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 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