Healing of the Wolf

by Cherise Sinclair

  Calum met Tynan’s gaze.

  Tynan nodded agreement. Helping hide the females would keep Donal from the first outbreak of fighting and let him return in time to tend the wounded. Unfortunately, he was the only healer here. Not surprising since healers had an intense sense of duty to their own clans and rarely strayed far from their territories.

  A thought occurred to Tynan, and he caught Ben’s attention. “Griz, while you’re getting the females together, have Donal stash medical supplies around the perimeter. Until the battle is over, the healing tent will be a target.”

  “Fuck,” Zeb muttered. Then frowned. “Hide the supplies?”

  Tynan couldn’t quite manage a smile. “He can mark the locations in the traditional manner—by peeing on the closest bush. Most of us know our healer’s scent.”

  No human would notice.

  Grins appeared.

  “I’ll see it done.” Ben headed out the door.

  Calum turned back to the map and pointed to the west side. “Owen, you’re in charge of the cubs and non-fighters who can scramble over rough terrain. Take who you need to get them there. Put Emma in charge, then return. Go now.”

  “Your will, Cosantir.” Owen strode out the tent door.

  Nodding to Wells, Calum stepped away. “Continue, please.”

  “I could’ve used you in the military,” Wells murmured, then addressed the group. “We want the insides of the tents lit up. I’ll set my tablet to play a loud lecture in the dining hall.”

  “You’ll make it look as if we’re here. To lure them in.” Alec’s smile was grim.

  “Yes, we’ll focus their attention on the tents.” Wells ran his finger around the festival grounds circle. “Hide your fighters in the forest, both close-in and farther out. Go high and low.”

  Vicki studied the map. “Give me a weapon. I’ll—”

  Two cahirs from out of state spoke at the same time. “The females need to be sent away. All the females.”

  North Cascades shifters who knew the Cosantir’s mate braced, knowing what was coming.

  Vicki straightened—and set her feet. Fighting stance. Ice filled her low voice.

  “‘When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,

  He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.

  But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.

  For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.’”

  She shot Calum a look. “I fight.”

  Even as Alec sighed, Calum closed his eyes for a second, then nodded.

  Every male shifter in the room felt the two mates’ pain. Females were to be guarded. Protected. Not assigned a place in battle.

  Yet a person had the right to determine their own fate.

  Vicki scowled at them all. “Shifters, it works like this. If the females want to fight, they will. If they fucking wish to join the fucking noncombatants, they will. It’s. Not. Your. Fucking. Choice.”

  The two cahirs stared at her in shock, then—most wisely—nodded. As did the Cosantirs.

  “Good.” Vicki ran her hand over the road on the map. “Once I’m armed, I’ll find a spot on the road to the west and deal with incoming vehicles and disembarking troops. I’ll try to direct my fire away from the forest and fighting. Wells?”

  “I’ll take the road to the east.”

  She nodded and addressed the shifters again. “When setting up positions, consider the road itself as a kill zone and stay the hell off of it.”

  As Tynan studied the map for where the wolves would best be useful, an icicle of fear stabbed into his guts.

  How long ago had Meggie headed north with Oliver? He’d been grateful she was well out of the fight, but if the Scythe didn’t plan to attack until sunset, they could be positioned miles north.

  By the Gods, he’d give anything to have her close where he could protect her. Know she was safe.

  But at this point, the farther away she was, the better.

  Stay safe, little wolf.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Unclaimed territory - one night before the full moon

  * * *

  On the west side of the meadow, shifters milled around. These were the agile noncombatants, Margery thought, as she helped line up the younglings. Owen’s group had the cubs who were too young to shift, but old enough to traverse bad terrain as well as females and elders who weren’t up to helping with the fighting.

  Emma and Ryder waited in the line, each assigned a batch of children. Minette had a tight grip on Emma’s hand. Once they arrived, the bard would take charge of keeping the cubs calm and hidden. Many mothers were remaining to fight.

