Leap of the Lion

by Cherise Sinclair

  Thunder echoed off the stone fence and brick walls as she wiggled into a hollow under a big bush.

  What now?

  Turn herself in? They’d suspect she’d heard about the GPS devices. But if they killed her while Fell and Patrin were in Russia on that mission, her brothers would break free. The Scythe couldn’t risk that. No, the bastards would take her alive and cage her in the basement where she couldn’t tell anyone about the second tracker.

  She stared up at the third floor windows where the other shifters were. They needed to know what she’d discovered. Over her head, window after window came alight. The staff must be checking and securing the rooms.

  A guard rounded the corner, and Darcy tried to press herself lower.

  She couldn’t get back to her floor.

  More guards moved around the lawn.

  If she stayed, she’d be caught.

  She had to try to break free. No choice. Even if Fell and Patrin were overseas, maybe she could find their forest compound and warn the other shifter-soldiers about the trackers.

  How could she escape?

  She could climb over the front gate easily enough, but the entire front was flooded with light. When the guards spotted her, the machine guns would spray the entire area with bullets.

  Forget the front. How about the back?

  Darcy studied the grounds. In the heavy downpour, the floodlights on the rear lawn were reduced to smaller circles of light, leaving pools of darkness between. It was the only way.

  After smearing mud on her face and hands, she crawled out. Every time a guard looked her way, she froze. When she, Fell, and Patrin had played wolves-and-rabbit as cubs, they’d learned black-on-black disappeared and movement would be spotted.

  She gained another few feet.

  Terror shook her arms, and surely even human ears could hear her heart slamming against her ribcage.

  Her hand came down on a thorny blackberry vine, and she barely suppressed a cry of pain—and victory. She’d reached the thorny hedge that circled the inside of the stone wall. Crouching, she crept along the edge of the bramble-filled orchard and stopped.

  There was the apple tree that stood closest to the lawn.

  As she straightened, a pair of guards trotted along the back sidewalk, flashing their lights.

  No! She flattened herself on the ground in the shadows, presenting no silhouette, nothing to catch their attention. Fear clogged her throat as she waited for their shout of discovery.

  They walked on.

  Now. Do it now. Oh, Mother of All, she didn’t know how to leap into trees; she only knew how to do slow, careful creeping.

  Now, tinker.

  She ran along the edge of the blackberry thicket, building up speed, and leaped. Her hands slapped against the low branch of the apple tree—and slipped. Terrified, she convulsively swung one leg up and over—and caught herself.

  Gods, Gods, Gods. Heart hammering, she clambered onto the branch. The foliage was shaking, so she waited, trembling all over.

  No one had noticed.

  Next. She had the route mapped out in her head. But jumping in the dark?

  No choice.

  Suppressing her whimpers, she jumped to the next tree. In the dark and wet and cold. Oh Gods. To the next. And the next. Branch by branch, she worked her way to the walnut tree.

  Her panicked breathing hurt her chest as she slowly climbed the walnut. There was the branch that extended toward the top of the wall. But…from this angle, she could see the distance was too great. Tears filled her eyes. She couldn’t jump that far. She couldn’t.

  No choice.

  Balancing carefully, she walked out on the branch. It sagged ominously, and a wave of fear shook her. She was tired. Weak.

  And out of options. The Mother and the God held no sway in human cities, but she sent them a prayer anyway. And leaped.

  Failed.

  She landed belly down on the edge of the wall, knocked her breath out, and she slid downward. Frantically, she stretched her arms across the wall, trying to claw a hold into the rough stone and concrete.

  Her fingernails caught. Her motion stopped.

  Gasping for air, she clung with all her might. Ever so carefully, she swung her leg up over the edge and, inch-by-inch, wiggled onto the wall.

  The streetlights revealed a grassy patch down below. She jumped—and landed on her feet. Maybe she would have been a cat shifter like Mum.

  But…ow. Her ankles felt as if she’d crunched all the bones together.

