A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7)

A Love Untamed (Feral Warriors #7) Page 9

“We just saved you hours of travel time,” Melisande snapped.

Jag glared at her. “What are you doing here?” Like most of the Ferals, Jag didn’t like her. Unlike most, he had no bridle for his tongue.

“Jag . . .” Olivia punched her mate in the arm and turned to the two Ilinas. “We’re grateful for your help.”

“Just don’t stab us in the back,” Jag muttered, then turned away, dismissing them as he looked around. “There.” He pointed down the hill to a dirt road some hundred yards below. “Is that Castin’s truck?” He grabbed Olivia’s hand and started forward.

Fox winked at her . . . winked . . . then smiled at Phylicia as if she were the darling of his heart, before he turned and followed Jag.

Oh, she was going to rue her decision to join his team, that was already blindingly clear. Swallowing another huff, she started after them, Phylicia at her side. The sun was shining, the late-spring day warm but lacking the summer humidity that would arrive soon enough. She breathed in deeply, savoring the smells of the forest. No plants grew in the Crystal Realm, no trees, no flowers. She’d missed them bitterly during the long years they’d been forced to fake their extinction.

Minutes later, the small group fanned out around the late-model blue Chevy pickup with Canadian license plates. Plates they’d already confirmed were registered to Castin. She tried to imagine the male she’d known in those prehistoric times driving a pickup truck and failed, utterly. She’d never lost her heart to him, thank the heavens, but she’d liked him. A lot. And never imagined he was capable of such savage betrayal.

Jag threw Fox an expectant look. “Time to shift, Foxy. Let’s see if we can pick up a scent.”

“After you, boyo.”

The two shifters moved a little deeper into the trees, and Jag began to strip off his clothes. They must be hiding from prying human eyes, though she’d seen nobody out here, because none of the Ferals possessed an ounce of shyness about their bodies. Shifters never had. And no Ilina was ever offended by a bit of male nudity. Far from it. A quick glance at Phylicia told her she was waiting avidly for Fox to begin to strip as well. But when he made no move to do so, Melisande suspected he was one of the Ferals who retained his clothes and weapons through the shift.

Jag disappeared in a spray of colored lights, and moments later, a full-sized jaguar stood in his place—his head nearly black, his rosettes becoming more and more pronounced the farther they moved down his body.

Foxy? the jaguar shifter prompted, telegraphing his thoughts to all of them.

As she watched, Fox closed his eyes, began to sparkle, then disappeared. In his place stood a huge fox, the size of a Great Dane, with glorious red fur, black legs, and a face that was far too engaging.

Might want to downsize it a bit, Foxylocks. Don’t want to scare the humans if we run across any. Even as Jag spoke, he shrank himself to the size of a jaguar-shaped housecat.

Feck. Give me a minute. I still haven’t gotten the hang of this.

Melisande found herself biting back a smile, which was a novel experience.

Slowly, the fox began to shrink.

That’s it, Jag coaxed. A little more. It’s harder than it looks. It took me several years to get the hang of it. You’re a natural. There, he said when the fox looked just about right. That’s enough.

But Fox apparently wasn’t any more adept at turning off the sizing than turning it on because he just kept shrinking. Bloody hell, I’m the size of a squirrel.

Jag’s laughter rang in her head. Hey, Itty-bitty. You get any smaller, and you’re going to have to ride on my back.

The fox sneezed . . . or snorted. But a moment later he was growing again.

There! Jag said. And this time the fox stopped. Perfect. You look like a run-of-the-mill red fox.

Together, the two animals trotted out of the thicker trees and back to the waiting women. His mouth open, the fox appeared to be grinning as his gaze met hers, intelligent laughter lighting those eyes. Yes, entirely too engaging.

Jag paced in circles, close to the truck, then looked at the fox. Got his scent?

Feck, no. The animal closed his mouth and began to sniff at the ground. Wait . . . I smell something. Therian.

You’ve got him, then. Let’s go.