  Oliver joined Margery, a pack with food and water on his back. After smiling at her, he looked at Owen who stood nearby. “Cahir, I’ll go with your group. I’m crap at sneaking around, but effective at fighting from a fixed location. Guarding is where I’ll do the most good.”

  Owen eyed him, then nodded. “I can use you. Bring up the rear and make sure no one falls behind.”

  With the cahir leading, the line of shifters headed into the forest.

  “After you.” Oliver motioned to Margery to take up the tail end in front of him.

  She shook her head, her heart aching. “I can’t. My ankle makes me a liability on rough terrain.” She was already limping from the run to warn the shifters. “My place is here where I can help with the injured.”

  “But…” He scowled, then shook his head. “Arguing with a banfasa never works. Be safe. Please.”

  “You, too.” She hugged him and gave him a push to join the line.

  As he followed the others into the woods, she leaned on a tree to figure out where to go next.

  On the other side of the grounds, Ben’s huge shape in his grizzly form led away the pregnant shifters also in animal form, followed by females carrying the youngest cubs and infants. Heather was there, Sorcha in her arms.

  Margery spotted Donal who held Vicki’s other cubs. Attention on the footing, he hadn’t seen her. The ache in her chest grew.

  Donal. Be safe. I love you.

  Near the dining tent, the wolves were dividing into three groups. On the left, Shay and Zeb had charge of Cold Creek’s pack as well as the Rainier wolves.

  On the right, Tynan stood with Warren, a younger male. The wolves from other territories gathered around them.

  Patrin and Fell would lead the shifter-soldiers who were wolves. As they all formed up, Patrin was giving hasty instructions on how to pair up and attack a human, much as he’d taught Shay’s pack last month.

  Gods, she wanted to go with her pack. Or to be with Tynan. She could fight—or at least be the diversion teammate. But the wolves would be traveling fast to get behind the attackers. And, once again, her damned ankle would slow her down.

  No, she was best staying here.

  “Let’s go.” Shay motioned. The leaders trawsfurred, and the three groups of wolves filtered into the forest, heading north.

  Be safe, Tynan. I love you.

  He hadn’t seen her either. He and Donal probably thought she was well on her way to Canada. That was good. They didn’t need to be worrying about her right now.

  She was worried enough for all three of them. How foolish she’d been to decide she couldn’t handle watching them mate with others. Right now, she’d be delighted to see them at a Gathering, no matter who they flirted with. Knowing they were alive would be enough to keep her happy.

  Funny how the threat of death rearranged priorities.

  “Hey, Margery.”

  Margery looked around and then up.

  Above her head, Darcy perched on a tree branch. The female was naked, ready to shift into her cat form.

  Margery puffed out a breath. “Well, isn’t this like old times? The Scythe with their guns. Darcy playing cat games in a tree.”

  Despite the fear in her eyes, Darcy grinned. “And Margery, who lets nothing get her frazzled.”

  Looking
past her friend, Margery saw a whole batch of young werecats up in the trees. From new shifters to older teens. Athol. Jamie. Gods, no. She suppressed her protest and asked carefully, “Shouldn’t the cubs have left with Owen?”

  “He tried to tell them that. I tried. They refused.”

  Herding teenaged werecats was an impossibility. “I see.”

  “They want to fight.” Darcy thumped her forehead on the tree trunk in frustration. “If I keep them up here in the treeways, they’ll be out of the worst of the fighting. I hope. But we need a way to carry big rocks. Ideas?”

  Rocks? After a second, Margery got it. Any Scythe underneath a cub’s tree would get a concussion. By the time the rock hit, the kit would be in a different tree. “Sure. The craft tent has baskets. The storage tent has small backpacks and mini packs. Give me two kids and I’ll load them up with carriers.”

  Athol and Jamie dropped down in front of her.

  “Good, let’s go.” Glancing back at the younglings in the branches, Margery knew where she’d be fighting.

