Of course it is.
Because nothing about this night was going to be easy.
Sourly, Donal pulled on a backpack of medical supplies and followed the trail of destruction, past broken-off trees and flattened undergrowth. It was good the forest was still damp, or fire would be a concern.
When the slope evened out, he spotted a sedan bent sideways around a tree. The second vehicle had hit the sedan near the trunk. Whimpering and moaning came from both cars.
A camp light sat on a bare patch of ground to illuminate the area.
“Donal.” Alec was half-inside one vehicle. “Got Tina here with Griffin. She’s bleeding badly. If you check for spinal injuries in the sedan, then I’ll trade places and get them out while you’re fixin’ Tina.” His southern accent surfaced with the tension.
“Good plan.”
Opening the sedan’s driver side, Donal saw why Alec was concerned. Neither of the pigeon-brained males wore seatbelts. One was half on the floor, the other tangled with the steering wheel. Broken bones, bleeding, dazed, struggling.
“Cubs. I know you hurt, but I need you to stay still. No moving.” Donal kept his tone firm and kind. Hearing the voice of someone in charge would give them the hope that everything would be all right.
Hopes were so often wrong.
Focusing, he ran a hand down the driver’s back. Spine was intact. Youngsters were so fucking flexible. A quick sweep of his front exposed no major internal damage. Broken ribs. Broken arm. Donal could assess better once he was out of the vehicle.
It took all his strength to yank open the warped passenger door. The male was lucky the back half of the car had impacted the tree.
Donal checked him over. Muscles alongside the vertebrae were strained. A hip was dislocated. Broken right leg, right humerus, ribs. Concussion.
“Stay put and we’ll get you out of here.”
A groan was the only answer.
“Alec.” At the other car, Donal waited for Alec to emerge, then slid in as he reported the damage and what to watch out for. “You might want to wait for more help to move them.”
“Will do. Looks like help is here.” Alec headed back toward the other car.
On the road above, flashing lights heralded the arrival of the fire truck. The Murphys loved those damned lights.
“Is Griffin all right?” Tina whispered. Ah, right—she’d lifemated Griffin and his two brothers last fall. No wonder she was worried.
Donal checked the unconscious driver. At least these two had worn seatbelts. The male had bashed his head against the side window when the car rolled. Nothing major. “He’ll be all right.”
Despite her obvious pain, she smiled. “Thank the Mother.”
After assessing her quickly, Donal gripped the sharp branch that’d come through the shattered windshield and penetrated her shoulder. “This is going to hurt, Tina. Don’t move, please.”
Smoothly, quickly, he pulled the branch out.
She gave a short, cut-off scream. Her hands clenched in fists.
Bending his head, Donal covered the wound with his hand and healed the severed blood vessels before she bled to death. An incredible amount of damage there. Carefully, he positioned her so he could repair her splintered collarbone. And the muscles around it.
Good enough for now.
Next patient…
As he determinedly worked through the bleeding wounds and the broken bones, energy poured out of him. By the Gods, he hated human-made machines. Especially cars.
Demon boxes on wheels.
He started on the driver of the sedan.
“Where’s the banfasa?” Kevin Murphy asked as he helped pull the male’s arm straight so the bone could be repaired.
“Helping set up the festival area.”
“A shame. We sure could use her here.”
At the sedan, Cody Murphy and Alec tried to calm the passenger so they could maneuver him off the floor. “
Kevin snorted. “Alec should just punch the idiot and knock him out.”
“He already has a concussion.” As Donal spoke, his eyesight blurred. Gods blast it, just one more second. He managed a last blast of power that knitted the male’s arm. Mostly.
Then he fell back against the side of the sedan.
“Healer.”
His head buzzed like he’d upset a beehive inside his skull. His words came out slurred. “Splint the break. It’s only partially healed.”
“Donal. You look terrible.” Farrah knelt and hugged him from behind in the way he’d taught her when she shared power with him before.
