Rapture Untamed (4 page)

Kougar sliced the knife across his wrist, murmuring the words of the ancient chant as he slowly followed Hawke around the small pond deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. The night was clear but for a thin fog that had formed after midnight. The breeze toyed with Kougar’s short hair, but it barely registered any more than the sting of the blade or the blood running across his wrist. He’d long ago lost any ability to feel deeply.

His mind was focused on the task at hand, setting the trap to catch one of the three wraith Daemons the Mage had set loose on the world. For once, everything had come together.

This time, it was going to work.

Wraith Daemons required a certain kind of trap—a small body of water. In the old days, when Daemons were everywhere, the Therians had created their own by digging holes and letting the rains fill them before binding them with blood. But such traps were of limited use when hunting a single moving target. So far, of
no
use.

While Hawke sprinkled the concoction of binding herbs, Kougar added the key ingredient.

Blood.

“If my calculations are right, we should be directly in his path,” Hawke said over his shoulder, his voice even and low. “Finally.”

For a week, they’d been tracking one particular Daemon; the three appeared to have taken off in different directions after the destruction of the cave where they’d been freed. This one headed northeast, traveling at a fast clip, though Kougar doubted he had a specific destination. Wraith Daemons had always been nonthinking predators of the worst kind.

Hawke’s calculations said the Daemon would pass close to this spot tonight. For once, they’d found a small pond right where they needed it to be.

Tonight, they had to catch him.

When they’d finished the circle, Hawke turned to him, one wing-shaped brow lifting. “Another round, just to be sure?” In the shadows of night, Hawke reminded him fiercely of the hawk shifter who’d come
before him, the one the Ferals had called the Wind. An old, old Feral, and old friend, who had been killed in a Mage ambush a century and a half ago. The Wind had been Hawke’s father, and Kougar often saw the father in the son.

Kougar nodded. “Another round.”

As they once more walked the pond’s damp perimeter, he felt the silent communion of the two animals, cougar and hawk, creatures who’d known one another for eons. In both the hawk spirit and the feral in which he resided, Kougar had always found wisdom and a fierce, yet quiet strength. When the Wind died, Kougar had lost his last link to the old times, his last link to the man he’d been
before.
He’d feared that the coldness that had long ago encased his heart and stolen his ability to feel might finally destroy the last of his humanity. But the son and the hawk spirit itself had both reached out, filling the void left by the Wind’s passing, tethering Kougar to the world of flesh and blood. Of duty and honor.

Kougar’s heart might be gone, but thanks to Hawke, he still felt glimmers of emotion. Friendship. Loyalty. Though Hawke knew little about Kougar or his past, he knew something, which was more than anyone else. Of all the Ferals, Hawke was the only one he ever found himself opening up to. Despite Hawke’s keen and innate curiosity, he never pressed for answers. Which was why Kougar sometimes gave them to him.

When they’d gone around the pond a second time, binding tight the net of magic, the two shape-shifters moved back into the shadows of the trees to wait.

“It’s said the Ilinas used to help the Therians set these traps,” Hawke murmured.

A shard of ice contracted inside Kougar’s chest. “They did. Ilina blood and magic was mixed with Therian.”

“But you believe the traps will work with Therian alone?”

“They’d better.”

Hawke’s body went still as it often did when his mind was in full swing. “It’s said the Ilinas were mist creatures, spiritlike in their natural state.”

“That’s true.”

“Yet they bled?”

“They could turn to flesh and blood at will, and remain that way. In that state, their bodies were much like any Therian’s.”

“You knew Ilinas, of course.”

Hawke alone knew how old he was. “Of course.”

The hawk shifter glanced at him, curiosity a living thing in his eyes. “Do you know how they came to be extinct?”

The muscles in Kougar’s face clenched. He knew, but he couldn’t have told Hawke if his life depended on it. He said nothing, and Hawke didn’t press.

“Were they as beautiful as stories claim?”

“They were as varied in looks as Therian women, petite in build, with eyes…” He glanced at his companion. “They possessed the brightest blue, green, or aqua eyes of any women I’ve ever seen.”

