Wulfe Untamed (Feral Warriors #8) 7

She had every right to be mad at him for what he’d done to her. Mad and scared. Goddess, he’d never meant to hurt her. That was the last thing he’d ever want to do.

When they finally reached her room, she walked inside then turned to him, her expression calm and enigmatic. “When you’re through with your meeting, you owe me some explanations.”

“I know.”

With that, she turned away. Wulfe hesitated, then slowly pulled the door closed and locked it from the outside, consumed by the fear that in making Natalie his channel key, he’d irreparably damaged her chances of getting out of there alive. If she paid the ultimate price for this mistake, he might as well die beside her because it would destroy his soul.

Natalie stood at the window, looking out over the circular drive. The sun shone on the cars and trucks, filtering through the woods beyond to dot the grass. But though she saw what lay outside, her mind was wholly turned inward. And she was scared.

She’d tried to get into one of the books she’d brought upstairs with her, Jane Austen’s Emma, but though she’d always loved the story, her thoughts wouldn’t settle long enough for her to make any sense of the words marching across the page. Finally, she’d given up and come to stand at the window.

How could any of this be happening? Shape-shifters and Daemons, odd glows and channel keys. How on Earth had she wound up smack-dab in the middle of it?

Wulfe blamed himself. She’d seen it in his eyes, felt it in the way he’d held her so wonderfully tight, then released her as if he couldn’t bear to touch her. And maybe he was to blame. But that hardly mattered now. All that mattered was making certain she didn’t somehow hurt the Ferals in their battle to stop Inir and Satanan.

Oh, Wulfe. What have you done?

Whatever it was, he’d never meant to cause harm. She’d known the wolf but a matter of weeks, and the man but a day, but she saw the honor and goodness inside him so clearly. It radiated from him, a golden soul, at once fierce and gentle, and oh so beautiful.

It was no wonder she’d fallen in love with him though what could possibly result from her feelings she couldn’t begin to guess. What if he came to love her in return? Would she willingly give up everything she’d worked so hard for to stay here with him? Could she really turn her back on her work and her mom, and go into hiding for the rest of her life? Was the love of any man worth that?

She honestly didn’t know. And now that she’d apparently been turned into a pawn of evil, she wasn’t sure it mattered. There was a good chance she wouldn’t have a life of any kind when this was over. So many things could go wrong. So many things had already gone wrong even if she didn’t yet understand the ramifications of any of them.

Turning away from the window, she crossed to the bed, where she’d left her book, and idly traced the title with her fingertip. She might not have a lot of choices, she mused, but she definitely had some. One always had choices, if only whether to fight or submit.

Long ago, she’d decided that her life’s goal was to make a difference in the lives of others. She’d always believed she’d do that through her work, by helping people, especially kids, see better. Then she and her friends had been captured by Mage and attacked by wraith Daemons, and everything changed. Everything.

She wasn’t the woman she was before. Instead, she’d become some kind of conduit to terrible power. A pawn, perhaps. But even a pawn could take down a king, under the right circumstances. With the right allies.

There were always choices. But to make the right decisions, one needed to understand the game. Up until now, Wulfe had been her protector. And, to a lesser extent, her jailer. But they were in this together now, far more than even he had realized. Things were going to change.

She had a feeling it was the only way they were going to survive.

Ten minutes later, all the Ferals were sitting or standing around the war room. Vivian, who’d been released from the prison and led upstairs, sat at the head of the table where all could see her and, if necessary, question her. Lyon quickly brought the others up to speed.

Wulfe stood against the side wall, glaring at his brothers and sister as Vivian’s story unfolded and their gazes kept cutting his way.

“So Wulfe-man made his very own channel key,” Jag mused. “Do we even know what a channel key is? Or does?”

Wulfe looked at the jaguar shifter with surprise because he suspected they didn’t. All they knew, they’d learned from the clone. But it didn’t make one bit of difference because he wasn’t pulling the power through her. Ever.

“Strome?” Lyon asked, turning to Vivian.

