by Zoë Archer
“I can’t think that far ahead,” Nathan rumbled. “Only now matters.” The wait for Graves had destroyed what patience he had, so now he was a bundle of lit fuses, ready to detonate. His only consolation was that his wounds had more time to heal. He jerked his head toward the encampment. “They’re pulling out, which doesn’t give us a lot of time.”
Graves, peering through the undergrowth, surveyed the scene, lit by firelight. “Four Heirs. Two guides. The sodding big falcon. And that Native woman—she looks like a viper.” He studied Astrid and cursed. “Bracebridge has our girl in a binding spell.”
“How do we break it?”
“Either he breaks the spell on his own, or we need one of his teeth.”
Nathan’s smile was feral. “That won’t be a problem.” He and Graves turned to observe the camp. Nathan spoke low and quickly. “I’ve made a survey of the area. We’ve dense forest all around us—should provide some good cover—but it hinders maneuverability. Two paths lead out; they’ll be taking the southern one. There’s nothing in the camp we can use for protection. Even the tents are being taken down. All the men are armed with at least one pistol and plenty of ammunition.”
“Very good, counselor,” murmured Graves with admiration.
It surprised Nathan that he actually enjoyed Graves’s approval. “And you’re the tactician. So, what kind of plan can you formulate?”
After they quickly came to an agreement on their tactics, Graves smiled darkly. “Much as I love science, there’s nothing quite so inspiring as an old-fashioned fight.” He silently loaded his shotgun and closed the breach.
“Tonight, you’ll have plenty of inspiration.”
She couldn’t abide helplessness, yet there was nothing she could do while Bracebridge’s spell held her tight. Only watch as the camp was broken down. The tents were collapsed, the pack animals loaded.
Staunton paced toward her. “I believe it’s time for us to leave, Mrs. Bramfield. Rather a shame your Indian and Graves didn’t show. I was hoping to tie up those loose ends, but,” he said regretfully, “we can’t have everything we want.”
“I know,” she answered. “Otherwise I would have gutted you long ago.”
He opened his mouth for a retort, but the words never came.
Instead, Astrid’s heart leapt into her throat as a familiar wolf sprinted out of the darkness, her rifle gripped in his jaws.
The camp burst into a frenzy of excitement as men whipped out their guns. A volley of shots from all around, but the wolf ran straight through the encampment, between the men, so that none could take aim without risking shooting their comrades. Nathan cast her one quick glance, weighted with everything, before disappearing into the darkness on the other side of the camp.
All the guns turned to the direction in which he’d vanished, opening fire. A storm of bullets chopped into the brush. Astrid’s stomach seized in terror as she seethed at her imprisonment. If only she could grab someone’s gun—help balance the odds.
Then, the sharp crack of returning gunfire from the darkness. The Heirs, their mercenaries, and Swift Cloud Woman all scattered, looking for cover, before shooting back. But the muzzle flash of Nathan’s rifle kept revealing his location, so that no sooner did he get off a shot than the Heirs traded fire. Even if Nathan kept changing position, sooner or later, the Heirs would find him and cut him down. He couldn’t possibly hold them off on his own—and she was no help to him.
A shotgun blast boomed from the other side of the camp—opposite where Nathan sniped. Yet there wasn’t time to wonder where the blast came from. The encampment suddenly filled with blinding light. A flare. And Astrid had a very good idea who was responsible.
She smiled as the camp shattered into chaos.
Nathan allowed himself one vicious smile as Graves’s flare turned the encampment into brightly lit anarchy. Knowing the flare was coming allowed Nathan to shield his eyes, and as soon as the light flashed, he seized his chance.
He shot into the camp and managed to frighten the already terrified horses. The animals bolted into the forest, taking the Heirs’ gear with them. At the same time, Graves, stationed opposite him, fired his shotgun, clipping the arm of an Heir. The falcon shrieked.
One of the mountain men spat and swore. “I’m gonna get that son of a bitch,” he snarled and charged into the woods, heading straight for Nathan. The mercenary’s pistols blazed. Hot trails of bullets whizzed inches from Nathan.
