After a second, she realized he’d seen the spattering of scars on her back.
His gaze lifted to meet hers. “Those scars aren’t from claws.”
“No.” Her laugh sounded as if she was choking. “Humans don’t have any claws worthy of note.”
Owen joined his brother and ran one finger over her scapula. “From a whip?”
“Cane. The prìosan guards used them to keep the hostages obedient.”
Owen’s growl was as deadly as his brother’s. “I look forward to meeting these guards.”
“As do I.” Gawain patted her arm and then gave his brother a rough shove. “Let’s be away. I need to run.”
With a shoulder, Owen pushed him back and walked out the door first. “Look around, Darcy. See how private it is?”
She could see how the tiny clear spot outside the door was enclosed by tall evergreens and head-high underbrush. “Yes.”
“If you don’t have anything as private as this, then the tavern has a portal through caves beneath it. Everyone in town is careful to shift only in designated areas—or they hike well into the forest before stripping and trawsfurring. The Cosantir is very strict about this.”
Even as she nodded her understanding, she felt sick to her stomach.
“A shame other Cosantirs aren’t as strict. In Mt. Hood Territory, the Daonain are pretty careless, and our mother is one of the worst offenders.” Gawain shook his head.
Owen was silent, and his face had gone expressionless.
After a glance at him, Gawain winced. “Let’s get moving.” He frowned at Darcy. “What’s wrong, catling?”
“That’s how they found Dogwood.” She pushed the words past the nausea in her throat. “I heard Director. The Scythe use wilderness areas to train their human forces and had a camp near Dogwood. Some soldiers spotted a few new teenaged cubs shifting and followed them back to Dogwood. They did surveillance on the village and figured everything out. And later, attacked.”
Owen’s expression was grim. “I wondered how it had happened.”
“Yes.” She shook her head. “Everyone in the village was Daonain, so…they weren’t as careful as shifter-human towns are.”
“That was…an ugly price to pay for carelessness,” Gawain said softly. He glanced at Owen.”
Oh, it had been.
“Shift, Darcy.” Owen glanced at his brother and nodded.
Gawain grinned at her, and a second later, he was a cougar.
She stared. He had to be close to two hundred pounds, and his feline body was as thick with muscle as his human one. As with most panthers, his throat and chest were white, and his muzzle stripes, the fur behind his ears, and the tip of his tail were black. She smiled because his tawny pelt was the same color as his beard.
Setting a giant paw on her foot, he rubbed his jaw and cheek over her bare leg, marking her with his scent.
Unable to resist, she stroked his head. Short, plush fur, prickly whiskers.
He purred, low and beautiful.
“Back up, brawd, and let her shift,” Owen said.
Right. She needed to trawsfur. Okay, then. First, find the door. Darcy looked inside her mind and found the dark wooden door, now clear of any barriers. But would she be able to open it? She had to do this correctly. Carefully. Not mess it up. Really, it should be simple. Walk to the door in her head. Find the—
“Darcy. Less thinking, more action.” Owen’s voice held impatience.
Honestly, didn’t he know things needed to be done properly? That people got…hurt…if others lost control and simply acted? But she could do this. Pull open the door.
Take a step.
As she changed, the full force of the Mother’s love hit her, flowing up from the ground, through her paws…so achingly beautiful her heart swelled.
When she lifted her head, she saw Owen had trawsfurred as well. Although taller, he was sleeker than Gawain and moved with a lethal, predatory grace. Gawain’s pelt held a few claw and bite marks from fighting. Owen’s darker fur showed so many scars she wanted to weep for the pain he must have endured.
The cahir had fought and survived—and grown only more deadly. The knowledge should have made her fearful.
Instead, when he stalked over to her and put a big paw on top of her neck, she sank to the ground, curving her neck as if in invitation. What…what had she just done? Yet the purr filling the air was her own.
Owen rubbed his furry chin over the top of her head. When his deep, rough purr joined her own, the sound filled the gaps in her heart. His raspy tongue smoothed the fur behind her right ear.
Gawain chuffed at him, as if laughing.
