Wulfe Untamed (14 page)

No fun. He smiled at her understatement and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Let’s get home.”

She jerked. “Wulfe, I can’t leave my mom wondering what happened to me. I have to finish the call.”

Even as she said the words, her phone started to vibrate in Wulfe’s back pocket.

With a sigh, he handed it back to her.

“Hi, Mom. Sorry. I accidentally disconnected us, then had trouble finding a signal again. Cape May,” she said after a short break. Her gaze met his. “I’m going to soak up the sun, enjoy the scenery, and get some badly needed rest. No, I’m fine, Mom. I promise.”

As she met his gaze, a look of helplessness in her eyes, a familiar buzzing erupted in Wulfe’s ears. Red smoke rushed in to cloud his vision. Before he could say a single word to warn Natalie or his brothers, the darkness once more swept him up and away.

“M
om, why don’t you stay in Birmingham with Aunt Deb a little while longer? You might as well.”

Natalie saw the instant Wulfe’s eyes changed. One moment he was watching her with soft sympathy, the next, the cold indifference of an unpleasant stranger. Her pulse leaped as she remembered the last time.

“Mom, I have to go,” she said suddenly, struggling to keep her voice even. “Love you!” She hung up quickly. “Paenther!”

But even as she yelled, Wulfe scooped her up and slung her over his shoulder hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs and send the phone flying from her fingertips.

“Wulfe!” Jag shouted.

“
Melisande,
” Paenther called, low. “Get them out of here. Backyard of Feral House. And warn Lyon!”

A moment later, Natalie’s vision flipped end over end, the landscape disappearing into darkness, then bright sunlight as she found herself staring at soft grass beneath her hands and knees. Half a dozen yards away, Wulfe knelt, retching in the grass. Seconds later, Paenther and Jag knelt on either side of him.

The back doors of Feral House burst open, Lyon racing out, followed closely by Kougar and Tighe.

“What happened?” Lyon demanded.

“He wasn’t himself,” Melisande stated. “He grabbed Natalie hard enough to hurt her and started running with her over his shoulder.”

As the Ferals surrounded the three retching Ferals, Lyon looked to Natalie. “Are you hurt?”

“No. He just knocked the breath out of me.”

Lyon nodded, his attention back on Wulfe as the shifter leaped to his feet, his eyes still those of a stranger as he looked around, spied her, and started toward her with long, determined strides.

Lyon and Tighe stepped into his path, blocking his way. Wulfe snarled, his eyes changing to animal eyes, fangs sprouting from his gums.

“Wulfe, dammit,” Tighe growled. “We’re not immortal!”

If Wulfe attacked them with his claws and fangs, he could injure them badly. He might even kill them, which would destroy him in turn.

Natalie pushed to her feet and ran toward the confrontation. “Wulfe, no!”

Even as his muscles bunched as if to spring, his gaze snapped to her, and he stilled, the coldness slowly disappearing from those animal eyes, swept aside by confusion, dismay, and dawning horror.

“You didn’t hurt anyone,” she assured him, watching with relief as his fangs disappeared, as his face returned to normal.

Lyon stared at him. “What the hell happened?”

Wulfe swung away, his shoulders hunching with shame. “I lost it. That was the second time.”

And both times . . .

With a bolt of understanding, Natalie strode through the circle of Ferals, moving in front of Wulfe, forcing him to face her, even as he continued to stare at the ground. “Both times, my cheek hurt. Both times, you took the pain. Then, moments later, you turned into Wolfman.” She frowned, thinking. “The first time I experienced the pain, I didn’t tell you. And none of this happened.”

“Where were you taking her?” Paenther asked. “In Cape May, he snatched her up and started running,” He explained for the others’ benefit.

“I don’t know.” Wulfe shook his head as if trying to clear it. “I don’t know.”

“Inir has found a way to get his claws into him,” Kougar murmured. “I wonder if we’re next.”

The look that passed between the shifters was one of raw disbelief. And horror.

“We are so screwed,” Jag muttered.