Enough with the damn weapons. Nathan dropped his rifle and felt the surge of massive strength through his body as he shifted. The mountain man had just enough time to lurch to a halt before screaming. But by then, it was too late.
Catullus, creeping closer, heard the scream, followed by the bear’s bone-chilling growl. Everyone in the camp froze in terror as the scream turned into a wet gurgle. Even Catullus shuddered at the sound.
The other mercenary panicked. With a yelp, he bolted into the forest—right toward Catullus. Just enough time for Catullus to flip the shotgun and swing it like a club. The butt of the shotgun collided with the grizzled man’s head. He sprawled, insensible, in the scrub, hardly uttering a groan. Catullus surveyed the mercenary at his feet dispassionately after taking his pistol. If the mountain man ever did regain consciousness, he’d be rewarded with a blistering headache.
Four Heirs left, including the goal, the mage. Catullus slung his shotgun over his shoulder and drew his pistols. His plan with Lesperance seemed to be succeeding. Which meant it was time to create a diversion.
Astrid couldn’t duck as pistol shots rang out from the forest, but she trusted Catullus’s aim—for that’s who it had to be. A spark of elation flared within her. They were both here. Catullus and Nathan. And despite the frenzy of bullets and shouts around her, she couldn’t have been more glad to hear the sounds of gunfire. If only she could join in rather than stand around like a useless statue! This was beyond infuriating.
In the confusion of gunfire, no one saw Nathan in human form spring from the darkness. He launched himself at Bracebridge. The two men grappled together, rolling in the dirt. From Nathan, a hail of punches and blows, direct and fierce, eyes glittering. Astrid gaped at the sight. She’d seen him fight in his animal forms, but never before as a man. He spared nothing for the mage, but Bracebridge fought back, as adept with his fists as he was with magic. The mage plowed his knuckles into a barely healed wound in Nathan’s side, and Astrid sucked in a breath to see Nathan wince in pain.
Blood darkened the dirt around them as they brawled. Whenever one of the Heirs tried to throw themselves into the fray, shots from Catullus forced them back. But when there was a snap, and the hawk totem suddenly skidded in the dust, both Richard Halling and Swift Cloud Woman threw themselves at it.
Heir and Native scuffled, each struggling for the totem. Hate for the other twisted their faces. Halling didn’t care if his opponent was female—he threw punches as if she were a stevedore, not a woman. And for her part, Swift Cloud Woman fought back just as viciously, digging her fingers into the soft, unprotected parts of Halling’s body. The man howled when she jammed a knee between his legs, but he retaliated with an elbow to her throat.
“You’ll pay for that, too,” panted Halling.
“Not if you die first,” rasped Swift Cloud Woman.
Astrid dragged her gaze from the struggling pair back to Nathan and Bracebridge. Nathan’s punches aimed for the mage’s face, his mouth, until Bracebridge bellowed in pain and spat out a blood-covered tooth. The moment the tiny white tooth hit the ground, Nathan dove for it, abandoning Bracebridge.
As the mage cradled his injured mouth, Nathan, kneeling, held the tooth. Bracebridge’s eyes widened. Nathan whispered something into his cupped hands.
“Goddamn it!” The mage’s curse was more a spray of saliva and blood than words.
Suddenly, Astrid stumbled forward. Free. She was free.
She ran to Nathan, but there wasn’t even time to throw her arms around him. His eyes burned her, se
aring with intensity.
“I am well,” she answered in response to his unspoken demand. “You—”
“I’m here. Always.”
They shared a kiss, brief and fierce. But now was not the time. Now she was free, and she would fight. With Nathan beside her.
Staunton whirled and, seeing her liberated from her prison, bellowed his rage. And Bracebridge, wiping his bloody mouth on his sleeve, rose up with a snarl.
Astrid and Nathan exchanged a glance, wry and affectionate. Time to do battle. So, with a final squeeze of assurance, they sprang apart, ready to face whatever came next.
Just to touch her again filled Nathan with a rush of power. Not even holding the totems had given him such a surge. But to feel her, whole, alive, and primed for combat, was as potent and bright as a strike of lightning.
