“Stubborn cat, take a break or you’ll be dead and no use to anyone.”
“I just…”
“Need a break, yeah, what I said.” Tynan guided him to a bare spot, away from anyone. Because if there was someone wounded nearby, Donal couldn’t hold back from trying to help.
“I’m sitting, all right?” The ground felt softer than a mattress, and he slumped, his back against a tree trunk.
“Good. I’ll stay for a while and slap dressings on people.”
And undoubtedly keep an eye on Donal.
Frustration at being helpless boiled up inside. Sure, he knew better than to continue when the power was gone. All healers were taught that once the Mother’s power was exhausted, the energy came from the healer’s own body. And if too much lifeforce was used, the healer died.
Stopping, though? Hard to do.
He would. He had to. With an exasperated huff, Donal sat quietly, running his fingers through the stubby grass. Delicate stems, but not fragile. If walked on, the grass would bend, even break, and then send up new growth. Extremely optimistic was grass.
Reminded him of Margery.
Despite her past, she lived joyously. Even after so much loss, she’d been willing to open her heart and love him and Tynan.
After this mess, we’re going to track you down and find you, sweetheart. We belong together, the three of us.
The sound of running caught his attention.
A shifter-soldier rushed into the clearing with someone slung over his shoulder. Bending, he gently laid the wounded male down.
It was Alec.
Even from across the clearing, Donal could hear Alec’s strangled wheezing.
The shifter-soldier looked around frantically. “Where’s the healer? The cahir can’t breathe.”
Donal managed to stand, to lurch over to where Alec lay. He set a hand on the broad chest that was covered in blood. The cahir might survive the gunshot wound to the lung—but not the nicked pulmonary artery. Bleeding, inside and out.
No power.
No time.
They’d been friends since the day Donal arrived in Cold Creek.
Knowing how the healing session would end this time, Donal set his hand on Alec’s throat. “Easy, cahir, it’ll be all right.”
Reach deep, stop the bleeding, mend the slashed artery. Then…the lung, so vascular, so torn.
Power flowed, painfully dragged from Donal’s own cells. Almost, almost…
The blackness hovering at the edges of his vision closed in like a raven diving for the kill.
Growling and shouting.
Too close. Fear ripped through Heather as she shook the fog from her head. She tried to scramble to her feet, but the ground tilted beneath her. She dropped back into the dirt.
Where…? What…?
The last few memories returned—along with a burst of adrenaline.
Scythe attacking the festival, killing. Margery’s tracks. Trailing her. Seeing the small wolf charge two mercenaries. One aiming his rifle at Margery.
Heather had leaped onto his back, but the weapon fired. Margery fell. Heather bit down on the back of his neck even as he’d rolled to knock her loose. She’d seen the rifle barrel swinging toward her head.
More shouts. What was happening? She had to move.
As she rolled up onto her paws, her vision blurred—and pain stabbed into her brain. So much pain. Whining, she forced herself to stand, swaying despite having four legs.
She tried to get her eyes to focus.
The soldier she’d attacked was fighting a cahir-sized, naked shifter. The blond cahir hit him—left, right, left. Grabbing the stunned human, the shifter broke his neck as easily as a wolf would snap a rat’s spine.
Farther away, a panther rose from the bloody body of the other soldier and then trawsfurred. Dark hair, dark eyes, like the deadliest of night creatures.
Heather shook her head and cringed at the pain. Where…where was Margery?
“She’s alive.” The English-accented voice came from behind the dark shifter. Calum was there, kneeling next to a wolf. Next to Margery.
Heather took a step in that direction.
Cat-graceful, the dark male stepped between her and her goal. He glanced at his kill, the rifles lying on the ground, then down the road. “I believe the mercenaries were targeting your mate, Cosantir.” His voice was as dark as his hair—with a soft French accent.
Shivering, Heather felt her legs give out. She collapsed.
“It’s good the wolves ruined their aim.” The dark one moved toward her.
The blond cahir frowned at Margery, then Heather. “Two little female wolves took on armed humans?”
“And kept my mate from getting shot in the back.” Calum’s British accent was sharper than normal. Vicki was going to be in trouble.
With a sigh, Heather laid her muzzle on her paws. Moving was