Lyon watched his wolf shifter consideringly. “I don’t think Inir’s controlling us. I think this is just another factor of your Daemon blood. And, somehow, Natalie’s involved. The next time her cheek hurts, call for backup immediately. And don’t touch her.” His amber gaze swung to Natalie. “The moment you feel the pain, or the moment you notice Wulfe changing, yell. And don’t stop until we come.”

“All right.”

The Chief of the Ferals turned toward the house, and the others followed.

Wulfe hesitated, watching the sky instead of the ground. Finally, he turned to her, misery in his eyes. “I hurt you.” His voice throbbed.

“You were rough with me, but you didn’t intentionally hurt me. I’m fine.”

“Bruises?”

“Maybe. Nothing broken. Are you okay?”

For moments, he said nothing, his gaze returning to the treetops and the sky. “I don’t know what’s happening.” He scowled and started forward, then paused and held out his hand for her. “Let’s go inside.”

Taking his hand, she followed him through the back door, through the dining room, and into the hallway.

Wulfe glanced at her. “I need to work out. The fury is gone, but I still feel this need to fight. I’m going to work it out in the gym. Do you mind spending a little time in your room? I can get you some books.”

“Books would be good.” Honestly, she needed a little time alone, if only to process everything that had happened over the course of the past day and a half. And to get her emotions back under control after talking to her mom.

Wulfe led her down yet another hallway to a beautiful room lined, ceiling to floor, with bookshelves. A huge fireplace took up most of one wall, comfy-looking reading chairs scattered about.

“Books,” he said with a flourish.

“Wow.” As she perused the shelves, she found every manner of book imaginable, most quite old, most nonfiction, though one entire section was lined with twentieth- and twenty-first-century best-selling novels. As she perused the titles, she thought of the hours her mom had read to her when she was little. Natalie had never tired of the stories.

At the thought, tears burned her eyes. That brief conversation had thrown her more than she’d like to admit. Despite Wulfe’s assurances otherwise, she was terrified that, like Xavier, she might end up stuck here. She might never see her mother again.

“You’re afraid of me,” Wulfe said, his voice low and stricken.

Natalie’s gaze snapped to his even as she had to blink back the moisture. “No. I was thinking about my mom.”

“You miss her.”

“Yes, of course. And she’s having such a hard time with Xavier gone.” Her gaze sharpened on his, a plea, a demand. “I can’t go missing again, too, Wulfe. She’s already lost both of my brothers, if in different ways. She can’t lose all of us. It would destroy her.”

He nodded, his eyes deep wells of determination. “I’ll get you home, Natalie. I’ll make it happen.” But within that declaration she detected a thread of uncertainty. As much as he might want to, he couldn’t promise her anything, and they both knew it.

And truth be told, she was torn, and becoming more so by the hour. Going home meant leaving Xavier behind once more. Never seeing him again. Or Wulfe.

He reached for her, his eyes as tender as she’d ever seen them as he traced her jaw with the pad of his thumb. As she stared into those dark, fathomless eyes, adoration spread through her chest, sharper and more piercing than ever before. She could hardly breathe and didn’t care. She didn’t need oxygen, didn’t need anything but his touch. Though she’d only just met him, she felt as if she’d known him always.

How could she walk away from him, knowing she’d probably never see him again?

Her heart thudded, liquid warmth sliding through her veins, weakening her, strengthening her, awakening every cell in her body.

Wulfe lifted her hair, letting it slip through his fingers, then leaned forward and kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Pick out a few books.”

As he turned away, she stared at his back, at his broad shoulders, the pressure in her chest so great she feared it would never be contained.

Heaven help her, she’d fallen in love with a shape-shifter.

Chapter Twelve

A
s Wulfe waited for Natalie to choose a few books from the Ferals’ extensive library, he watched her, his chest heavy as lead. She wanted to go home, back to her world, to her mother. He got that. He understood, and he would do absolutely anything to make her happy, even if sending her home was the last thing he wanted for himself.

He just prayed he could keep her safe that long.

Finally, she turned to him, three books tucked against her chest—a Jane Austen novel and two others whose titles he couldn’t see.

A small smile lifted the corners of her lovely mouth. “I’m ready.”

