Miralisse tossed her mane, leading him toward a clear pool fed by a small cascade. Other horses watched but kept their distance, curious rather than fearful. At her prompt he dismounted and knelt to cup the cool water. He drank deeply, and with each swallow his weariness eased.
He stood and faced the herd, heart torn. “I can’t stay,” he said softly. “My mate—he needs me. He’s hurt, maybe captured.”
Miralisse lifted her head, silver strands clinging wet around her muzzle. She made a low whinny—something between a call and a song—that echoed among the valley walls.
An ancient stallion emerged from the trees. His black coat carried a sheen of moonlight; his eyes, old and fathomless, studied Casteel closely. He dipped his head in greeting, touching Casteel’s shoulder gently with his muzzle. Warmth spread from the contact—an unspoken acceptance.
Miralisse led the way up a rising slope toward a narrow pass. Other horses fell in behind, forming a silent procession. Casteel followed, heart pounding with gratitude—and dread. Miralisse snorted, her flanks quivering. The stallion stamped. All around the Skellarae froze, instincts honed by centuries of hiding. Casteel drew in a shuddering breath, hearing the thunder of hooves, the shouts of men.
Then they appeared. Riders in silvered armor thundered through the gap at the valley’s mouth, their shouts and the clatter of steel announcing that the hunters had come.
The Skellarae had been safe in this sanctuary for six hundred years. And now, because of him, it had been found.
Chapter Eighteen
Nero took a shakybreath as for once Casteel listened and ran.
But now he had to ensure they weren't able follow him. He counted at least eight mercenaries spread out in a practiced formation, their weapons gleaming in the afternoon sun. Their leader, a scarred veteran with white hair, gestured sharply to his men as Nero's massive silver form materialized between them and the fleeing Casteel.
"Take the wolf alive," the man barked. "He will bring the mate to heel."
“But sarge,” came the shaky voice. “It’s not supposed to be him. I thought it was the stable boy.”
“Take the wolf,” roared the sergeant, and Nero grinned to himself. Eight? Not bad odds. They assumed an easy target. They weren’t expecting a battle-hardened warrior. He liked surprising people.
Nero's wolf-sight tracked the mercenaries' movements with detached precision. Three moved to flank him on the left, twoon the right, while the leader and his remaining men advanced straight ahead. They'd clearly fought shifters before—their formation was designed to prevent him from focusing on any single target.
The first attacker came from his right side, a lean man with twin daggers who moved with the fluid grace of someone trained in knife fighting. Nero spun to meet him, his massive jaws snapping shut on the man's sword arm before he could bring his weapons to bear. The mercenary's scream echoed off the rocks as Nero's fangs found bone.
But even as he dealt with that threat, the others were moving. A crossbow bolt whistled past his ear, close enough to part his fur. Another mercenary thrust with a spear, the iron point scoring a line across Nero's ribs as he twisted away from the worst of the blow.
Pain flared along his side—not the crippling agony of the arrow wounds, but enough to fuel his rage. The wolf within him snarled its fury, demanding blood for blood. But Nero's human mind remained in control, calculating angles and distances even as his body moved with inhuman speed.
He released the knife fighter, leaving the man clutching a mangled arm, and launched himself at the spearman. His shoulder struck the mercenary's chest with the force of a battering ram, sending the man flying backward into a boulder with a sickening crack.
"Nets!" the leader shouted. "Don't kill him. Bring him down!"
Two more mercenaries produced weighted nets, spreading them wide as they advanced from opposite sides. Nero recognized the tactic—they meant to entangle him, rob him of his mobility until they could subdue him with sheer numbers.
Through his bond with Casteel, he felt a distant pulse of fear. His mate was still running, still free, but something was wrong.The connection carried undertones of desperation that made Nero's protective instincts flare even hotter.
The first net sailed through the air toward him. Nero dropped low, letting it pass overhead, then surged upward to catch the second net-thrower's throat in his jaws. The man's cry cut off abruptly as Nero's fangs found their mark. But as the mercenary fell, the weighted net wrapped around Nero's hindquarters, the lead sinkers tangling in his fur and restricting his movement.
The leader seized the opportunity, rushing forward with a heavy club aimed at Nero's skull. Nero twisted desperately, the blow glancing off his shoulder instead of his head, but the impact sent white-hot pain shooting through his already wounded side.
More crossbow bolts hissed through the air. One found its mark, punching through the meat of his thigh. Another scored across his flank, drawing a line of fire across his ribs. The wolf's healing abilities were already working to close the wounds, but each injury slowed him fractionally.
"He's tiring," the leader called to his remaining men. "Press the attack!"
But Nero wasn't tiring—he was calculating. Through their bond, Casteel's terror spiked suddenly, a desperate pulse that cut through everything else. His mate was in immediate danger, and these mercenaries were keeping him from reaching the man he'd sworn to protect.
He'd lost one mate to failure. It wouldn't happen a second time.
The wolf's rage erupted with volcanic force.
Nero's howl shattered the mountain stillness, a sound that spoke of ancient fury and territorial dominance. He twisted within the net's confines, his enhanced strength allowing him to snap several of the weighted cords. With a surge of power that surprised even him, he tore free of the remaining entanglement and launched himself at the nearest mercenary.
His claws raked across the man's chest, shredding leather armor as if it were parchment. The mercenary's scream died as Nero's weight bore him to the ground, jaws closing around his throat with crushing finality.
