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.
Heather returned in wolf form. Ears forward, she bobbed her head in a thank you, then trotted toward the festival grounds.
On the parallel trail, Donal went the same direction.
A minute later, gunfire and screaming broke the silence of the night.
Gods, Gods, Gods, how many had she killed? The taste of blood was like a foul paste in Margery’s mouth.
Gunfire and screams echoed off the mountains and tree trunks, seeming to come from everywhere. Her sensitive wolf’s ears rang until she felt half-deafened. The acrid stink of gunpowder created nose-wrinkling eddies in the air.
The ugly sounds and scents revived memories of the attack on Dogwood, over and over. Her muscles twitched, wolf instincts ordering her to flee. Run away! Far, far away.
She couldn’t.
Here, on the east perimeter, she was one of the ground fighters for several treeway cubs. Stationed on branches above, the young shifters followed her, waited until she was positioned near the enemy, and cast their big rocks.
While she attacked from below.
Her nose caught the stink of another, and she sank lower. Saw the human’s uniform, weapons. Again, she fought against panic. Again, she won.
The man’s camo clothing blended into the foliage and shadows…but foliage didn’t move in a straight line. And even when a human tried to be silent, hard-soled boots made noise.
She stalked him. Assessed his equipment—helmet, the goggles that let him see better at night yet hindered his peripheral vision. A rifle.
From where should she attack?
Her stomach twisted. I’m not a killer.
But she was now. Deep within, bonds ached where some had been broken. Members of her pack were dead. Grief firmed her resolve, even as her wolf instincts surfaced, and she bared her fangs at the cub-killer.
Because above her, a tree branch creaked under a young shifter’s weight. Athol. Hector was in another tree. And Jamie.
The cubs were prepared. This part was hers to do. To keep them safe. Ignoring her fear, the pain in her side, the soul-deep sickness, she moved her tail.
Ready.
A rock hit the soldier’s jaw from the side, two more struck his bizarre goggle things.
He grunted—“Fuck!”—and staggered back. His rifle barrel dropped down as he grabbed his face.
Springing upward, Margery ripped his throat open, pushed back, and darted away.
Never stop moving.
The first human she’d attacked had stabbed her. Only her ribcage had kept the knife from finding her heart. The long painful slice along her side still burned. Still bled.
Behind her, the mercenary hit the ground with a thud as he choked on his own blood. The body spasmed, gurgled, and went still.
Panting, sickened, Margery dragged the body off the trail.
Leaving her kill, she moved farther—enough she couldn’t scent the blood—and sank beneath a thimbleberry bush. If she’d been human, she’d have been sobbing. I’m supposed to heal.
She barely kept from whining.
Slowly, she regained her composure. The cubs would be waiting—and if she didn’t do this, they would.
A scent drifted to her. A panther—adult male. No, two of them. Approaching her hiding place.
The brush moved as the two shifters joined her. Owen and Ryder. Owen shifted, edging close enough to whisper into her ear. “Good technique with the cubs but let us take the groundside part now. Go deeper into the bushes and stay safe. There are injured, banfasa. We need you alive to help them.”
He stroked a hand down her fur, and she almost whimpered at the sense of companionship.