  As Patrin and Fell’s shifter-soldiers broke off to reach their designated place in the center of the attack, Tynan stopped his own group. They were well to the north of the Scythe line of soldiers. Before advancing, he needed to get his temporary pack arranged.

  After they shifted to human, he had them pair up, pushing for older-younger teams.

  His own team-mate was a young male from the Cold Creek pack. Shay had ordered Warren to be Tynan’s partner, to give him someone he knew and could trust. Bless the alpha.

  Shay and Zeb were leading their pack and the asshole Rainier pack around the Scythe from the west side.

  Patrin and Fell would attack the Scythe from the center.

  The attack on the eastern third fell to Tynan who’d lead wolves from east Washington, Canada, Montana, Idaho, and Northern California. His group wouldn’t be as cohesive as Shay’s pack—but since only the toughest wolves traveled far from home, he was pleased with the quality of the wolves he had.

  He gave the newly teamed wolves time enough discuss attack methods and signals, then got them sorted into a line.

  The sun was behind the mountains now, the lingering rays filtering sideways through the branches. “Twilight is hunting time. Our time,” Tynan said to his made-up pack. “Leave none of them alive.”

  Resolved nods answered him.

  Obviously fearful of being spotted, the human mercenaries were avoiding the trails and filtering through the forest in a wide wave.

  Shifting to wolves, Tynan’s group fanned out and moved forward after them.

  With Warren on his right, Tynan padded forward.

  Silently covering the ground to the rear of the Scythe line took a while.

  As they advanced, Tynan caught sounds from in front of his wolves—the noise of clumsy-footed humans. His fur rose on his back.

  From the distant festival grounds, an odd noise drifted through the trees. After a second, he recognized it as cheering and applause. Wells had set off his recording from some conference as a red herring to keep the attackers focused on the tents.

  By now, the civilians—no, the noncombatant shifters—should be hidden. The werecats and werebears assigned to the perimeter of the festival grounds would be in their ambush locations ready for any mercenaries not caught by the wolves.

  Tynan raised his nose to scent what was ahead.

  There it was—the metallic stink of weaponry and body armor funk.

  Warren sniffed, and his ears went back in disgust.

  Invisible in the thick forest undergrowth, the team to Tynan’s right caught up to their prey. He heard a soft curse, a thump, and a low growl. Something or someone fell. Scrambling noises. Silence.

  Tynan kept moving, Warren off to his side.

  Ears flickering forward, paw raised, Warren alerted.

  Tynan paused and could make out the form of a Scythe in front of them. A tall bulky male in camo body armor. The mercenary’s head was turned to the right. He must have heard the kill.

  As Warren moved straight toward the human, Tynan circled to the side.

  Closer.

  As planned, Warren lunged and savagely bit the back of the human’s leg.

  With a panicked grunt of pain, the human turned left and swung his rifle toward Warren’s head.

  Tynan sprang upward from the right. His jaws closed on the throat and clamped down, tearing flesh and cartilage away.

  Blood splattered across the brush and ground as the soldier fell. His rifle thudded against a tree trunk. As his boots hammered in the soft dirt, he seized…and died.

  A faint whine came from Warren. Shivering and panting, the young male stared at the dead body.

  First kill.

  Tynan had been about Warren’s age when he’d helped his Irish uncles kill a feral shifter. Afterward, he’d puked up probably every meal he’d eaten in the previous few days, then been too shaky to stand.

  Knowing the lad would always carry the ugly regret of having taken a life, Tynan padded over, leaned against the other wolf, and licked his nose. Reassuring Warren that he’d done well.

  After a minute, Tynan lifted his head. Ears swiveling, he listened. Stealthy movement. The crunch of human boots farther ahead. Time to go.

  No whines or whimpers indicated a problem with the rest of his wolves, although no battle went without casualties. Tynan stiffened his resolve. Shifters would die tonight, but if they didn’t act, they all would be captured or die. This was the task before him.

  Warren shook hard, fur fluffing, then looked at Tynan. Ready for the next.

  Good lad.

