Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8) 7

As the Ferals surrounded the three retching Ferals, Lyon looked to Natalie. “Are you hurt?”

“No. He just knocked the breath out of me.”

Lyon nodded, his attention back on Wulfe as the shifter leaped to his feet, his eyes still those of a stranger as he looked around, spied her, and started toward her with long, determined strides.

Lyon and Tighe stepped into his path, blocking his way. Wulfe snarled, his eyes changing to animal eyes, fangs sprouting from his gums.

“Wulfe, dammit,” Tighe growled. “We’re not immortal!”

If Wulfe attacked them with his claws and fangs, he could injure them badly. He might even kill them, which would destroy him in turn.

Natalie pushed to her feet and ran toward the confrontation. “Wulfe, no!”

Even as his muscles bunched as if to spring, his gaze snapped to her, and he stilled, the coldness slowly disappearing from those animal eyes, swept aside by confusion, dismay, and dawning horror.

“You didn’t hurt anyone,” she assured him, watching with relief as his fangs disappeared, as his face returned to normal.

Lyon stared at him. “What the hell happened?”

Wulfe swung away, his shoulders hunching with shame. “I lost it. That was the second time.”

And both times . . .

With a bolt of understanding, Natalie strode through the circle of Ferals, moving in front of Wulfe, forcing him to face her, even as he continued to stare at the ground. “Both times, my cheek hurt. Both times, you took the pain. Then, moments later, you turned into Wolfman.” She frowned, thinking. “The first time I experienced the pain, I didn’t tell you. And none of this happened.”

“Where were you taking her?” Paenther asked. “In Cape May, he snatched her up and started running,” He explained for the others’ benefit.

“I don’t know.” Wulfe shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I don’t know.”

“Inir has found a way to get his claws into him,” Kougar murmured. “I wonder if we’re next.”

The look that passed between the shifters was one of raw disbelief. And horror.

“We are so screwed,” Jag muttered.

Lyon watched his wolf shifter consideringly. “I don’t think Inir’s controlling us. I think this is just another factor of your Daemon blood. And, somehow, Natalie’s involved. The next time her cheek hurts, call for backup immediately. And don’t touch her.” His amber gaze swung to Natalie. “The moment you feel the pain, or the moment you notice Wulfe changing, yell. And don’t stop until we come.”

“All right.”

The Chief of the Ferals turned toward the house, and the others followed.

Wulfe hesitated, watching the sky instead of the ground. Finally, he turned to her, misery in his eyes. “I hurt you.” His voice throbbed.

“You were rough with me, but you didn’t intentionally hurt me. I’m fine.”

“Bruises?”

“Maybe. Nothing broken. Are you okay?”

For moments, he said nothing, his gaze returning to the treetops and the sky. “I don’t know what’s happening.” He scowled and started forward, then paused and held out his hand for her. “Let’s go inside.”

Taking his hand, she followed him through the back door, through the dining room, and into the hallway.

Wulfe glanced at her. “I need to work out. The fury is gone, but I still feel this need to fight. I’m going to work it out in the gym. Do you mind spending a little time in your room? I can get you some books.”

“Books would be good.” Honestly, she needed a little time alone, if only to process everything that had happened over the course of the past day and a half. And to get her emotions back under control after talking to her mom.

Wulfe led her down yet another hallway to a beautiful room lined, ceiling to floor, with bookshelves. A huge fireplace took up most of one wall, comfy-looking reading chairs scattered about.

“Books,” he said with a flourish.

“Wow.” As she perused the shelves, she found every manner of book imaginable, most quite old, most nonfiction, though one entire section was lined with twentieth- and twenty-first-century best-selling novels. As she perused the titles, she thought of the hours her mom had read to her when she was little. Natalie had never tired of the stories.

At the thought, tears burned her eyes. That brief conversation had thrown her more than she’d like to admit. Despite Wulfe’s assurances otherwise, she was terrified that, like Xavier, she might end up stuck here. She might never see her mother again.