The woman sat in her chair, ramrod straight, her gaze . . . the Daemon’s gaze . . . watchful and cautious as he kept an eye on every male in the room. Wulfe marveled that he could so easily tell who was in charge—Vivian or the Daemon. And he sympathized with the male, who so clearly needed to protect his female yet had absolutely no ability to do so.

“A channel key is a corruption of the ancient process of transforming a female into a Daemon.” As Vivian/Strome began to speak, the room turned silent, every Feral riveted. “We are not entirely flesh and blood, as one of you stated. Daemons are energy creatures. And born exclusively male. The only way for us to reproduce is by converting a female of another race into a Daemon. This change does not harm her, and at one time, could not be accomplished against the female’s will. It was part of the mating ceremony.

“All that changed . . . everything changed . . . when Satanan learned to tap into the primal energies. He found that human females, with their earthly physiology, could be used by almost any Daemon to reach that dark power. Satanan taught his most loyal and encouraged them to empower themselves in this way, for when they did so, they, in turn, empowered him.”

Wulfe frowned. “Then how did I turn Natalie into my channel key by accident?”

Vivian/Strome watched him thoughtfully. “You have feelings for her. Strong feelings.”

Wulfe’s mouth compressed. It wasn’t any of the Daemon’s business. And yet, maybe it was. He gave a nod.

“And you say you healed her.”

“I have a gift.” A curse. “I can take the wounds of humans if I want to badly enough.”

“A rare gift. I cannot be certain, shifter, but I believe that in activating your gift with your heart open, you initiated her transformation. However, because it was done through the site of the Abomination’s wounding, it was the corrupted process that took place instead, making her a channel to the primal energies.”

“Is she in danger?” Wulfe demanded.

Strome nodded, his expression turning sympathetic. “I am afraid so, yes. Making her your channel key probably would not hurt her if you never used her as such. But Satanan is using her. The more energy he pulls through her, the quicker she will die. I’m sorry.”

Wulfe let out a roar of fury and anguish and turned, ready to plow his fist through the wall.

“Wulfe,” Lyon warned. “You’re not immortal.”

Fuck! He pulled his punch at the last minute, going feral instead. Goddess he needed to kick someone’s ass and get his own kicked in return. He needed the outlet!

Turning back, he captured the Daemon with his anguished gaze. “How long until it kills her?”

“At the rate Satanan is pulling the power through her now, months. If you open that channel fully and start drawing them yourself, she’ll survive a day, at most. Perhaps only hours.”

Natalie was not going to die. Even as the furious need to protect her drove him to pace the room with hard, angry strides, the truth of the situation unfolded in front of him. The way things stood now, she had months. And he might only have days.

With effort, he pulled himself back under control. Nothing had changed. Inir had to die, and that evil wisp of Satanan along with him. That was still the only acceptable outcome even if it appeared to be slipping through their fingers more and more each day.

“Does anyone have any more questions?” Lyon asked.

“I do,” Kougar said. “If the time comes that Wulfe must pull those energies, we need to know how.”

“You just heard what he said! I’m not doing it,” Wulfe growled. “I’ll kill her.”

“He must give her back the wound he took . . .”

“How?” Kougar pressed.

Vivian/Strome turned to Wulfe. “What did you do to heal her in the first place?”

Wulfe remained mute until Kougar pinned him with a hard gaze. With a sigh, he said, “I covered her cheek with my hand and called the wound to me. Just that.”

Vivian/Strome nodded. “Do the reverse. Once that’s done, stand her in the middle of a pentagram and say the words to call the power.”

“What words?”

“The words that are written on every Daemon’s soul. Daemon magic cannot be shared, it must be called on from within, and the words are part of that. They are as individual as a fingerprint and will come to you if you want them badly enough.” Vivian’s brows drew together, Strome’s intensity still in her eyes. “I warn you, shifter, if you pull the darkness, it will try to claim you. There is a possibility, because of the tender feelings you hold for your channel key, that she might be able to tether you, to keep you from falling into that darkness, but it will not be easy. It has, to my knowledge, never been done.”