Together, they left the library and started back down the hall toward the stairs. As they approached the foyer, he overheard Paenther and Vhyper talking.

“So what I don’t get,” Vhyper muttered, “is whether the real Satanan, the Daemon still trapped in the Daemon Blade, knows what the lost piece of his consciousness—the one that infected Inir—is up to. Are they working together, or as completely separate entities?”

“I don’t know,” Paenther replied.

“Separate entities,” Wulfe told them, as he and Natalie entered the foyer. He joined his friends. “One has no idea what the other is doing, but it doesn’t matter since both are fully focused on freeing the Daemons from that blade.”

Vhyper’s eyes narrowed. “And you know that how?”

Wulfe stilled. “I have no clue.” He scowled and started to turn away, but Paenther stopped him.

“Wulfe . . . what else do you know about Satanan, or at least about the piece of his consciousness inside Inir? We need all the insight we can get.”

“You already know most of it.”

“Humor us.” Paenther’s steady gaze demanded cooperation.

Hell. He didn’t know how he knew this stuff. If he could unknow it, he would. But, yeah, maybe it could help.

“During the years of the Daemons Wars, wraith Daemon consciousness shattered fairly frequently, the wisps hiding in rock crevices, in objects, and in the ground until a person—usually human—came in contact with them. The wisp, what we call dark spirit, would turn the host evil for the course of his or her short life, then both host and wisp would perish.”

As he spoke, Lyon and Kougar walked up, joining them, listening.

“But of the true Daemons,” Wulfe continued, “only the strongest ever left behind a piece of consciousness, and only in times of fierce desperation. The sliver of Satanan’s consciousness within Inir sheared off when he was being pulled into the Daemon Blade. He resisted the pull so strongly that part of him was actually left behind. Not until Inir accidentally came in contact with it did that piece of Satanan’s soul find a host and come awake again.”

Hawke and Falkyn joined them. Wulfe saw the surprise on his brothers’ and sister’s faces, but Paenther nodded for him to continue, and he did.

“In such cases, the lost sliver is usually never found, and the Daemon himself, though aware of the loss, is rarely incapacitated by it. He may feel the loss as one might feel grief for a long-dead loved one. A literal missing piece. If the missing sliver
is
found after it has infected someone, the two pieces can be runited only by destroying the host.”

Silence descended over the foyer as his Feral brothers and sisters stared at him with a mix of interest, surprise, and shock.

“How do you know all that?” Hawke breathed.

Wulfe shrugged. “Daemon blood.” He ushered Natalie toward the stairs, through with revealing his weirdness for the day. But he couldn’t help but wonder what other odd Daemon knowledge now resided in his head. And why.

“The woman Vhyper saw earlier is back.” Melisande’s voice erupted in the foyer behind him. “She’s coming up the drive.”

“Keep an eye on her.” Lyon leaped into commander mode. “If she leaves again, follow her. Everyone else, remain inside. I don’t want to scare her off, but she’s not getting away this time. I want to know who she is and what she wants with us. If she’s another newly marked Feral, she’s going straight to the prisons.”

Jag grunted. “Ten bucks says she winds up in the prisons no matter what she is.”

“She’s parking the car,” Falkyn called from the living room. “She’s getting out and starting for the front walk.”

“Move away from the door,” Lyon ordered. “Out of sight until we have her in the house.”

Wulfe took Natalie’s hand and hurried her up to the second-floor landing, where they had a clear view of the foyer over the railing. Fox, Hawke, and Falkyn joined them while the others melted into one or another of the hallways that fed into the foyer.

A moment later, the doorknocker rang on the wood with hard, confident taps, an interesting counterpoint to the apparently tentative nature of the woman’s initial arrival.

Lyon swung open the door to reveal a woman of medium stature and girl-next-door looks, dressed in hiking boots, knee-length shorts, and a lightweight vest covered in pockets over a light brown tee. Dark hair, corkscrew curly, fell well past her shoulders.

The woman stared at Lyon with a combination of wariness, awe, and that surprising confidence as she thrust out her hand. “I’m Dr. Vivian Mars, Assistant Professor and Director of the International Center for North African Archaeology at Boston University. I believe you have a Daemon in your midst, and I’d very much like to talk to him.”