“You’re afraid of me,” Wulfe said, his voice low and stricken.

Natalie’s gaze snapped to his even as she had to blink back the moisture. “No. I was thinking about my mom.”

“You miss her.”

“Yes, of course. And she’s having such a hard time with Xavier gone.” Her gaze sharpened on his, a plea, a demand. “I can’t go missing again, too, Wulfe. She’s already lost both of my brothers, if in different ways. She can’t lose all of us. It would destroy her.”

He nodded, his eyes deep wells of determination. “I’ll get you home, Natalie. I’ll make it happen.” But within that declaration she detected a thread of uncertainty. As much as he might want to, he couldn’t promise her anything, and they both knew it.

And truth be told, she was torn, and becoming more so by the hour. Going home meant leaving Xavier behind once more. Never seeing him again. Or Wulfe.

He reached for her, his eyes as tender as she’d ever seen them as he traced her jaw with the pad of his thumb. As she stared into those dark, fathomless eyes, adoration spread through her chest, sharper and more piercing than ever before. She could hardly breathe and didn’t care. She didn’t need oxygen, didn’t need anything but his touch. Though she’d only just met him, she felt as if she’d known him always.

How could she walk away from him, knowing she’d probably never see him again?

Her heart thudded, liquid warmth sliding through her veins, weakening her, strengthening her, awakening every cell in her body.

Wulfe lifted her hair, letting it slip through his fingers, then leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Pick out a few books.”

As he turned away, she stared at his back, at his broad shoulders, the pressure in her chest so great she feared it would never be contained.

Heaven help her, she’d fallen in love with a shape-shifter.

Chapter Twelve

As Wulfe waited for Natalie to choose a few books from the Ferals’ extensive library, he watched her, his chest heavy as lead. She wanted to go home, back to her world, to her mother. He got that. He understood, and he would do absolutely anything to make her happy, even if sending her home was the last thing he wanted for himself.

He just prayed he could keep her safe that long.

Finally, she turned to him, three books tucked against her chest—a Jane Austen novel and two others whose titles he couldn’t see.

A small smile lifted the corners of her lovely mouth. “I’m ready.”

Together, they left the library and started back down the hall toward the stairs. As they approached the foyer, he overheard Paenther and Vhyper talking.

“So what I don’t get,” Vhyper muttered, “is whether the real Satanan, the Daemon still trapped in the Daemon Blade, knows what the lost piece of his consciousness—the one that infected Inir—is up to. Are they working together, or as completely separate entities?”

“I don’t know,” Paenther replied.

“Separate entities,” Wulfe told them, as he and Natalie entered the foyer. He joined his friends. “One has no idea what the other is doing, but it doesn’t matter since both are fully focused on freeing the Daemons from that blade.”

Vhyper’s eyes narrowed. “And you know that how?”

Wulfe stilled. “I have no clue.” He scowled and started to turn away, but Paenther stopped him.

“Wulfe . . . what else do you know about Satanan, or at least about the piece of his consciousness inside Inir? We need all the insight we can get.”

“You already know most of it.”

“Humor us.” Paenther’s steady gaze demanded cooperation.

Hell. He didn’t know how he knew this stuff. If he could unknow it, he would. But, yeah, maybe it could help.

“During the years of the Daemons Wars, wraith Daemon consciousness shattered fairly frequently, the wisps hiding in rock crevices, in objects, and in the ground until a person—usually human—came in contact with them. The wisp, what we call dark spirit, would turn the host evil for the course of his or her short life, then both host and wisp would perish.”

As he spoke, Lyon and Kougar walked up, joining them, listening.

“But of the true Daemons,” Wulfe continued, “only the strongest ever left behind a piece of consciousness, and only in times of fierce desperation. The sliver of Satanan’s consciousness within Inir sheared off when he was being pulled into the Daemon Blade. He resisted the pull so strongly that part of him was actually left behind. Not until Inir accidentally came in contact with it did that piece of Satanan’s soul find a host and come awake again.”

