Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A fter exploring the house with Patrin, Fell located an electrical socket and plugged in a recording of their voices. The timer would shut it off a little after ten.

In a bedroom, he plugged a reading light into a timer set to turn on at ten-twenty and off fifteen minutes later. Together, the devices would present an illusion of them talking in the living room, then going to bed and reading for a while before lights out.

As the minutes ticked by, the sense of anticipation and worry grew. Gregory had reported to someone. Who?

Wells was in town somewhere with some of the shifter-soldiers. There would be a spotter on each of the two paved roads entering Ailill Ridge. Soon enough, they'd know if the Scythe had taken the bait.

Stay on task. Waiting was the hardest part of this job.

Opening his sleeping bag, Fell stuffed in enough clothing to resemble a body. Just in case the Scythe operatives made it into the building.

Hearing Patrin's phone ding, Fell went into the other bedroom to check if there was news.

Patrin set a hand over the phone's receiver to report, "It's Wells. Congratulations, brawd, the Director was spotted in a car entering town."

Fell moved close enough he could hear the spymaster's cold, aristocratic voice. "For our opening move in football, we'll start by forming a loose semi-circle around the ball."

The ball would be the house. So the other shifter-soldiers would take up position in the forest around the house. "When the quarterback puts the ball into play, we'll close the circle and ensure the other team has no chances to throw the ball."

The quarterback would be the Director. So the shifter-soldiers would block the road and attack from behind the Scythe operatives. The ones in the forest would close in.

"Sounds like a fun game plan," Patrin said. "Make sure you avoid brush clumps. There's a big one on the east. Guess there's a downside to playing football near a forest."

In other words, Patrin and Fell would be hiding in a patch of brush, waiting to join the attack. They'd considered hanging out in a tree, but that wasn't a wolf's favorite place, and thermal imaging made it difficult to hide.

"Noted," Wells said and continued, "The other side plays rough, so do the same. However, the quarterback is fragile. Handle him carefully."

So, the plan was to eliminate everyone except the Director. Not surprising. The Director had information they needed. Like what happened to the Colonel. What was going on with the larger Scythe organization.

"Got it." Patrin hesitated and tried one more time to get Wells to see reason. "I still think you should ask the property owner to join the game. Or at least let him know so he doesn't feel left out. I'd hate to have him unhappy with us."

André was a reasonable sort, but no one in their right minds angered a Cosantir.

"Sorry, no. We'll tell him afterward," Wells said. "Any questions?"

"Guess not. Sounds like it'll be a great game."

"Absolutely. See you later."

"Stubborn human," Patrin said. "Let's get moving; it's getting dark."

"I'm ready." Rather than battle dress, they wore camo cargo pants in shades of gray and black, a tactical vest, sheathed knives, and pistols. Fell picked up his duffel containing his night-vision goggles, food, drink—and a cushion. Why be uncomfortable? On the way out, he turned on the recording and heard him and Patrin talking.

Inside the large pantry, Patrin lifted the trap door and took the steps down into an old-fashioned root cellar. Following, Fell closed the trap door behind them.

In the root cellar, the back wall appeared to be solid rock, but had a narrow door into a rough-cut tunnel. The tunnel had excellent bracing, thank fuck. A cave-in wasn't any way to die.

Closing the rock wall behind him, he followed Patrin through the tunnel, which opened in a clump of underbrush east of the house. The one Patrin warned Wells to avoid.

If in a forest, most shifter homes contained hidden exits. This house and tunnel were very well designed. A Daonain could strip, trawsfur, and emerge in the woods with no chance of being spotted by humans.

Even better, tonight, they could wait in the tunnel and not be detected by Scythe with night-vision or infrared goggles. They'd already tied back a couple of bushes so they could exit the clump of brush without sounding like a herd of buffalo.

When the fighting began, they'd join in.

After opening the door near the end of the tunnel, Patrin took a seat, staying far enough in that infrared imagers wouldn't catch their body heat. He said in a voice that couldn't be heard farther than two feet away, "I fucking hate waiting."

Fell snorted his agreement. It was too dark to play cards and talking in whispers got annoying fast. Getting comfortable on the ground, he leaned back against the cold rock and dirt wall. "I'd rather be getting cooking lessons from a little wolf."

Sampling the food. Sampling her.

Patrin half laughed. "Yeah, me too."

Bending his head, Fell tried not to feel the ache in his chest. By the Gods, how could he be missing her even before they left? But he was.

Patrin let his mind wander as the long minutes passed. And despite his best intentions, a whole lot of his thoughts were about the evening with Moya. Sharing food and wine, talking, kissing her. Touching… No, gnome-brain. Fighting with a hard-on was like asking to be killed.

Instead, he pushed his thoughts to the next possible targets in their war against the Scythe.

"There," Fell said almost soundlessly. His hearing was better than Patrin's.

Tilting his head and wishing for his wolf ears, Patrin caught the faint rustling of someone moving above. The soft crunch of dry snow.

Time to get their tails out of the cave. A glance at the open tunnel door showed a clear sky with the Lady's moon riding high. No need for the night-vision goggles.

He patted his pockets, adjusted his belt and holsters, checking once again that nothing clanked. All good.

Fell, equally silent, nodded to show he was ready.