Owen turned. His tail lashed, once, twice, and he sprang at Gawain.
No! Don’t fight! Darcy danced in anxiety as the panthers rolled on the ground.
Gawain’s hind paws scrabbled at Owen’s pale belly fur. Only…his claws were sheathed. They rolled again and leaped apart, curveting away from each other in a sideways dance, which was as funny as it was graceful.
Playing. They were playing. They’d probably had mock-fights since their first shift at thirteen or so.
Regret seeped into her. She, Patrin, and Fell should have spent the last decade learning how to be cougars. Playing games and pouncing on each other. Fell would have been awesome at hide and seek. Patrin loved heights and would have lurked on low branches. Her? Undoubtedly, she’d have gotten caught up trailing something, and they’d both have ambushed her.
Because of the Scythe, they’d missed all that.
But she’d get them free. She would.
Turning to look at her, Owen chirruped and trotted forward, taking an almost invisible trail through the brush. She glanced at Gawain.
He waited for her to go next.
All right then.
As she trotted across the space, she realized they’d been right. She did feel better, just from trawsfurring. Happily, she leapt after Owen in long bounds.
Soon, the undergrowth hid him almost completely. All she could see were occasional flashes of movement, a flash of dark ochre fur, and the black tip of his tail.
He disappeared entirely.
She stopped and looked around.
Joining her, Gawain made a huh-huh sound. He was laughing at her.
Her ears flattened, and his huff grew louder. He shifted smoothly to human form and stood straight. “You kept him in sight longer than I thought you would. But Owen’s better than anyone I know at disappearing. Alec, one of his cahir partners, calls him ghost cat.”
Her tail lashed. Weren’t they supposed to be running together? He’d cheated.
“This is a lesson, Darcy.” Gawain’s voice was patient. “What should you do when your prey disappears?”
She stared at him. Oh. In Seward Park, when she’d stalked a rodent, it had faded into the brush. She never did find it.
She shook her head to show she didn’t know the answer to his question.
“Learn to use your other senses. You see, the human form relies almost entirely on sight. As a cat, you’ll want to use your nose and ears, as well.” He grinned. “The lesson on whiskers will come later.”
Whiskers? She realized she could feel the long, stiff hairs on her muzzle. Could move them. Could—
“Can you hear anything moving?” Gawain tilted his head. “Point your ears and listen.”
Her ears swiveled obediently forward and sideways. The rustle came from something tiny—maybe a mouse or shrew. The wind stirred the tops of the conifers. Bird song came from farther away, probably by the creek. There was the smack of an axe against wood from someone cutting firewood.
Nothing related to Owen. Giving up, she looked up at Gawain. Was she missing something?
“I can’t hear him either,” Gawain said, easing her worry. “Use your nose. You should know his scent.” The male grinned. “He rubbed it on you before we split up.”
Oh. Both males had, and she’d recognize them anywhere now, whether human or cat. Lifting her head,
she inhaled, caught a whiff of bitter minerals and smoke, and wrinkled her nose.
Gawain’s eyebrows lifted, and he sniffed. “No, that’s not Owen. I’d guess there’s a dwarf hall around. Try again.”
This time, she caught something elusive on the wind.
There.
“Good. Let’s go.” Within one heartbeat, Gawain was a cougar, tail lashing as he waited for her to lead out.
With no hesitation, she bounded forward. Oh, when she found sneaky Owen, she was going to bite his ear.
His overwhelmingly male scent drifted to her, and when the wind shifted, Gawain taught her to sniff the trail for scent markers left by cat paws.
Farther on, she found the stinky urine Owen had obligingly provided on a tree. Ew.
She discovered a faint trace where he’d brushed against a huckleberry.
The forest opened into a sun-filled meadow. They were so high that much of the grass was still green, and a tiny stream rippled through the center.
Owen, still in cat form, was sunning himself on a flat rock. The jerk looked far too comfortable.
With three swift bounds, she sprang across the clearing, landed on him, and tumbled him off the rock.