“Thank you for coming.” He put his hand over her arms and drew…nothing. No power moved.
Surprised, he tried harder and received merely a trickle. There was power in her, but the bond between them felt like a string rather than a rope.
Two months wasn’t that long. He often pulled power from females he’d mated even three Gatherings prior. He’d never had a problem before.
Farrah held him patiently. “Bonnie said to tell you Nia and Francesca aren’t in town.”
Gnome-nuts. They’d probably gone to set up the festival area like Margery.
Out of power and out of options. He set his jaw. “I understand. I’m afraid this will take longer than before.”
It did. Pulling power from her was like using a rusty pump to get a cup of water rather than standing downstream in a surging river.
Eventually, he had enough to continue.
Barely enough.
Horror unfurled in his guts.
If someone had been critically injured, they’d have died.
Pulling himself together, he patted Farrah’s hand. “Thank you, sweetheart. I appreciate the help.”
“Sure.” She kissed his cheek. Keeping her gaze away from the injured and the blood, she scrambled away and up the hill.
Rising, Donal waited a second for his head to stop spinning, then went back to work.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Unclaimed territory, Washington - one day before the full moon
* * *
Early Sunday afternoon, there was activity and noise everywhere.
Last fall, as a Scythe shifter-soldier, Patrin MacCormac and his brother had been confined in a barracks in an isolated compound and only allowed off-base long enough to assassinate someone. A hellish life, it had been. Their sister held hostage for their good behavior, trackers embedded in their bodies. Trapped.
Who could have imagined their sister, Darcy, would be the one to pull together the forces that had attacked the Scythe compounds? Fuck, but he was proud of her.
Now, he and Fell were free. Well, almost free. There was the small matter of eradicating the organization called the Scythe.
That…might take a bit of a while.
Over the course of the day, the festival grounds had filled with shifters. Old friends from different territories were exuberantly meeting again. New friends were being made. Under the waxing moon’s influence, hopeful males postured to win females.
Near the firepits, the bards were taking turns playing instruments and singing.
After dropping off food at the footpath, shifters parked elsewhere and came through the forest. Delighted to be the first to sniff out good eats, cubs were carrying the food from the road to the festival grounds.
So many people. So much movement. This shit was fucking overwhelming.
Fell hated it; Patrin loved it.
With Fell behind him, Patrin strolled into the largest tent on the festival grounds. They were early for the meeting, but life had taught him that a wise wolf surveys the terrain before calling the pack.
Filled with rows of folding tables and chairs, the tent space was almost empty. At one side of the tent, a space was open for entertainers or speakers. Being a good littermate, he chose a corner table at the other side so Fell would feel comfortable.
The light dimmed as a cahir blocked the entrance, positioned to check whoever entered the tent.
Fell stud
ied the huge male. “Damn. Bet he’s a grizzly.”
“Glad he’s on our side.”
Shifters filtered into the tent. Pack leaders arrived. Cahirs took up an area on the left side of the tent. Owen, one of their sister’s mates, was there, and gave Patrin and Fell a nod.
“Darcy chose well,” Fell muttered. “Good male.”
“Aye, he is. So’s Gawain. Not that we’ll ever admit that to Darcy.” Doing so would flout the tease-your-sister tradition. Can’t have that.
Fell grinned.
Patrin leaned back, stretching his legs out. He rather envied Darcy for her new life. Rewarding work. Belonging. And she’d found mates to love.
Someday…
It was a shame Darcy’s friend, Margery, was already involved with the healer and cop. Such a sweetheart—and she was from Dogwood. Understood what they’d all been through. Would understand the dark places in a soldier’s soul.
“Patrin, Fell.” The greeting came from a group of their fellow soldiers. More and more entered the tent. With grins, comedic insults, shoulder buffets, the shifter-soldiers settled at tables and chairs around Patrin and Fell.
By the Gods, it’s good to see them again.
All the shifter-soldiers in the area had come to the festival in answer to the summons from Wells.
