Fox suddenly felt like shite. “My apologies,” he told the other two, his fangs and claws receding.

“No apologies necessary,” Kougar said evenly, picking up a sandwich. “New Ferals are notorious for losing control like that. I’ve been waiting for it to happen.”

“I’m usually even-tempered.”

“Which is why it hasn’t happened sooner. Going feral helps us get the frustration out of our systems. Lyon’s suffering goes too deep. But this was good for him. He needed an outlet.”

Jag clapped Fox on his now-healed shoulder. “You fight like a natural, pretty boy.”

Fox acknowledged the compliment with a nod. “If only we had someone to fight other than each other.” He looked at Kougar. “Is there anything the Ilinas can do to help?” Just the word Ilinas had his pulse lifting as thoughts of Melisande rushed through his head. Despite everything that had happened, he’d been unable to forget her for even a moment, however much he’d tried.

“Unfortunately, no. They can find one another, or their mates, but otherwise, they can only follow maps and directions, like the rest of us. Lyon’s asked them to help out here. Ariana should be arriving shortly to discuss the plans with him.” His mouth tightened. “Or with Paenther.” Lyon’s second.

Would Melisande accompany her queen? At the thought, Fox’s pulse quickened.

The sound of shouts outside had all three of them slamming down glasses, tossing aside sandwiches, and racing for the hallway. They reached the foyer just as Paenther wrenched open the front door.

“You killed my daughter, you whoreson! You killed her!” The furious voice carried from the front drive.

Paenther strode outside, Fox and the others hard on his heels.

In the wide circular drive in front of Feral House, Tighe and Vhyper, two of the original nine Ferals, stood beside Tighe’s white Land Rover, arms crossed as they watched a furious man Fox didn’t know pound the shit out of Grizz, another of the seventeen who, like Lynks, had presumably been cleared of the dark magic.

As Paenther and Fox strode down the brick walk, Tighe circled the combatants to meet them.

“What’s going on?” Paenther demanded, his strong Native American heritage evident in the tone of his skin, the slash of high cheekbones, and the jet-black hair.

“Your guess is as good as mine,” Tighe replied. “Vhyper and I just picked up Rikkert from the airport. Grizz was crossing the driveway, heading toward the house, when we drove up. Rikkert leaped from the Rover and attacked him.”

Fox had heard that several more newly marked Ferals, more of the seventeen, had made contact and were making their way to Feral House. Rikkert must be one of them.

They watched the fight with disbelief, but none bothered to step in. Over seven feet of hard, bad-tempered bear in either form, Grizz didn’t need defending, especially since a Feral who’d come into his animal power, as Grizz had, could defeat any nonshifted Therian, marked or unmarked. If Grizz wanted to end the fight, he’d end it. In a heartbeat. Fox suspected he wasn’t the only one who’d like to know why the male didn’t. He was taking one hell of a beating.

“That’s enough,” Paenther said quietly. “We don’t need anyone calling the cops again.” There were no houses bumping up against Feral House, and the vehicles blocked the sight of those on the other side of the shallow woods. But sound carried outside.

With a fist covered in tattooed eagle feathers, Rikkert continued to punch Grizz in the face, over and over, the crack of bone making Fox’s stomach hurt. Rikkert had tats everywhere, covering nearly every inch of his exposed skin. Most appeared to be depictions of animals, including a snake that curled around his neck, battling a stallion. A tusk, or horn of some kind, curled out from beneath one of his ears, cutting across his cheek, its point coming to rest just beneath his eye.

Tighe and Jag waded into the fight and hauled the enraged Rikkert off the downed man.

Paenther nodded toward the house. “Get him inside.” As the two Ferals led the newest member of the team away, Paenther moved to stand over Grizz, who remained on the ground, one hand pressing against his forehead in a pose that spoke more of a pain of the heart than of the flesh. “What in the hell was that all about?”

“None of your fucking business.” Grizz rolled over and pushed himself to his seven-foot-plus height, his face still bloody, but already fully healed, and strode toward the woods that separated Feral House from the rocky cliffs that overhung the Potomac River.