  Ignoring the pain, she broke into a run, darted across the wide avenue, and sprinted down the Seattle streets, turning left and right at random. Blindly running…always heading roughly east toward the Cascade Mountain Range where her village had been.

  The guards wouldn’t dream she’d escaped the grounds. Not for a while. They’d search the compound for at least an hour or two, and surely delay admitting to the higher-ups she’d gotten out. But the higher-ups would call in the people who did the tracking.

  If she had the GPS devices in her body, they’d find her. So that was her next step. Go somewhere quiet and use the knife in her sock.

  Being caught was more terrifying than cutting herself open.

  Mostly.

  *

  They didn’t find her for a whole twenty-four hours.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  At midnight the next night, Darcy limped down an empty street. A sock was knotted around the wound in her upper arm. She’d torn off her long shirtsleeves and wrapped them around the multiple slashes in her right thigh. The tracker in her leg had been horribly deep, and she’d had to cut and cut through far too much muscle to extract it.

  For a second, she stopped to lean against a building, catch her breath—and try to find some hope.

  Stupid human city.

  She was so lost. Her goal of head east toward the mountains had sounded easy enough. From eavesdropping on the guards, she possessed a hazy idea of Seattle’s layout. Her knowledge hadn’t been nearly detailed enough. Last night, she’d had to detour around a huge construction area with chain-link fencing. Then a big river had blocked her way with one—only one—bridge in sight. She’d wasted time trying to find a less obvious one and had finally given up and crossed. To her relief, the Scythe hadn’t been at the other end. So far, so good.

  For hours, she’d been walking, angling south and east, through an industrial district, over an enormous huge highway, and finally back into residential neighborhoods. Horrible city. Why would anyone choose to live in an area bounded by concrete boxes and streets and stinking of gasoline?

  Block after block after block. Eventually, she’d have to detour around some giant lake in the middle of the city…if she ever reached that point.

  At the next intersection, the hair on her nape rose. She was being watched. A casual glance to the left showed nothing. To the right…

  Parked at the curb, a black van with tinted windows waited. The disturbed air at the exhaust pipe showed the engine was running.

  She turned to head the other direction and glanced behind her.

  Another dark van rolled slowly down the street.

  No, no, no. Her mouth went dry; her pulse roared in her head. How had they found her so quickly?

  The bridge. The Scythe must have had spotters, cameras, or something.

  Despair was a metallic taste in her mouth. She broke into a run, knowing her flight spotlighted her as surely as if she’d screamed look at me.

  She sprinted down the sidewalk, turned into a one-way street, and lost the car behind her. Speeding through a barren stretch of smaller apartment dwellings, she spotted another Scythe vehicle.

  Run faster.

  The car’s engine revved as she darted around another corner. Reaching the next intersection, she started to veer right…and scented green. Trees. Forest. Water. Within one breath, her body took over, yanking her left and straight for the wilderness. A wilderness in the center of a city. How could this
be?

  She ran past the signs at the entrance—Seward Park—and angled into the shadows beside the road.

  The vans followed her in. Their tires screeched as they stopped. Men erupted from the vehicles, shouting orders.

  Sharp popping sounds came from behind her. The road ahead sparked and spat concrete at her. Bullets—they were shooting at her. Trying to bring her down.

  A slicing pain burned into her already damaged right leg, and her knee buckled. She fell, rolled, and tried to scramble to her feet. Her leg failed.

  Terror consumed her, complete and utter panic, and she keened with protest. Using one leg and her hands, she lunged forward, unable to stop, unable to surrender.

  As she blundered out of the shadows, the light of the waxing moon poured down over her, spotlighting her to her enemies. The need for shelter, for escape, filled her until nothing was left.

  Oh, please.

  Then she was running. Running. She bolted into the underbrush, through the huckleberries, and far into the fir forest where the darkness was impenetrable. She tripped on something, realized it was her shirt, and bit at the offending fabric until it shredded under her teeth. Her shoes were gone. Her leggings had split and hung off one paw.

  Paw? She had paws. And a tail. And—

  The yelling behind her grew closer.