As the four-footed pair loped into the woods, Olivia followed them, Melisande and Phylicia bringing up the rear. Melisande had seen the Ferals shift often enough, particularly in recent weeks, but she’d never watched a new Feral. And she’d found Fox’s struggle with his newfound powers surprisingly winning, which she’d never admit to him in a thousand years. He’d turned neither angry nor embarrassed, and he appeared not to care at all that Jag continually called him by some ridiculous nickname or another.

Clearly, the Greek god didn’t take himself too seriously. If he weren’t a shifter . . . or a male . . . she might actually find that she liked him.

The shifters moved swiftly, but the women had no trouble keeping up even at a walk. They’d traveled more than a mile when she began to hear the shifters’ conversation in her head. They must be broadcasting it to all of them.

We’d make better time with longer legs, boyo. There’s no sign of humans.

Can you upsize without turning into a horse this time?

Fox laughed, his animal making that snorting/sneezing sound again. Probably not. A moment later, instead of growing, he shifted back into human form in a spray of colored lights. “Feck.”

Sensual energy slid over Melisande’s skin as it always did whenever she first came near the male in human form. As if he felt it, too, his gaze swung back to her, heat leaping into his eyes, a heat that spiraled deep down inside of her.

She scowled at him, which only earned her a knowing smile. Looking away from her, he winked at Phylicia. Did he think he had to spread his attention evenly? He could give it all to Phylicia. All of it, and she’d be happy if he did.

Marguerite appeared at her side suddenly. “Hawke and Falkyn are having trouble.”

Jag shifted back to human form without warning. “What kind of trouble?”

The Ilina eyed his naked form with appreciation. “Trouble flying. Every time they lift off, they get dizzy and have to land again or risk crashing to the ground. It’s apparently the Mage warding around this mountain.”

Jag grunted. “Which means we’re in the right place, boys and girls. What about Lyon, Wulfe, and Kougar? Are they having any trouble on foot?”

“Not yet, no. But they wanted you to know that Hawke and Falkyn won’t be joining you. And there’s no cell service up here. We’re your only means of communication.”

Jag slugged Fox lightly in the arm. “Let’s get going, Goldilocks. Kara needs us.” In the blink of an eye, Jag was once more a jaguar.

Fox eyed the other Feral with obvious envy, shifted into his too-large fox, and stayed that way.

I’m glad you decided to join us, pet. Fox’s voice caressed her mind as he took off after Jag.

I’m not your pet.

He chuckled in her mind. Aye. Are you anyone’s pet?

No. Go away.

That chuckle again. You intrigue me, little Ilina. So much spit and fire in such a pretty little package.

Quit calling me little. I’m tall for an Ilina.

Ah. This time the laughter was in his voice. That explains your not even reaching my shoulder.

It’s not my fault you’re a hulking brute.

The fox looked back at her, mouth closed, eyes intense. Inside her head, his voice turned soft, surprisingly serious. I’ll concede the hulking. Therian males tend to grow large. But I’m not a brute, pet. Never a brute. Except to my enemies.

She wasn’t sure what to say to that. She’d held shifters in such contempt for so very long, unable to see them except through the lens of cruelty visited on her by Castin and his clan all those centuries ago. They weren’t all like that, she knew that. Especially not the Ferals. But that didn’t mean she would ever fully trust them.

Come walk beside me, Melisande. The flirtatious quality was back in his tone.

Why would I want to do that? she snapped.

Because then you could touch me, stroke my fur. I’ve never had a female’s hands in my fur before. I’m curious to know how it feels.

Ask Phylicia. She’ll put her hands on you any way you like, and we both know it.

He didn’t reply right away, and she hoped he’d finally given up talking to her. She studied the landscape, reveling in the beauty of the Allegheny Mountains, the wildflowers dotting the ground beneath the spruce and hardwoods. The leaves were still the light green of spring against a bright blue sky. Below, running parallel to the road, a creek glittered crystal clear between a border of large, dramatic rock formations. The place was stunning.

So how long have you been an Ilina, pet?