Since the Scythe were eager to capture more Daonain—especially those who’d escaped them, Wells was wise to arrange a meeting far away from shifter towns. This remote festival was a perfect location.
Near the open space for speakers, the Cosantirs settled in a cluster of tables. Calum, the North Cascades Cosantir was there, seated with Alec, and their mate, Vicki. Patrin had come to respect the small brunette female who’d served in the human military and as a spy before being turned Daonain.
Wells sat with Calum. Older, medium height, lean as a wolf after a hard winter, he had the eyes the color of ice and a mind more calculating than any feline. The human spymaster had been Vicki’s boss when she was human and was now the caomhnor of one of her cubs.
Wells wanted to destroy the Scythe almost as much as the shifter-soldiers did, and since the Scythe were human, the Daonain had let him take the lead.
When the spymaster rose, everyone went silent.
Wells didn’t bother with pleasantries or welcomes. “When the Scythe Seattle compounds were destroyed, the Director and the Colonel escaped.”
Patrin scowled at the reminder. That night, the Director had been called from his supper to meet the Colonel in downtown Seattle—and missed being trapped and killed in the compound by only a few minutes.
Wells continued. “Thanks to the shifter-soldiers’ effectiveness as assassins, the Colonel has a lot power. He was—and has been—careful that no one outside his Pacific Northwest division learned that his assassins were anything other than skilled humans.”
“Secrets have a way of coming out,” someone said.
“Yes,” Wells agreed. “The Colonel’s reputation suffered when the compounds were destroyed and the hostages released. He’s now scrambling to regain his influence.”
“What does that mean for the Daonain?” Patrin asked.
Wells gave him a nod. “First, the Director and Colonel have prioritized capturing shifters. Your territories, especially in the Pacific Northwest, already know this.”
The Cosantirs were nodding.
“Second. Because the information about you hasn’t been shared, if we can eliminate the Colonel’s division, a major danger to you would be gone.”
The Cosantir from Colville Territory frowned. “They’re manipulating your human government, breaking your laws. Why haven’t you eliminated them already?”
Wells’ mouth flattened. “I would if I could find them. Because of the risk to the Daonain, I haven’t called on my own resources to locate them. But, gentlemen, I can’t justify that for much longer.”
“You need help,” Alec said from where he sat.
“Exactly. I have leads. I need trained help to pursue them.”
Patrin eyed the spymaster. The human had proven his worth during the battle in Seattle. He was a canny fighter with a catlike talent for sneakiness.
Patrin glanced at Fell.
Gaze dark, Fell nodded. Even more than Patrin, Fell craved vengeance. Neither of them could move on with life until the danger to the Daonain was eliminated.
And they were experts at elimination.
“We’re in,” Patrin called.
A few of the cahirs added their voices. Almost all the shifter-soldiers did.
Patrin noticed one who was silent.
After meeting Patrin’s gaze, Oliver looked down. Physical strength, fighting and warfare skills—the werebear lacked them all. He wasn’t stupid. He just had more of a prey than predator personality. From the way his shoulders curved inward, he hated that about himself.
Guilt was a stupid emotion.
Patrin slid his chair over. “Oliver, we’ve had this talk before. You’re not a fighter. You won’t be useful for this kind of hunt, but there are other things you can do to help. Even when the Scythe are dead, the Daonain won’t be safe in this technological human-ruled world. If you want to defend our people, learn that technology. Fight with your mind. That’s where your strengths are and where you will have victory.”
Without waiting for a response, Patrin slid back to the table.
Fell nodded his approval.
The two of them had been the leaders of the shifter-soldiers, and although no longer in charge, it was difficult to let go of the responsibility.
Oliver was smart. Creative. He simply needed to use those talents to make a new life for himself.
Sympathy was an edgy weight in Patrin’s heart because starting over was easier with a littermate at one’s side. And Oliver had lost his.
Patrin bumped his shoulder against Fell’s. If Patrin ever faltered, his brother would be there. Together, they could face anything.