Success. Delighted, she grappled with the cougar, pretending to bite on his ear, clinging with her paws to his muscular shoulders. Huge shoulders, she realized, as his giant paw curled around her neck.
Suddenly Gawain joined the fray, and she was squished between two huge panthers. Unable to move.
A second later, she was in human form. What?
Stepping away, Gawain shifted.
Freed, Darcy scrambled away from Owen. The late season meadow grass stabbed her bare feet painfully as she retreated farther. “I…I…what happened?” She stared down at her arms. Her human hands. “I didn’t look for the door.”
Gawain’s dark beard showed his white teeth in a smile. “It happens with new shifters, some more than others. I enjoyed teasing Owen back in the day.”
She blinked at Owen as he shifted to human form. The deadly cahir had accidentally trawsfurred? “You?”
Owen’s grin was a revelation. Had she ever seen him simply enjoying himself? “Aye, me. Frustrated me no end until I finally got control.”
“I bet.” She’d been terrified when she couldn’t shift back to human for all those days. And now she was trawsfurring accidentally? Her jaw clenched. No, she wouldn’t have it. Just, no.
“Catling, accidents happen,” Gawain said gently. “Within a few months, most Daonain get enough control that they won’t unexpectedly shift.”
Most, but not all. She remembered the Scythe basement. The guards had dragged a young male of about seventeen into the laboratory. He’d been begging. “No. Please.” He’d shrieked in pain…then human screaming came from the room. “A bear. He’s a bear.” The guards had rushed in, shooting. She and the rest of the children could smell the blood. The death.
Her heart ached even as anger made her growl. She wished the young werebear had killed more of them. All of them.
Suddenly she was a cougar again.
Oh, bloody scat.
Chapter Seven
‡
On Saturday afternoon, Owen entered the Wild Hunt tavern and stopped to swipe his sleeve over his wet face. The fall storms had begun. Outside the sturdy 1800s log building, thunder rumbled, and the early October rain drummed pleasantly against the windows.
As he waited for Gawain to arrive, the scents of popcorn and roasted peanuts made him wish he’d eaten more than the mouse he’d snatched up when out with Darcy earlier. Being a polite male, he’d let her eat all of the rabbit she’d caught. Actually, he’d been as pleased as she had been with her successful hunt. She’d done well.
He glanced around the room. Near the massive fireplace to the left, a shifter was reading a book. Two regulars were playing pool in the alcove on the right. At a center table, a male whose clothing stank of fish sat with another human and boasted in a nasal voice about his success on the stream. The rest of the heavy oak tables and chairs were empty.
Behind him, the door opened. Gawain stepped in and shook his wet hair, spattering Owen with water.
“You mangy-tailed maggot.” Owen wiped his face off…again. “You’re not a dog; stop acting like one.”
His littermate grinned and glanced around. “So where’s Calum?”
“Behind the bar.” Owen pointed headed toward where the gleaming wooden bar that extended across the back with a mirrored wall behind it.
“A Cosantir is a bartender?”
“Keeps him up on all the information. What he doesn’t hear, his brother Alec, the sheriff, does.”
Gawain scratched his beard. “Interesting and rather sneaky. Nice.”
Noticing their arrival, Calum motioned toward the end of the bar before crossing the room to serve the fisherman and his companion.
As Owen settled onto a wooden barstool, Calum returned. “Can I get you something?”
“Coffee would be great,” Owen said, and Gawain nodded.
Calum poured coffee for all of them and slid over a tray containing cream and sugar. “How are you feeling, cahir?”
“Good. My leg’s fine. The wrist is…close.” It tweaked his tail to admit Calum’s order to rest and heal had been appropriate.
“Excellent. How is Darcy doing?”
Gawain picked up a cup. “Fair to middling. Unfortunately, her healing is slower since she was so physically run-down. Donal ordered her to take it easy for a while yet.”
“I see.” Calum frowned. “How about her shifting and control?”
“Her control is normal for having her first trawsfur only a week ago”—Gawain grinned—“although she’s more frustrated than a pixie unable to reach a flower.”