Hawke’s brow lifted, a glimmer of humor easing his expression. “If anyone else had said that, I might accuse him of waxing poetic.”

“It’s just a fact.”

“I believe you.” And his voice said he did. “I’ve never understood how an entire race of women can exist. They couldn’t have procreated the way we’re used to.”

“Only by accident. Their usual method consisted of magic.”

“One would think they could have kept the race alive, had they wanted to.” Hawke’s tone was contemplative, as if he spoke to himself. “Then again, it’s said their queen, Ariana, destroyed them herself.”

Kougar said nothing. There was nothing he
could
say because the truth was something he could never share. The truth was, the Ilinas weren’t extinct at all.

“Kougar.” Hawke’s voice turned low and sharp.
“Daemon.”

The gnawing hunger drove Olivia from her bed about an hour before daybreak. She’d slept little, and when she had slept, she’d kept dreaming she’d started feeding in her sleep, and the Ferals were barging into her room, knives drawn, ready to carve her up.

Kara had given her an upstairs room, third floor, but she wasn’t sure where Jag’s room was, or even if he was in it, and she had been afraid to take any chances. If he sensed her feeding again, it would no doubt spark a full-out witch hunt.

But she needed to feed. Usually, she spent her nights draden-hunting, sucking the little buggers dry of life, feeding on them before digging out their hearts with her knife. It drove her nuts to think there were swarms of them just outside Feral House, and she couldn’t touch them. Not just because she was hungry, but because her drive to destroy draden was nearly as strong as her drive to live.

If only she could sneak out and find them on her own. But feeding off draden anywhere close to the Ferals was too dangerous. Even if she didn’t have to worry about Jag feeling her feed, the others might see her. The moment they did, they’d know something was wrong. No normal Therian could survive a swarm the size of the ones near Feral House.

Her skin felt prickly and uncomfortable as it always did when she began to get energy-deprived. How sad was it that in a house filled with energy, she couldn’t feed. In the land of a thousand draden, she didn’t dare go outside for fear of revealing her secret.

Which left her with one option, and not a good one. She was going to have to eat food. Tons of food. Even
that wouldn’t satisfy her forever, but it might tide her over until she could get away from Jag.

Olivia groaned as she pulled on a dark green tank and her black fighting pants, the pockets loaded and ready with knives. She never went anywhere without her knives. She’d learned early and bitterly that safety from draden was never complete. And while they could no longer hurt her, the very fact that they couldn’t made it all the more critical that she be able to fight them. In case of draden attack, anyone looking would merely think she was quicker than the beasties. They’d never know she killed them by sucking the life out of them.

Except Jag.
Dammit, this is going to get complicated if I don’t get away from him soon.

As she started toward the stairs, she heard the front door burst open. Her fighter instincts kicked in, and she edged to the corner of the upstairs stairwell, where she could see who invaded Feral House, only to watch as four sweaty Ferals poured inside—Paenther, Tighe, the bald one she thought was Vhyper. And Jag.

They’d been slaying draden, no doubt. Even Jag looked exhausted. His hair hung damp and unkempt around his strong face, as if he’d run his fingers through it a dozen times. His bare chest glistened beneath the glow of the chandelier, the play of muscles breathtaking even from two stories up, his armband gleaming around one massive biceps.

Her wayward body flushed, her pulse tripping, and she cursed and retraced her steps to her room. The last thing she needed right now was another run-in with Jag. She was too hungry. On too many levels.

Closing the door, she pressed her ear against it, listening to the soft pad of multiple footsteps on the stairs. She couldn’t imagine fighting so many draden at once. In Britain, the largest swarms these days were usually no more than a dozen. The Guard roamed at night, in groups of four, and easily dispatched them.

But this close to Feral House, and the Radiant, she knew they could top a hundred. Apparently, the scourge was multiplying faster than the Ferals could kill them, a problem that had grown all the more serious in recent months.

She waited silently, listening as three doors opened and clicked shut somewhere in the house. Three, not four. Far below, she heard the sound of the television. Not perfect, but good enough. All four would be sleeping or distracted while she proceeded to eat them out of house and home. Not literally. Hopefully. It had been a long time since she’d tried to live on nothing but food.