And when the Scythe were gone, if they were still alive, they’d see where the wind would take them.
Having left his vehicle at a trailhead parking area, Donal loped through the silver fir forest, heading for the festival grounds. The mid-afternoon sun was bright, the air warm and dry with the dusty tang of evergreens. Fir needles were soft underpaw.
Yet he couldn’t really enjoy the day—not with last night preying on his mind.
Aye, maybe it shouldn’t bother him so much. He might have more power than most healers, but it could still run out. Like last night.
That had been far too close.
All the remainder of the night, he’d stewed over the difficulty in drawing power from Farrah. She’d shared her energy with him before. It hadn’t been that long since he’d mated with her. The only thing that had changed was the bond between them.
Aye, when he thought about it, the bond between him and the females with whom he’d mated had narrowed. All except for one female—Margery.
His feelings for her were impacting the bonds he had with other females. The knowledge was a swamp of unhappiness within him.
Because if he couldn’t recharge, shifters would die. He’d fail them.
By the Gods, he wouldn’t let that happen. He couldn’t.
He needed to back away from Margery. Create some distance so he wouldn’t lose those connections.
At the Gathering tomorrow night, he’d mate with as many Cold Creek females as possible. No matter how unhappy it made someone else…or him. He had enough control over his dick to get it to rise.
Reaching the festival grounds, he slid into the storage tent from the back and trawsfurred to human. After sniffing out his and Tynan’s pack, he dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt.
Outside, the scattering of large tents on the north and south edges created a token street. There was a dining tent. A sleeping tent for the elderly and cubs in case of rain. An entertainment tent. A smaller healing tent.
“Hey, healer.”
At the rough-sounding voice, Donal turned an
d spotted Owen inside the crafts tent where artists could display their wares. The brown-haired cahir hadn’t bothered to shave, and dark scruff shadowed his jawline. He was seated on a blanket with his carvings arranged on another blanket.
Donal studied the wood sculptures: A wolf led a small pack. A panther perched on a limb above a rabbit. There was a female wolf with her head tilted, paw raised.
She looked almost like Margery. And wouldn’t that carving be perfect for the shelf in his bedroom? “You do good work.”
“Thanks.” The cahir gave Donal a half-smile. “It’s good you weren’t here earlier. The females were lapping up alcohol-laden hot chocolate last night—and some hadn’t realized the after-effects of drinking.”
Shifters didn’t suffer hangovers as badly as humans did, but since most Daonain weren’t used to feeling ill at all, the first few times could be a shock. “Good to know.”
Owen snorted. “When Angie dropped some cast iron pots this morning, Bree let out a sound… I haven’t heard screeching like that since a werecat caught her tail in a forked branch.”
Donal winced. Tails were almost as sensitive as testicles. “Thanks for the warning.”
“Margery’s pretty much recovered.” Owen nodded toward the right.
Donal followed his gaze and spotted Margery talking with Darcy near the back of the tent. Gawain, a blademage, was showing her a bracelet he’d made.
A lifemating bracelet.
Fucking, sprite-cursed irony. Donal could feel the blood draining from his face.
Owen gripped his arm. “Is something wrong?”
“No.” Donal shook his head. “Nothing.”
He stiffened his spine. It had to be done. Letting their female—no, not theirs, she couldn’t be theirs—letting Margery get her hopes up wouldn’t be right. Would be cruel. “See you later, cahir.”
Everything in him wanted to pretend it was all going to be all right.
No. He was an honorable male—act like it, cat.
He walked across the tent. “Margery.”
“Donal, you’re here!” Face lighting, she wrapped her arms around him and hugged.
Unable to help himself, he bent his head and took her lips in a warm kiss. By the Gods, he’d missed her, last night at the accident, in his lonely bed, at his silent breakfast. Her laugh, her scent, her joy, the peace that pooled around her—she was buried in his heart so deeply he’d never be able to remove her.
Healing of the Wolf Page 33