He saw her grab a knife from the dirt and face Staunton. The two stared at each other across the expanse of the camp—two old enemies preparing for their final clash. Much as Nathan wanted to help Astrid, this was her fight. Staunton belonged to her alone, but like hell would Nathan let the Heir hurt her. If it meant saving Astrid’s life, Nathan would kill Staunton himself. Better to face her anger at depriving her of her revenge, to keep her alive.
Nathan had his own battle to fight. He turned and faced Bracebridge. “Your damn magic tried to kill me,” he growled at the mage. “And take her. But all that’s going to end tonight.”
“Oh, I definitely agree,” smirked Bracebridge. “I’ve been waiting for this, red man.” He raised his hands, curling them into claws, and muttered something in a language Nathan couldn’t recognize.
He didn’t know what Bracebridge was chanting, but he absolutely did not want him to finish saying it. Nathan sprang toward the mage. And was knocked back by a roiling wave of heat and animal stench.
The mage grinned at him. Then his grin faded, replaced by a grimace of pain as he bent over, convulsing. Something pulsed beneath the surface of his skin, as if his muscles pulled and swelled, reshaping themselves. Bracebridge screamed. He lurched upright, jerked up by an unseen hand, and a loud cracking filled the encampment as his bones split and grew. His clothing tore apart, unable to contain his growing body. Thick, black fur sprouted over his skin, covering everything, even his face. His scream turned into a snarl as his mouth and nose lengthened, his teeth elongating into wicked daggers, and his ears grew pointed. The nails of his hands and feet blackened, thickened into claws.
And then the transformation was over. Nathan stared at the enormous, unholy combination of man and wolf, neither one nor the other but something awful in between.
“Now, little dog,” the mage growled, his words more animal than man, “let’s see who is alpha wolf and who is dead.”
With a snarl, Nathan’s wolf surged out of him, and the two animals threw themselves into the fight. Only one of them would see the morning.
The sight riveted her. There were legends, of course, as old as time. Some internal scholar flipped through her mental archives, remembering the names. Loup Garou. Upir. Anjing Ajak. Werewolf.
Reading and hearing of such a beast compared not at all to seeing one. The visceral horror at seeing this profane transformation. A creature born of dark magic. Created from a man’s body for one purpose—death.
Nathan’s death.
“I do not want to kill you.”
Her attention torn from the awful vision, Astrid’s mouth formed a taut line as she stared at Staunton. “Your decency is commendable.”
The Heir scoffed. “Words such as ‘decency’ are meaningless when forging global empires.”
“Then there should be no empires.”
His laugh grated. “The naïveté of you Blades never ceases to charm me.”
Smiling coldly, Astrid brandished the knife in her hand. “I am a most charming woman.” She motioned Staunton forward. “Let me show you.”
He saw now. There was no way to take her, not alive. Whatever she knew about the Primal Source would die with her. A momentary slump of his shoulders, frustrated at the loss of her knowledge, before he straightened them.
Polite as a courtier, he said, “As you wish.” Then he drew his pistol and pointed it at her heart.
Chapter 19
A Most Unusual Battle
The mage—or what the mage had become—lunged for him. At the same time, Nathan sprang toward the beast, aiming for his vitals. But the change had sharpened the mage’s skills, and he knocked Nathan aside with a sweep of his arm, scoring Nathan with his claws.
Nathan rolled and recovered swiftly, then launched himself, teeth first, at the werewolf. He felt the gratifying sensation of tearing flesh, ripping away at the fur-covered skin across the beast’s forearm. It howled, something between a man’s shout and a wolf’s yelp.
Maddened by shedding blood, the werewolf pounced, catching Nathan under his front legs. They fell, spinning together, in a fever of bites and slashes.
A movement distracted Nathan. He turned just enough to see Staunton with his gun aimed directly at Astrid, and her armed only with a knife. No.
Nathan thrashed to loosen himself from the werewolf’s grasp, but the damn creature held him in a vise. He had to break free. Had to reach her.
The air suddenly filled with piercing hawk cries.
Everyone, the werewolf, Staunton, even the Heir and Native woman grappling with each other, stopped in mid-motion and stared up at the sky. The falcon let out an alarmed screech.
