darcy lay flat, tense with nerves. Car lights flashed by. Air brakes hissed on the massive trucks. Horns blared sporadically.

  Then they were out of the city.

  As the land rose, the car engine hummed a lower note, and the stench of gasoline and chemicals faded. First, there was the dusty scent of end-of-summer grass, then the sharper fragrance of evergreens. With a happy sigh, she curled into a ball and fell asleep.

  Itching roused her. It felt as if ants were crawling all over her body. In the front seat, Owen absentmindedly rubbed his arm, and watching him made her itch worse. She lifted her hind leg to scratch her neck—and pain battered her senses. She snarled. How could she forget her leg had multiple holes in it?

  Owen glanced back. “I’m surprised the itching didn’t wake you sooner. Damn vehicles.”

  What did he mean? As she adjusted her position, she watched him rub his back against the seat cushion. Itching. Vehicles? The metal. Of course. She should have recognized the feeling from when she worked with engines. But then she only did repair work with her hands not her whole body. Closing her eyes, she set herself to endure.

  “I’m surprised you can stand it,” Owen said to Tynan. “Constantly around metal. Surrounded by humans. Too far from the forests.”

  Using the rear view mirror, Darcy could see Tynan’s grim smile. “Since I have blademages in my ancestry, I have more tolerance for iron than most Daonain. The city is irritating though.”

  She tilted her head, enjoying the sound of his Irish accent.

  “So why do you live there?” Owen asked.

  “Well and someday maybe I’ll tell you. This isn’t the day.”

  As silence fell, Darcy lowered her head and let herself drift off to the low hum of the motor and the throbbing burn of her wounds.

  Dawn was breaking when Tynan pulled the car to a stop.

  “I need to call and report we’ve arrived,” Owen said. “Be with you in a minute.”

  “I’ll take her.” Tynan slid out and opened the back door. “Let’s be getting you into the house, lass. The healer’s expecting you.”