  Tynan led the way forward.

  The pregnant females, elderly, and young were safely hidden in the caves. Donal hated to leave them. Every instinct said to protect the most vulnerable of them all.

  But the labyrinth of caves could be easily defended by the two older cat shifters who remained as guards. Breanne, one of the clan’s best shooters, would stay, too. Wells had supplied her with three pistols and a wealth of reloads.

  The shifters who’d carried cubs here had already started back. Donal had lingered to heal a baby’s scraped arm so the pup would stop crying and not give the location away.

  Outside the cave entrance, Donal circled to the right, looking for Breanne.

  Well concealed, she was located with an excellent field of fire to defend the caves. As he approached, she went white and staggered. Her hand pressed to her chest.

  He hurried over and took her hand to assess. No injury. “What’s wrong, Bree?”

  “Oh Gods, Donal, one of our wolves just died.” Her skin was clammy. “I felt him die.”

  The alpha female’s pack bonds would tell her if a wolf had returned to the Mother. Fear shot through Donal. No…no, it wasn’t Tynan.

  His gut unclenched. Their littermate bond was intact; his brother was all right.

  But a wolf had died.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  She leaned against him, tears glimmering in her eyes. Then her mouth firmed, and she straightened. “Get going, healer. The clan is going to need you.”

  The sun’s rays were dimming. Under the trees, darkness grew, even as the moon rose in the east.

  The shifters had started their attack, Herne the Hunter aid them.

  How many would die tonight?

  “Watch carefully—and stay safe.” Donal gave Bree a quick squeeze around the shoulders and shifted to cat form.

  Partway back, Donal veered onto a deer trail that paralleled the bigger path between caves and festival grounds. Because there might now be humans hunting them.

  Anger burned inside him, hot and hungry.

  Over the winter, he’d cared for survivors of the Scythe compounds. Seen the damage, mental and physical.

  He’d held Margery after her nightmares. Seen her scars. Watched her limp. No matter how foolish he’d been about healers not lifemating, there was a bond of love between them.

  Right now, he w
as grateful she’d taken off for Canada with Oliver. At least she would be safe. If he and Tynan survived today, they’d go after her. Track her through the forest. Follow her all the way to Canada if need be. He’d beg her forgiveness for being slower than a squashed snail at figuring out the truths between love and duty.

  He paused, catching a faint sound. A rhythmic crunch, like what a boot-clad man might make on the thick forest duff.

  None of shifters would wear boots today.

  The human was on the wider trail and headed toward to the caves. The noise came closer and passed him to his right.

  Lowering his body, Donal stole through the undergrowth to that trail and spotted his prey. The dim light was no problem for a werecat. Unfortunately, the human wore odd-shaped goggles—probably night vision enhancement—and was studying a handheld device. Flickers of red showed on the display.

  Could he be tracking the elderly and pregnant shifters by the lingering heat in footprints?

  Exposing his fangs in fury, Donal stalked forward—and spotted movement in the underbrush left of the soldier.

  Moonlight reflected on yellow eyes. A wolf. Red-brown fur with darker saddle and tail. The rare white tip on the tail identified Heather.

  Focused on the human, she didn’t see Donal. Before he could catch her attention, she leaped at the soldier’s throat.

  Brave wolf.

  The human had fast reflexes. Blood pouring from his neck, he dropped everything and grabbed her fur. Her weight sent him staggering backward.

  Donal sprang from behind. His jaws closed on the human’s nape to sever the spine. At the gut-wrenching crunch, Donal dropped…the body.

  Heather backed away. Shifting to human, she dove into the bushes. Vomiting.

  His own stomach unsettled, Donal pulled in calming breaths. He’d be all right. This wasn’t his first kill. And death was a familiar companion to a healer.

  Clamping his jaws around a boot, he dragged the corpse behind a thicket of huckleberries. The device followed. Back on the trail, he scuffed up the evergreen needles to hide the signs of combat…although if the humans used heat sensors, his precautions would fail.