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 studied 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