She rolled her eyes. The male was relentless. All my life. I’d appreciate it if you’d disconnect me from your inane, rambling thoughts, Feral.

If I’m inane and rambling, it’s because your beauty is stealing all deeper thought from my head, Melisande.

She snorted. Do women really fall for that drivel?

Truth be told, women usually appreciate my attention. You’re something of a rarity.

A challenge, you mean?

Aye. But more than that. There’s something between us, you can’t deny it. Something happened when you blasted me with that pleasure. Or perhaps your blasting me with pleasure instead of pain was simply a factor of whatever was meant to happen all along.

Melisande growled low with frustration. I don’t want you, Feral. I don’t know how to make that any clearer. I don’t want your voice in my head, I don’t want you smiling at me, I don’t want anything to do with you. Nothing. And that isn’t ever going to change.

For a moment, he was silent. Then the fox paused and swung his head back, watching her once more with those probing, serious eyes. Is your antipathy toward me specifically, Melisande, or toward all Ferals?

Does it matter?

Perhaps not, though it would be a salve to my battered ego if you said it was all shifters and not just me.

There’s not enough salve in the world to cover your massive ego, she replied tartly.

Now you seek to wound me. But the laughter was back in his voice.

You’re still in my head.

Aye. I’m thinking it may be the only way I’ll ever get inside you.

You’ve got that right. Now go. Away.

You’ll push me into Phylicia’s arms, he warned.

Good. She wants you. I don’t.

Very well. He sighed dramatically. You wound me, pet. My heart may never heal. Once again, the fox paused to look back at her, laughing. Then his mouth snapped closed and he eyed her with an intensity that told her he hadn’t given up. Not at all.

And she groaned.

He wouldn’t succeed. Certainly not in any way he was hoping to. But he scared her all the same. Because he stirred things inside her that had lain dormant for so long, she’d thought them gone forever.

Things that could, if she wasn’t careful, destroy her.

“Want to tell me what’s going on?” Lepard asked after they’d left the Washington, D.C., suburbs far behind.

Grizz’s hands tightened on the steering wheel of an old Toyota sedan he’d appropriated in Leesburg. He’d never been particularly strong at mind control, but the attempt had worked well enough. The Toyota owner now believed he was the owner of a Ford Escape. The Ferals wouldn’t be able to track them via the vehicle. Not right away, at any rate.

“I overheard them talking,” he told his companion, surprised Lepard had been content to wait this long before demanding an explanation for their sudden flight from Feral House. “All the newly marked Ferals are either the best of our lines or the worst. There were no accidents. Since the originals have no way of knowing for certain which is which, they’ve decided to imprison us all. Once they have all seventeen of us accounted for, they’ll kill us and start over.”

Silence. “Hell.”

“Our replacements should, theoretically, be free of the dark infection. They should all be the best of the line.”

“So we’re just running away?”

Grizz admired the thread of disgust he heard in Lepard’s voice. “You have a better idea?”

The snow leopard shifter ran a hand through short, snow-white hair. “There’s got to be a way to figure this out.”

“I agree.”

Lepard turned to him, his eyes sharpening. “You have a plan. We’re not just running.”

“We’re not just running, no. But I’m not sure it’s much of a plan.”

Lepard sank back against his seat. “At least it’s something. Of course, the fact that we’ve run is going to be damning in the Ferals’ eyes.”

“We can’t be of any help in their prison.”

“So where are we going?”

“Amarillo.”

“Texas?”

“I need to talk to someone. If anyone knows of a way out of this, it’s him.”

“You couldn’t use a phone?”

Grizz didn’t answer. There was no use trying to explain his relationship with the Indian he needed to talk to.

After a few minutes, Lepard said, “You trust me. At least you must not think that I’m the worst of my line. Why?”

“Just a hunch. I saw your eyes when you were under the thrall of the darkness. You were fighting it. You let the Ferals capture you.”

“I did. You did the same.” Lepard frowned. “But I heard that Rikkert accused you of murder.”

“He did.” Rikkert. He wondered idly which animal had marked the male and if they’d ever know.