Wulfe jerked.

Lyon, to his credit, showed no obvious surprise as he shook her hand and stepped back. “Come in, Dr. Mars. I’ll be very happy to talk with you.”

The woman didn’t move. “Before I come in, let me explain who I am and why I’m here.”

“It’s safer if we talk inside.”

The woman’s expression lit with wry amusement. “Safer for whom?” She lifted a hand, palm out. “Let me at least tell you that I’m human. Two years ago, during a dig in the East Sahara, I became the unwitting, if not entirely unwilling, host to a wisp of Daemon consciousness who’d been separated from his body sometime ago. He doesn’t know how long. His name is Strome and he desperately wants to know what happened to his race.”

Lyon turned toward the nearest hallway. “Dark spirit or something more?”

Kougar strode into the foyer and joined him. “From my experience, dark spirit craves violence, not answers. I’d like to hear more. Wulfe may
know
more.”

Lyon glanced up to where Wulfe stood watching, but Wulfe shook his head. He didn’t have a clue.

“Strome has sensed that you’re shape-shifters and wants your guarantee not to hurt me,” the woman stated. “He’s sensed the strengthening of a powerful force within the Daemons and seeks to warn those who might be able to stop it. About a month ago, he felt the awakening of an honorable Daemon consciousness. It’s taken us all this time to track him down. And we tracked him here.”

“You came by earlier today.”

“Yes.” She smiled ruefully. “Strome realized he was leading me into a den . . . a house . . . of shape-shifters and ordered me to leave at once. It’s taken me hours to convince him I’m willing to accept the risk, given all that’s at stake. We’d both appreciate it if you’d listen to what Strome has to say and not shoot the messenger, as it were.”

She looked up suddenly, her gaze finding Wulfe’s. “It’s you.” She smiled, stepping into the foyer suddenly, without hesitation, her gaze glued to Wulfe’s. “It’s you he’s been trying to contact, you he needs to talk to.”

Wulfe’s pulse began to pound. This was his worst nightmare come true. Not only was Satanan getting his claws into him, but now Daemons were starting to come out of the woodwork looking for him. Or slivers of Daemon souls, at any rate. A thought snagged him.

“You . . . is he the one who’s been whispering
Daemon
in my head?”

“Yes. He was hoping you’d answer and tell him where you were.”

“Call the Shaman,” Lyon ordered. He clamped his hand around the woman’s upper arm. “You won’t be harmed, but neither am I taking any chances. You’ll wait in the prisons until the Shaman can determine what you really are.”

“I think it’s a little late, pal,” Vivian muttered.

Lyon stilled, his face turning hard as granite.

Vivian looked up at him suddenly. “I wasn’t talking to you. Strome told me to leave at once, and I told him it was a little late. Am I wrong?”

“You are not.”

“I didn’t think so. I still answer him out loud most of the time though he seems to be able to read my thoughts well enough. Keep that in mind, please. It might be a difficult habit for me to break.”

As Lyon steered the woman out of the foyer, toward the door to the basement, Wulfe turned to Natalie. “I’m following them. Do you want to come with me or go up to your room?” This might be his worst nightmare, but he wanted to know what in the hell that Daemon knew.

Natalie set the books on the floor. “With you.”

Wulfe took her hand, pleased. He needed her close right now, her calm strength.

Together, they descended the stairs to the foyer, then the longer stairs to the basement, following the others through the gym and into the prisons.

“Is this where I stayed when I was here before?” Natalie asked quietly.

“Yes. Don’t go near the cells,” Wulfe warned her. “I don’t think any of the men will hurt you, but I can’t be certain.” He clasped her hand tighter.

Lyon opened one of the empty cells for Vivian and the woman walked in without complaint, then turned as he locked the door on her.

“How did you know about Wulfe?” Lyon demanded, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Strome sensed him, as I said.” Her confidence didn’t appear to have slipped an ounce despite her imprisonment in the shape-shifters’ dungeon. “He has so many questions, questions I’ve been unable to answer since humans didn’t know that Daemons . . . or shape-shifters, for that matter . . . ever existed.”