All were silent for several moments before Lyon asked again, “Any more questions?”

“A thousand,” Hawke murmured. “I’d love to hear about Daemon society before Satanan.”

Vivian/Strome nodded. “I’m happy to share what I can. Vivian already knows the story, but I see now that it’s important for the immortal races to know the truth of what the Daemons were before the Destroyer, Satanan, came into his power.”

Hawke fired questions and Strome endeavored to answer them, but Wulfe heard none of it through the pounding in his head, the rhythmic, furious need to get in his truck, drive straight to Inir’s stronghold, and rip his enemy’s heart out.

Finally, Strome stepped aside, giving Vivian back the helm. She rose, shaking hands with each of the Ferals with a smile. “You have no idea how exciting this has been.”

“You’re aware you can never reveal our existence to anyone?” Lyon pressed.

“Fully.” She snorted. “They’d lock me up if I told anyone I’ve got a Daemon in my head. I understand what’s at risk, Lyon. Thanks to the horror stories Strome has told me of Satanan, I understand, as few possibly could, what the world faces if you fail to keep him from getting free. Strome and I will do anything in our power to help you win this battle, which is why I risked everything to find you in the first place. Satanan must be stopped.”

Lyon took her hand. “If you need anything, in any way, let us know. You have an ally in the Ferals.”

Vivian grinned. “Cool.”

Hawke exchanged phone numbers with her. As Hawke and Tighe escorted her out to her car, Kougar turned to Lyon.

“I’m not advocating this, but I’m going to say it because it has to be said. If Strome is correct, we have it in our power to not only break Satanan’s control of Wulfe but to keep him from growing stronger.”

Wulfe growled, low. “No.” He knew where this was going.

Kougar turned to him, something close to compassion in his eyes. “She’s already being harmed by the energy flowing through her. And each time Satanan snatches control of you, you risk killing her.”

He was talking about ending Natalie’s life. Now. Breaking the connection that way. No. Fucking. Way.

“If, during one of those episodes, Satanan forces you to pull those energies fully, you’ll likely turn on her and almost certainly kill one or more of us as well. It’s a terrible risk to take when the one you seek to protect has such a small chance of survival.”

“No!” Wulfe drew fangs and claws, the need to rip Kougar to shreds a fire within him.

Lyon grabbed one of Wulfe’s arms, Paenther the other. “No one’s going to touch Natalie but you, Wulfe,” Lyon said evenly. “Kougar brought it up because we need to consider every angle, but not a male among us would harm another’s female. Not even Kougar.”

Though the fury boiled hot, Wulfe allowed himself to be steered out of the room and toward the foyer.

“Work it out, Wulfe. Go down to the gym and find a Therian willing to give you the fight you need.” The Therian Guards might not be able to draw fangs and claws, but they were, at least, still immortal.

“If anyone touches her, I’ll kill him.”

“No one’s going to hurt her.”

But Wulfe heard the unsaid words. No one would hurt her as long as he remained one of them. In control. But if he ever let the darkness, the primal energies, take him, he knew his brothers would do whatever it took to bring him back, including destroying the connection that caused it. Natalie. Assuming he hadn’t already killed her himself.

Goddess help him.

With a furious roar, he slammed his fist through the plaster, then started down the basement stairs to find an immortal to fight. If only he could rip out his own Daemon soul instead.

Chapter Fourteen

Wulfe climbed the stairs to the third floor with heavy steps. He’d kept his claws and fangs sheathed and taken on five Therian Guards at once, pounding the crap out of them as they’d pummeled him in return. Though, dammit, they’d kept their punches light so as not to badly damage the mortal. He was beginning to think he understood how humans felt as they aged, as their younger comrades started treating them as old men.

He rubbed his jaw where he’d caught an elbow and squinted out of one eye that was starting to swell on him. Yeah, he’d taken almost as good a beating as he’d given, but he felt two hundred percent better. Not good, of course. Not when his world was still so fucked up. But he felt like he could handle it again without going berserk.