As the rest of them watched him go, Paenther let out a frustrated sound. “We need a break. Just one fucking break.” He turned back to the house, and Fox and the others followed.

As they stepped into the foyer, Fox caught the scent of pine. His pulse leaped. A moment later, two women materialized at the base of the stairs. Ariana.

And Melisande.

Fox’s heart skipped a beat, a sensual energy dancing over his skin as he struggled not to stare at the woman who’d been haunting his every thought for the past two days. She was dressed the same as before, in leggings and a tunic, though today’s tunic was more copper in color than true brown and set off her slender curves and flawless complexion to perfection. Her mouth was flat, as if Feral House was the last place she wanted to be, her chin stubborn and hard. But her eyes found him as if she felt his presence as keenly as he felt hers. Their gazes caught. Her ripe lips parted on a shallow breath, color blooming in ivory cheeks even as those sapphire eyes filled with dismay. And frustration.

She tore her gaze away, leaving him breathless, his heart hammering in his chest. As tempted as he was to stop, to just stand near her, he forced himself to keep going, to continue across the foyer to the hallway leading to the dining room. Melisande and Ariana were here for Lyon, not for him.

He nodded as he passed the two beauties, then headed back toward the dining room and his lunch. He needed food. And a cold beer. Maybe several. But as he reached the hallway, he glanced back, unable to resist one last glimpse, and found Melisande staring after him with a hard mouth and eyes filled with confusion . . . and desire.

It was all he could do to keep going when his feet wanted to turn back and close the distance between them. Now wasn’t the time to pursue the woman, he knew that. Not with Kara missing. Not with half of the new Ferals turning against them. But, goddess, what she did to him.

Sooner or later, she was going to be his.

Melisande tore her gaze away from the now-empty threshold, shaking her head, stifling a groan, hating that she kept reacting to that male. Her pulse was pounding, her body flushed and damp, and all from merely looking at him. But, heaven help her, even with his shirt ripped and blood everywhere, he was a sight to behold with those piercing blue eyes and that fine, fine chest. At least this time he hadn’t tried to flirt with her, though for a moment, his eyes had flared with heat, and she knew he was as affected by her as she was by him. Dammit.

She tried to force her attention back to the foyer and to Paenther as he spoke to Ariana, beside her, but she found herself shifting restlessly from one foot to the other, too aware of the feel of her soft tunic where it touched her skin, skimming now-taut nipples, caressing her arms and back and shoulders. What would it feel like to have Fox’s hands on her instead?

The question popped unbidden into her mind, and she shoved it away with a scowl. By the mist.

“I want Ilina eyes on Feral House at all times,” Paenther was saying. “If anyone comes near—anyone other than those who live here—I want to know about it immediately.”

Ariana nodded. “Tell me how many warriors you need, Paenther, and they’ll be at your disposal.”

“Half a dozen, preferably in mist form so they won’t be seen by passing humans. Is that possible?”

Ariana nodded. “Yes, if they’re careful.”

“Good.”

The front door opened, sunshine pouring into the foyer as Hawke and Faith strolled in. No, she was Falkyn now, the first female Feral in centuries. Exhaustion and defeat lined both of their faces. The hopeful tension that had risen in the foyer at their appearance released in despair.

“Any news?” Hawke asked, closing the door behind him.

“None.” Paenther’s voice was hard as stone.

Melisande didn’t envy the Mage who’d taken the Ferals’ Radiant. They wouldn’t survive the Ferals’ retribution. And if there was one thing she understood very, very well, it was the need for vengeance. Castin was still out there somewhere, the shifter who’d betrayed her all those years ago, leading her and seven of her Ilina sisters into a trap that would see her friends dead and her damaged beyond repair. He still lived, she could feel it in her bones, and someday their paths would cross again. And on that day, she would cut out his heart.