  On three legs, she fled, fear digging its claws into her fur as she ran and ran and ran.

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  The sun was well up when Owen Treharn left the diner on Cold Creek’s Main Street. He stopped for a moment to stretch and try to shake off the ugly emotions rasping over his skin. Last night had been the full moon when shifters gathered to ensure the Daonain race would continue. From moonrise to moonset, he’d mated female after female. He didn’t even know how many.

  He shook his head. Who would have thought he’d ever tire of full moon Gatherings?

  Admittedly, sex was enjoyable, sure, but wasn’t there supposed to be more? And dealing with females? Fuck, he’d rather fight a hellhound.

  The hours of mating hadn’t helped his wrist either. Grimacing, he rotated his left wrist. Felt as if a beaver was gnawing on it with dull teeth.

  He snorted. He’d always been willing to die for his people, and when the God had called him to serve as a cahir—a warrior of the Daonain—he’d been overjoyed. Funny how in the stirring bard tales of glorious sacrifice, the aftermath of battle and the irritating injuries went unmentioned.

  At least the pain had eased up. And the busted bones had been for a good cause, since his attack had kept a hellhound from ripping Ben’s arm off. His big grizzly partner had managed to break free, but the hellhound fractured Owen’s wrist in the process.

  The North Cascades healer, Donal, had closed the gory bites, but busted bones didn’t fuse together quickly. It’d taken him two days at a slow human’s walk to get to his remote cabin. Yesterday, he’d returned to Cold Creek in cat form, but the bones weren’t quite healed, and mating all night hadn’t helped.

  Fuck, he was tired. Despite two cups of coffee, he felt as if his tail was dragging in the dust.

  With a grunt, he scratched his stubbled jaw. He needed to shave. Feeling hair on his face reminded him too much of adolescence when he’d claw himself by accident, belatedly realizing he’d unexpectedly trawsfurred into a cougar. Damn embarrassing. His brother, Gawain, who’d rarely trawsfurred by accident, would merely grin in sympathy. His other littermate, Edwyn, had gloated, even though his control had been even worse.

  Edwyn. Owen’s mood ran downhill like an avalanche of mud. Spoiled rotten, Edwyn had been an entitled, unlikable brat. If denied something, he’d go after it anyway, no matter how much damage he caused.

  But, by the God, he shouldn’t have died. First, one female had ruined him from birth, and another had sent him to his death.

  Owen shook his head and turned his thoughts from his past. Gathering night’s enforced intimacies always left him feeling as if someone had skinned him and hung his carcass from a tree. This morning, his mood was as mean as a half-starved badger’s.

  He needed to go home to his isolated cabin. But…Gawain had been at the Gathering last night, and it’d be good to spend some time with him. Maybe. If he could figure out what to talk about, since it seemed as if Gawain had inherited all the conversational skills.

  But damn, it was nice to see his brother again. Maybe he could just sit and let Gawain talk?

  They’d both changed in the last…what…twenty-five years since they’d separated? When Owen had walked away from Pine Knoll at sixteen, Gawain had been apprenticed to a metalsmith. Pride swelled in Owen’s chest because, somewhere along the line, his littermate had been called by the Goddess to be a blademage—a magical blacksmith.

  Every cahir who had access to a blademage wore a magicked blade, because there were no finer knives in the world.

  “Look, look!”

  “Unca Wen!”

  At the sound of his nephews’ high voices, Owen stopped, and love swept through him. Smiling, he went down on one knee and braced. One tiny body hit him, then another, like the patter of acorns in a high wind. “What are you two doing in town?”

  Luke bounced on his tiptoes. “We get b’ekfast at the diner. Da said Mommy is sweepy.”

  “Sleepy,” their father Brady corrected with a grin. The male’s eyes were half-lidded with both exhaustion and satisfaction. Owen figured the three lifemates had spent all night mating.

  “An’ Da Van is sweepy, too,” Tyler said.

  Owen smothered a laugh. As he rubbed his cheek over Tyler’s soft hair, he noticed a human leaving Angie’s diner with a donut box.