She moved to the door of the cage, gripping one of the bars in a casual manner, her gaze finding Wulfe’s. “What happened to the Daemons?”

He felt her intense gaze like an unwanted spotlight, but she didn’t pause long enough for him to answer.

“When Strome first glommed onto me, he sensed no other Daemons at all,” she continued. “That was almost two years ago. I’ve been researching like crazy, trying to find any reference to the people or events of his time, but I’ve found nothing. Then a few months ago, he sensed something, a hint of an old enemy, the Destroyer, he calls him. Satanan. Very faint, like a soul not fully formed.”

“We’re aware of Satanan,” Wulfe snapped.

She nodded. “Then, suddenly, three Abominations flew free into the world but disappeared within days. About the same time, a bright new Daemon light awakened. Yours. Your awakening wasn’t like a birth, exactly. More like a bloodline triggered—one of the old, honorable lines—and he knew he had to find you, to learn what had happened and to warn you.”

Wulfe’s jaw hardened. Though he wanted to hear what she had to say, his muscles tensed with the need to turn and leave. Why did she have to stare at him alone? It was bad enough that he was some kind of Daemon freak. Did she have to flash it like a neon sign over his head?

“Please.” Vivian grasped the bars with both hands, her gaze imploring him. “Strome is desperate to know everything you can tell him. The last thing he remembers was Satanan claiming the souls of his people. Daemon souls. Strome fought as long and hard as he could, so hard that a piece of his soul sheared off and became lost, the piece that I inadvertently recovered and that now shares space inside of me.”

Lyon finally answered her questions since Wulfe had no intention of doing so. “Satanan and his horde nearly destroyed the other races, the humans included. The shifters and the Mage joined forces, and with the help of the Ilinas, managed to incarcerate them in a magical prison, the Daemon Blade.”

“So they’re not dead,” she asked, turning to Lyon. Finally.

“We don’t think so, no. We believe that the current Mage leader, Inir, became possessed by a powerful wisp of Satanan’s consciousness some years ago and began stealing the souls of his own Mage in order to begin a campaign to free the Daemons. They’re very close to accomplishing that.”

“So Satanan isn’t yet free, but he’s becoming very strong within his host. Strome can feel that.” Vivian paused and looked away. “All right, let me try.” Meeting Lyon’s gaze again, she said, “He wants to speak to you directly. I’m not sure how it’s going to work, but I’m going to try to let him borrow my mouth.” She grinned suddenly, a woman’s smile. “Behave, Strome.”

Vivian closed her eyes and took two long, deep breaths, then went still. When her eyes opened, they turned to Lyon, a hardness in their depths that hadn’t been there before.

“If you hurt her . . .” The voice was Vivian’s, yet not. That hard gaze tightened with frustration. “I can do nothing. So I will entreat you . . . do not harm her. She is light and beauty and goodness, and poses no threat to you whatsoever. I will help you defeat Satanan’s rise in any way that I can so long as you vow to protect Vivian Mars. Satanan’s evil knows no bounds. He has destroyed or enslaved more immortal races than you probably knew existed, including his own.”

“If Satanan doesn’t rise, neither do you.” Tighe lifted a single pale eyebrow. “Why would you want to keep that from happening?”

Vivian/Strome turned his way. “Even if the Daemons fly free of the blade, my true self and I cannot be reunited without destroying the vessel in which I reside. Without killing Vivian. That would be a poor way to repay her kindness. And it is unknown if the male I have become is still worthy of this world after being enslaved by Satanan and incarcerated in that blade for . . .
how long?
”

Lyon answered. “Five thousand years.”

Vivian’s eyes widened. “Five
thousand
?” Her voice suddenly became her own. “No
wonder
I couldn’t find a trace of the places or people you knew. They were prehistory in most of the world. Okay, okay, I’ll give you back the mic.” She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, Strome was back.

That intense gaze turned to Wulfe. “You are only part Daemon.”

Wulfe glared at him for several seconds before answering. “A fraction. At most.”