Hawke and Falkyn joined them. Wulfe saw the surprise on his brothers’ and sister’s faces, but Paenther nodded for him to continue, and he did.

“In such cases, the lost sliver is usually never found, and the Daemon himself, though aware of the loss, is rarely incapacitated by it. He may feel the loss as one might feel grief for a long-dead loved one. A literal missing piece. If the missing sliver is found after it has infected someone, the two pieces can be runited only by destroying the host.”

Silence descended over the foyer as his Feral brothers and sisters stared at him with a mix of interest, surprise, and shock.

“How do you know all that?” Hawke breathed.

Wulfe shrugged. “Daemon blood.” He ushered Natalie toward the stairs, through with revealing his weirdness for the day. But he couldn’t help but wonder what other odd Daemon knowledge now resided in his head. And why.

“The woman Vhyper saw earlier is back.” Melisande’s voice erupted in the foyer behind him. “She’s coming up the drive.”

“Keep an eye on her.” Lyon leaped into commander mode. “If she leaves again, follow her. Everyone else, remain inside. I don’t want to scare her off, but she’s not getting away this time. I want to know who she is and what she wants with us. If she’s another newly marked Feral, she’s going straight to the prisons.”

Jag grunted. “Ten bucks says she winds up in the prisons no matter what she is.”

“She’s parking the car,” Falkyn called from the living room. “She’s getting out and starting for the front walk.”

“Move away from the door,” Lyon ordered. “Out of sight until we have her in the house.”

Wulfe took Natalie’s hand and hurried her up to the second-floor landing, where they had a clear view of the foyer over the railing. Fox, Hawke, and Falkyn joined them while the others melted into one or another of the hallways that fed into the foyer.

A moment later, the doorknocker rang on the wood with hard, confident taps, an interesting counterpoint to the apparently tentative nature of the woman’s initial arrival.

Lyon swung open the door to reveal a woman of medium stature and girl-next-door looks, dressed in hiking boots, knee-length shorts, and a lightweight vest covered in pockets over a light brown tee. Dark hair, corkscrew curly, fell well past her shoulders.

The woman stared at Lyon with a combination of wariness, awe, and that surprising confidence as she thrust out her hand. “I’m Dr. Vivian Mars, Assistant Professor and Director of the International Center for North African Archaeology at Boston University. I believe you have a Daemon in your midst, and I’d very much like to talk to him.”

Wulfe jerked.

Lyon, to his credit, showed no obvious surprise as he shook her hand and stepped back. “Come in, Dr. Mars. I’ll be very happy to talk with you.”

The woman didn’t move. “Before I come in, let me explain who I am and why I’m here.”

“It’s safer if we talk inside.”

The woman’s expression lit with wry amusement. “Safer for whom?” She lifted a hand, palm out. “Let me at least tell you that I’m human. Two years ago, during a dig in the East Sahara, I became the unwitting, if not entirely unwilling, host to a wisp of Daemon consciousness who’d been separated from his body sometime ago. He doesn’t know how long. His name is Strome and he desperately wants to know what happened to his race.”

Lyon turned toward the nearest hallway. “Dark spirit or something more?”

Kougar strode into the foyer and joined him. “From my experience, dark spirit craves violence, not answers. I’d like to hear more. Wulfe may know more.”

Lyon glanced up to where Wulfe stood watching, but Wulfe shook his head. He didn’t have a clue.

“Strome has sensed that you’re shape-shifters and wants your guarantee not to hurt me,” the woman stated. “He’s sensed the strengthening of a powerful force within the Daemons and seeks to warn those who might be able to stop it. About a month ago, he felt the awakening of an honorable Daemon consciousness. It’s taken us all this time to track him down. And we tracked him here.”

“You came by earlier today.”

“Yes.” She smiled ruefully. “Strome realized he was leading me into a den . . . a house . . . of shape-shifters and ordered me to leave at once. It’s taken me hours to convince him I’m willing to accept the risk, given all that’s at stake. We’d both appreciate it if you’d listen to what Strome has to say and not shoot the messenger, as it were.”