  Bonnie had always loved chocolate donuts. His sister was an amazing female, not manipulative or self-centered—nothing like their mother. He’d never regretted moving here to be closer to her, and she’d given the Daonain two fantastic cubs. She deserved all the treats in the world. “Luke, Tyler, I saw chocolate-covered donuts in the diner. Why don’t you buy some for you…and your mama?”

  The screams of glee made him wince. Angie might nip his ears off if the tiny terrors disturbed her customers. “Cubs,” he said sternly. “You have to be quiet as little mice to earn donuts. Can you do that?”

  Vigorous nods.

  Brady clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Thanks, cahir. You heading back to your cabin today?”

  “Probably. Tell my sister I’ll stop by when I return for dark of the moon.”

  Brady nodded, although his mouth flattened at the reminder of the dangers during moonless nights. Because of the human encroachment, more hellhounds hunted the North Cascades Territory. As a cahir, Owen stood between danger and his people.

  Cahirs often died young. And yet—Owen ruffled Tyler’s hair—was there anything more important than protecting the cubs?

  With a nod to Brady, Owen rose and headed toward the wilderness lodge where he’d stayed yesterday. By now, the innkeeper Breanne would be serving breakfast.

  A few minutes later, as he approached the lodge, he spotted a tiny pixie perched in a huge fuchsia bush, nibbling on a bloom. Not a sprite’s favorite food, but summer’s bounty was decreasing. Even the miniature roses in the porch planters were done flowering. But… He plucked a rose hip and tossed it over.

  The pixie caught the marble-sized hip, examined it, and chittered happily.

  This kind of female he could tolerate. Open and honest. No manipulation. When given a treat, a sprite openly exhibited her delight. A shame Daonain females weren’t the same.

  Inside, the tantalizing scent of bacon drew him through the main lodge to a glass-walled dining room in the rear. Three shifter females at a window table were already chowing down.

  Ignoring them, Owen walked into the kitchen.

  “Hey, Owen.” At the sink, Zeb, a fellow cahir, acknowledged his presence in a gravelly voice. Somewhere over the past centuries, a Native American human had joined the bloodline of the mostly Celtic shifters. Zeb had black h
air, dark brown eyes, and his bronzed skin showed a wealth of scars, many from hellhounds’ teeth and claws.

  Shay, another cahir and Zeb’s blood brother, nodded a greeting. Called by the God to serve, cahirs were gifted with additional strength and size, usually ending up around six and a half feet tall. The three of them made even the huge kitchen feel crowded.

  And they dwarfed Zeb and Shay’s pretty lifemate who stood at the stove.

  Breanne smiled over. “I was beginning to think I’d have to send Shay to find you.”

  “It’d take a hellhound to make me miss one of your breakfasts.” Owen returned her smile. Bree was a likable female. The rough time she’d had when first coming to Cold Creek had revealed unexpected courage and generosity of spirit. Although being lifemated to one female seemed a form of insanity, he had to admit his friends had been lucky to win Bree for their mate. “Gotta say, having one of your breakfasts after a Gathering makes coming into Cold Creek truly worthwhile.”

  The way she brightened made her almost radiant, and Shay grinned. “Pretty compliments get your plate loaded to the edges.”

  “Challenge accepted.” Owen took the cup of coffee Zeb poured and leaned against a counter.

  “Calum wanted a word before you left,” Shay said. “He should be here soon.”

  “Food, first?” Owen gave the bacon-filled skillet an assessing look.

  Breanne laughed. “Yes. Go have a seat, and Shay will bring it out in about five minutes.”

  Owen’s stomach rumbled a complaint at the delay.

  With a snort, Zeb tossed him a muffin from a pile on the counter. “Start on that.”

  Owen went out to the sunny dining room and paused.

  The three other lodgers were still there, doing that giggling thing females did. High and shrill, the sounds reminded him of his mother whenever a lover had visited. His jaw locked. On one occasion, he had accidentally spilled his drink on a male’s shoes and discovered how quickly giggles could turn to shrieks of rage. And pain…