“She is.” Owen snorted. “Most new shifters expect they’ll screw up. Not being a youngster, Darcy figured she’d be perfect by now.”
Gawain studied Calum. “Owen mentioned your mate was human before the Death Gift transformed her to Daonain. Did being an adult speed up her control over shifting?”
Owen blinked. Good question.
“Victoria achieved control quickly, but it wasn’t due to her age,” Calum answered. “Years as a soldier gave her a superb mastery over her body, which extended to her ability to shift. Breanne, however, went through much of what Darcy is experiencing.”
“Darcy will get there, even if not fast enough to suit her.” Owen’s lips twitched. The female was fun to watch when she got frustrated. He took a sip of his coffee. “You wanted to see me, Cosantir?”
“Aye. I want to discuss where you live.”
“My cabin?” Owen frowned. What was wrong with his place? The Cosantir had visited a couple of times in the past years and admired it. Had even helped Owen learn to brew his own beer.
“Not your cabin, but the location.”
“Owen showed me on a map where his place is.” Gawain shook his head. “Insane cat. Admittedly, I don’t want my den side-by-side with someone else’s, but a dozen miles of wilderness seems excessive. I’d rather be able to stroll down to a tavern or restaurant in the evening.”
Owen sighed. He’d hoped Gawain would come and live with him. Littermates belonged together. Silently, he absorbed the disappointment.
“Your cabin is far away, cahir, and I have a couple of concerns.” The Cosantir’s gaze rested on Owen. “Yesterday, on Main Street, some shifters found a hellhound’s scent.”
“Yesterday?” Gawain straightened. “I thought they only appeared when it’s moonless.”
Owen’s gut hardened. “They shift to their hellhound form only at the dark of the moon; they’re in human form otherwise. This one could be scouting Cold Creek and targeting vulnerable shifters.” The thought was worrying. Although the cahirs patrolled on moonless nights, if a hellhound was prepared, his prey might die before help arrived.
Calum frowned. “And even in human form, the demon-dog might attack someone. Violence trails a hellhound like
a coyote after a lame rabbit.”
Owen nodded. The Cosantir was right to be worried. “You said you had two concerns?”
“Aye. In addition to a hellhound in town, there is the danger of the Scythe. Darcy’s former captors are undoubtedly searching for her.”
“But her trackers were removed,” Gawain said.
Calum nodded. “However, if they have any suspicion she was rescued, their experience with Dogwood will point them toward the closest wilderness areas. This territory.”
“You want me to move into town,” Owen said slowly.
“I do.” Rather than trying to persuade him, Calum walked away to fill another order.
Owen swirled his coffee, gazing into the black liquid. After years of peace, Cold Creek was being threatened by multiple foes. He was a cahir—called by Herne the Hunter to defend the Daonain and given increased strength and size to do so. He’d seen what was left after a hellhound attacked a shifter—gore, shattered bones, and eviscerated corpses.
It seemed that being several hours away from the people he was guarding was…no longer possible.
“I don’t like living in towns,” he muttered. He loved his isolated cabin. No power lines, no phones, no cars—
“Aren’t you supposed to defend your people?” The question came from behind him.
—and no females. Recognizing the smoky voice as Darcy’s, Owen turned. “What did you say?”
“You’re a cahir, right?” When Darcy set her hands on her hips, Owen felt his muscles tense. Now would come the screaming, hitting, and throwing things.
Rather than rising to a shriek, her sultry voice lowered. “The Scythe are searching for shifters. Do you want to come back and find your town burned to the ground? All the Daonain gone? What’s wrong with you?” She gripped his arm and actually tried to shake him.
He plucked her hand from his arm and held it—and her—in place. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t move. I said I don’t like towns. I’ll be moving here.” He glanced at Gawain. “Females. Always jumping to hasty conclusions.”
Darcy made an annoyed sound.
“Mmmhmm. You making a remark like that? Sounds like the ocean calling a lake wet.” Gawain’s smile faded, and he hesitated. “Ah…I’ve missed you, brawd. Since you’re moving to town, want to get a house with me? Try living together?”
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