Scythe have them, no matter what it took. “I’m going back.”
She secured the bag to her chest, trawsfurred—and hesitated.
Despite the fear in his eyes, Oliver nodded. “We’ll warn them together.”
Brother at her side, Margery tore through the forest as the sun edged toward the west.
The forest creek to the west of the festival grounds had turned into a cub play area. And Heather had managed to steal Sorcha away from her mama. Smiling, she flicked droplets of the icy water onto her favorite cubling’s bare legs.
Around seven months now, the little girl squealed her laughter, hands waving and feet kicking.
A quiet chuckle came from the intimidating human standing beside Heather—something rarely heard from Wells. Sorcha’s littermate, Artair, was fast asleep against the spymaster’s shoulder.
On Heather’s other side, Joe Thorson held his namesake, Toren, between his legs. Sitting proudly, the cub beat on the grass with a wooden rattle, then waved it at the tree fairies swinging from the nearby branches.
Pixies adored cubs, no matter the species.
A cool breeze off the mountains made Heather shiver. “Well, my sweet lass, I think it’s time you put on some clothing.” Dressing the kit in a dark green romper, she blew a noisy raspberry on the little round tummy before doing up the snaps.
Sorcha had the greatest laugh.
As Heather lifted her for more kisses, love filled her heart. Thank you, Vicki, for sharing with me. Even if it made the lack of her own pups so much harder.
Maybe, someday, the Great Mother would bless her.
Thorson said in his raspy voice, “Toren, time to leave.”
Hearing his name, Toren clapped his hands—his newest skill—and gurgled happily.
The sun was hovering over the treetops as if reluctant to leave. Summer Solstice was tomorrow—the longest day in the year—and sunset wasn’t until a smidge after nine pm. Heather nodded at Thorson. “The Cosantirs’ meeting should be done soon.”
Heather grinned, thinking of when Vicki’d been told about the plans for today. “Another fucking meeting? For fuck’s sake, Calum.”
Her poor friend had wanted to spend the day outside. Instead, she’d been stuck in a meeting with Wells and the shifter-soldiers. And now, the various Cosantirs, their mates, and their cahirs were using the meeting tent. Calum was there as well as Pete from Rainier Territory. There were Cosantirs from Gifford to the south, Colville to the east, and Garibaldi over the border in Canada. It wasn’t often the guardians left their territories, so they’d welcomed the chance to discuss common problems—the increasing human threat, the Scythe’s attempts to find them, human laws that might affect them. New ways of evasion. Technology and precautions.
Ryder who had mad skills with computers had been drafted to speak with them.
Heather knew the Daonain must become more tech savvy. Being the CEO of a software company, she had a head start, but she’d always been an outlier when it came to liking computers. Too many shifters, like her Cosantir, Pete, refused to acknowledge the changes in the world. They believed the Daonain could simply hide in the forests if threatened. Even worse, they used human technology like phones without understanding the dangers.
Such shortsightedness endangered everyone—including the cubs. A cold shiver ran up her spine, and she held Sorcha closer.
Resettling Artair on his shoulder, Wells did a quick survey of the surrounding forest. The man never let down his guard. Was that because he was in the midst of shifters or because he’d been a spy for too many years?
Eyes narrowing, he tilted his head to hear better.
Heather listened. Even in this form, her ears were better than a human’s.
From the north, an animal was approaching at a fast pace. More than one. New shifters playing nip-the-tail?
No, there was a desperate urgency to the sound.
A chocolate-brown wolf shot out of the underbrush and sprang across the creek. The female stopped in front of Wells, hind leg raised slightly.
“Margery?” Heather stared. Her friend’s muzzle was covered in froth, her sides heaving with her breathing.
“You’re Oliver’s sister.” Wells’ face darkened. “What’s wrong?”
Margery shifted and knelt at his feet, gasping for air. “The Scythe. They’re coming. Many of them—dark camouflaged clothing, weapons.”
A bear charged out between two trees, splashed through the creek, and trawsfurred into a young male. Kneeling beside Margery, the resemblance was plain.
Oliver spat out between breaths, “A long line. Got night-vision goggles. Gear doesn’t match—maybe mercenaries. Coming slow, about two hours out. Probably move on us after dark.”
Wells turned his head to the south. “If they’re smart, they’ll bracket us with an attack from the road.”