And then they descended. Two dozen hawks, maybe more, diving and shrieking, beating their wings. A flurry of talons and beaks. All directed toward the Heirs. The men waved their arms and swatted at the attacking hawks, but the birds’ assault was relentless.
Astrid, thank God, seized the distraction. She leapt forward and kicked the pistol out of Staunton’s hand. The gun flew into the air and was caught in a hawk’s talons. Nathan could have sworn the bird winked at him as it wheeled away.
Nathan felt something choking him, a burning in his throat. He struggled for a moment, thinking the mage was cutting off his breathing, then realized with a start it was something else. Emotion. Hot, unruly emotion.
They’d come. The Earth Spirits had come to his aid. They must have heard his howl of desolation and known he needed help. So they had left the safety of their village and come to give their support. And, of course, the hawks arrived first, the fastest of the Earth Spirits.
He had dismissed them, this tribe where he thought he didn’t belong, but they hadn’t given up on him so quickly. And now, here they were, fighting with him for the life of his mate.
Renewed energy pulsed through his body. He let it overtake him, felt his wolf give way to his bear, and felt viciously triumphant when he threw the werewolf back. The beast snarled up at him, but with a new fear as Nathan reared up on his hind legs, bellowing.
Oh, he was going to enjoy this.
But before he could attack, a barrage of talons and wickedly sharp beaks came at him from all sides. He grunted in surprise. The Earth Spirit hawks were bombarding him. And Astrid. But why? Moments earlier, the hawks had been his allies. Now he dodged their assault, growling with each scratch and bite.
“No!” Astrid shouted. She tried to evade the hawks as they swarmed her. “We’re friends! Stop!”
Nathan didn’t understand what could have caused the hawks’ treachery. Until he saw the Native woman lying in the dirt, cradling her bleeding head, while the heavy Heir crouched nearby. Clutching the hawk totem.
The Earth Spirits were under his command.
Catullus had mulled allowing Halling and Swift Cloud Woman to kill themselves in the struggle for the totem, sparing him the effort. He did not particularly enjoy killing, and if someone else could do the work for him, he had no qualms reaping the benefits.
And when the hawks had thrown themselves into the battle, providing even more distraction so Catullus might return fire with Milbourne, so much the better. But then Halling snuck in a hard jab at the Native
woman’s temple, sending her toppling, and grabbed the totem. The Heir trumpeted his victory as he clutched the totem, and then the birds were his to control. Halling wasted no time in implementing his new weapon. The hawks launched themselves at Lesperance and Astrid while Halling and the other Heirs guffawed.
Nothing for either Astrid or Lesperance to do but bat the attacking birds back. Even Lesperance in his giant, brutal bear form couldn’t really defend himself. Impossible to hurt one of the hawks while they were under the command of the Heirs.
Time to abandon the cover of the forest. Catullus charged.
Halling, caught up in his victory, didn’t see Catullus until it was too late. Catullus tackled the Heir, then attempted to pin him down. Damn, but the man was heavy. And surprisingly agile. Catullus’s punches landed in soft belly, and Halling squirmed like a fish as he tried to throw Catullus off. They both struggled for the totem, Halling holding it away from Catullus’s reaching hands.
Then a feminine snarl, and someone latched onto his back. A rabid jackal. No—the Native woman. She wrapped one arm around Catullus’s neck and squeezed. At the same time, Halling flopped beneath Catullus, trying to wriggle free. The corners of Catullus’s vision began to darken.
Catullus hauled himself back and up, gripping the Native woman’s arm, but Swift Cloud Woman wouldn’t relinquish her choke, despite the more than a foot height difference between them. She snarled in his ear, “You and all intruders will be destroyed. I will see my land made pure.”
With no breath of his own to waste, he didn’t bother responding. Instead, Catullus dragged his shoulders up and ducked his chin, giving him a tiny measure of release. He stepped back, hooking his leg around the woman’s. Then he pivoted, gripping her arm, and threw her to the ground.
She slammed into the dirt with a gasp. Catullus, fingering his abused throat, winced to contemplate what his mother might think of him hurting a woman. He hated having to do it. But Swift Cloud Woman recovered almost immediately and launched toward him. As he dodged her assault, he grimly reflected that his mother might forgive him in these extenuating circumstances.