A trip of sensual energy danced over Melisande’s flesh, making her gasp, pulling her gaze to the threshold where Fox had disappeared a short time ago. He stood there again, some twenty feet away, one shoulder propped against the doorframe, a bottle of beer dangling from his fingers. That sky blue gaze caught hers, snaring her in a velvet grip, accelerating her heart rate. The barest of smiles lifted his mouth, a smile that stirred the traitorous attraction. A softness entered his eyes, wrapping around her, stroking over her flesh like a warm, gentle touch, igniting a longing she didn’t understand.

And didn’t want.

She wrenched her gaze away, once more breathless and unsettled, perspiring in a room gone suddenly too warm. Damn him!

“We’ll be going,” Ariana said beside her, then shared a brief, tender kiss with Kougar, her mate.

Melisande ignored the mated pair, struggling to get her traitorous pulse under control even as she fought to keep from looking at the man who’d set it to flight in the first place. Stars in heaven, it had been so long since she’d felt anything like this, since she’d felt virtually anything at all. And she didn’t want to be feeling now.

She liked who she was, what she was—a warrior capable of doing what must be done to protect her queen and her race. Some called her cold, even heartless, but she was fine with that. Better than fine. It was exactly what she wanted.

Feelings made a warrior soft, made her lose her edge. And that was something Melisande refused to allow.

Fox watched Melisande disappear, misting out of the crowded Feral House foyer, leaving him feeling solar-plexed. Every time he came anywhere near her, he felt a buzz of desire unlike anything he’d ever experienced, a shadow of the pleasure she’d blasted him with the first time, perhaps, but incredible, all the same.

He’d been attracted to her from the moment he first saw her. She was so small, so . . . perfect. And he had to admit, that hard-ass attitude of hers turned him on, probably because no other woman had ever shoved such blatant stop signs in his face. She was a challenge, without a doubt. But she was more than that.

Each time their gazes met, he felt as if he were being sucked into a whirlpool. And he wondered if perhaps she felt the same, if some of her anger wasn’t simply a determination to resist.

And just how long would she be able to resist? The question tantalized.

“Where are the new Ferals?” Hawke asked, hooking his arm around Falkyn’s shoulders, pulling her close against his side, a look on his face that had all of them straightening. Tensing.

“Lepard is down in the gym with some of the others,” Paenther replied. “Grizz took off on foot into the woods a while ago.” He glanced at Tighe. “Rikkert?”

“Vhyper took him back to the dining room to settle him down.”

Hawke nodded. “We need to talk.”

“Lyon’s office.” Paenther turned and started down the hall, Hawke, Falkyn, Kougar, and Tighe close behind. When Jag stepped forward, Fox hesitated. Technically, he was one of the new ones, if not one of the seventeen.

Jag glanced at him. “Come on, Foxylocks.”

Fox flipped him off, grinned, and followed. It was odd, and sometimes awkward, to be straddling the two camps. He might be a new Feral, but the animal spirit who’d marked him had been one of the nine never lost, never infected.

As they started back to Lyon’s office, a shiver stole through him from out of nowhere. An odd shiver more of the mind than the body. A moment later two words formed in his head.

West Virginia.

Had his gut offered up a truth at last? Though what kind of truth West Virginia presented, he had no idea. Usually goose bumps preceded his intuitions, but he knew the nature of gifts tended to change after one was marked by the animal.

So, was his gut telling him to go to West Virginia? Was that where the Mage had taken Kara? The thought teased him, lifting his pulse with excitement, then dropping it just as fast. His intuition more often than not offered up relatively useless information. For all he knew, his gut was trying to tell him that West Virginia was the current location of his next car.

Hell, he didn’t even know where in West Virginia.

Lyon, standing by the window rigid as stone, turned when they entered.

“Hawke has information.”

At the flare of hope in Lyon’s eyes, Hawke held up his hand. “Not about Kara, Roar. I’m sorry.”

The Chief of the Ferals nodded, his body turning once more to marble.

When all eight were pressed into Lyon’s office, Paenther closed the door and turned to Hawke expectantly.

The hawk shifter lifted one steepled brow. “We’ve been acting under the assumption that the new Ferals were marked by accident, that the dark magic hampered the animal spirits’ abilities to mark the best of the line, leaving the ones marked a random selection. We were wrong.”

Grunts and groans peppered the small room.