Taking a deep breath, Olivia eased out of the room a second time and made her way down one of the twin staircases that framed the elaborate three-story foyer. Feral House was a mansion decorated in an old-world style with lots of floral and gilt. As she descended the curving stair, she found her gaze drawn to the huge and
vibrant painting on the floor—a scene of lush foliage, sprightly wood nymphs, and rugged centaurs.

The sound of rugby on the television carried down the hall, accompanied by a puppy’s yips and the rumble of deep male laughter. The laugh rolled through her, stroking her with a bold, sensuous pleasure, and she found herself moving toward it on silent feet, drawn against her will.

As she neared the wide-open doorway of a well-tricked-out media room—a huge flat-screen television hanging on the wall before a bevy of large, leather recliners and sofas—the puppy’s sounds of happiness rose. The man’s laughter rolled through Olivia, lifting the corners of her mouth.

She eased to the edge of the doorway and peeked around, not intending to intrude, merely curious. But the sight of the man holding the puppy brought her up short.

Jag.

He lounged on one of the recliners in nothing but his camo pants, a tiny black schnauzer puppy cradled in his large hand, inches from his face. As she watched, the huge Feral shook his head, a wry look on his face. “I’m a cat, goofus. If you’re going to escape the witch’s lair, at least go make eyes at Wulfe.”

But the pup was clearly exactly where she wanted to be, her body a wiggling mass of joy, her stub of a tail wagging like a windshield wiper in a downpour.

As her tongue leaped out to catch Jag’s chin, he chuckled again, then lifted the pup until the two were eye to eye. “You’re making a mistake, Toto. Trust me, I’m the
last
one you should be wasting your kisses on.”

Something inside Olivia contracted at his words, at the sharp kernel of bitterness she detected beneath the soft, rich layers of gentleness he showered on the pup.

An old truth. An old pain. Neither of which was any of her concern.

With a grunt, the Feral lowered the wiggling pup to his lap, stroking her head and back with a big, gentle hand as she plopped her little black rump on his thigh.

“If you’re going to watch the game with me, you have to root for the good guys.”

The pup gave a high, happy yip, then hopped down off the chair and ran to greet Olivia.

She grimaced, caught.

“Fickle female,” Jag muttered, then stilled as his gaze followed the pup and found Olivia instead, his eyes flaring ever so slightly with surprise. Those dark eyes studied her face, then moved slowly, leisurely, as his gaze slid down over her shoulders, bared by the tank top, to snag on her breasts.

Her breath caught. She bent down to pet the puppy with suddenly unsteady hands, trying to pretend she didn’t feel as if the man had just used his own hands to stroke her instead of his gaze.

As she rose again, the puppy took off down the hall
with a happy yip. Olivia looked at Jag, her heart sinking as she saw the devilment leaping in his eyes. Only her pride prevented her from turning tail and following the pup down the hall.

“You here to do a little tail-wagging for me, too, Sugar? Want to crawl up on my lap and lick me all over?”

Even as her temper sparked at his refusal to show her the slightest respect, her nipples hardened, a rush of heat welling inside her.

“I’d love to, Jag,” she said silkily. “But I forgot my heels.”

To her surprise, he laughed, a soft roll of masculine amusement that lacked the gentle pleasure of the one he’d given the puppy but still set things to fluttering in her stomach and forced up the corners of her mouth.

His own mouth lifted in a smile that was at once lazy and knowing, and yet free of the bitterness and harshness that usually lined his face. But then something flared in his eyes, something sharp and dangerous. He rose with catlike grace to his bare feet and padded toward her.

She tensed as he closed the distance between them, bracing herself for a fight. Her senses swam. If she’d thought he was appealing from two stories away, up close he was breathtaking. His chest gleamed with hard, sculpted muscle, his abs carved from stone.

Her pulse began to race as he towered over her, but not from fear. Like all Ferals, he was a mountain of a
man, but if she wanted to, if she opened herself to feed, she could kill him before he knew what hit him.

“Back off, Jag,” she purred.

His mouth merely kicked up in a smile laced with challenge and promise.