A minute later, from the other end of the tunnel came the sound of the front door being kicked in. The attack on the house had begun. A flash-bang boomed.

Clever Scythe. They'd knew exactly what effect flash-bangs had on Daonain's sensitive senses.

Thank fuck he and Fell were in a tunnel rather than in the house. He grinned at Fell.

The yells of the humans above were muffled by the long tunnel.

" Clear ."

" Clear ."

" Clear. "

At least three Scythe were methodically clearing the house. There'd undoubtedly be more stationed outside the doors and windows to prevent Patrin and Fell from escaping.

Time to join the party.

Patrin jogged up the steep rise to the tunnel exit and poked his head out. No one in sight. He caught the wild—and familiar—scents of two fellow shifter-soldiers. A cougar and a wolf. No humans.

Easing out of the tunnel, he stepped aside to make room for Fell.

Once out, Fell sniffed and gave a comradely salute in the direction of the other shifters.

Patrin glanced down at his cargo pants and vest. Even if not downwind to catch scents, the shifter-soldiers should be able to identify Wells' custom camo pattern. Then again, with luck, the Scythe would wear combat helmets and goggles—and decrease the chance of Patrin and Fell dying by friendly fire.

Drawing his pistol, he eased out of the brush patch and moved stealthily toward the house.

Fell followed, slightly off to one side.

The snap, snap, snap of silenced weaponry came from near the house as they slipped through the forest.

Ah, there. A Scythe lurked behind a tree, stationed far enough from the house to serve as a backup in case of escape. He held a rifle—not a tranq gun—so his orders were obviously to kill rather than capture.

The thought of the bastard killing Fell was…

Anger lit Patrin's blood on fire. He aimed and shot three times, one to the human's lower spine to fragment the pelvis, then mid-thoracic area, and back of the head—his own version of a military double-tap.

Fell's pistol snapped as he eliminated the human's teammate.

Return gunfire came from the house, and Patrin dove down and behind a tree. Bullets struck the tree over his head, splattering him with bark splinters.

His heart was pounding, his mouth dry. Yeah, that'd been a bit too close. He glanced over, and Fell nodded. All good.

Easing sideways, Patrin moved forward quickly and silently. They had a Director to capture and interrogate.

Obviously on perimeter duty, the werecats Bryn and Rhys nodded at him and Fell.

Continuing, Patrin stopped at the forest's edge.

Black shapes lay on the small strip of lawn around the house. One was the grocery bagger, Gregory, and Patrin sighed. Damn the Scythe for corrupting their young with hatred and fear.

The firing petered out to a halt. In the darkness beneath the trees, shadows flitted—Daonain in human form.

Sounded like the fight was over.

"There he is," Patrin said under his breath.

Pistol out and pointing toward the forest, the Director was backing toward his car. The human was in his fifties, balding and had grown even fatter.

The last time Patrin had seen him was over a year ago when the male captives were taken to visit their sisters in Seattle where the female hostages were imprisoned. The Scythe bastard had been smoking a cigar and smirking at the male shifters who couldn't…do… anything .

Rage ignited in Patrin's blood. His pistol rose. Don't shoot him. Gritting his teeth, he kept his finger from the trigger. Barely.

On the street, Wells and a couple of his operatives took up station behind the parked cars. The Director wouldn't get away this time.

Patrin glanced at Fell and motioned toward a small wellhouse. It'd give them shelter while?—

A cougar flashed down the street, leaped on top of the car nearest the Director, and snarled loudly. The human spun around.

Coming from the side, another cougar attacked the Director, took him to the ground—and ripped out his throat. Black in the moonlight, blood sprayed everywhere.

What the fuck!

From behind a car, firearm in one hand, Wells ran forward to stand over the Director's body. "What in the fucking hell have you done? I gave you orders to leave the Director alive."

The cougar standing over the body trawsfurred into a lanky female with short black hair. Bron, the Chief of Police.

"Oh, by Herne's horns and hooves," Fell muttered.

"Yeah," Patrin agreed. From the size of the cougar standing next to her, he'd bet it was the other cahir, Niall. "We are fucked."

He had a cowardly wish to fade back into the forest and disappear. But this was their operation. They'd set it up. And even if Wells was human-stupid about Cosantirs, he'd been a damn good leader for the shifter-soldiers. He had their loyalty.

As they crossed the lawn, the Chief took off the mini pack she'd worn tight against her neck and stomach. Taking out clothing, she pulled on black trail pants, a black hiking shirt, and thin shoes. Once dressed, she crossed her arms over her chest and gave Wells a scathing look. "Explain what is going on here."

Wells scowled. "Who are you, and what are you doing in the middle of my operation?"

" Your operation. Good to know who to arrest." Bron's tone was colder than the snow underfoot.

The other cougar had shifted. Rather than dressing, he was talking on a cell phone. "Bron, André says to hold."

"Aye, Cosantir," Bron said in a louder voice, obviously to be heard by the person on the phone.

As Patrin and Fell joined Wells, André came down the street with his second brother, Madoc, beside him. Silently, the Cosantir studied the Director's body and the dead Scythe scattered over the lawn.

When his gaze lifted to the forest, pausing on every single shifter there, a chill ran up Patrin's spine. Of course, Herne's guardian would sense an influx of shifters entering his territory—and would know exactly where each of them was.

André finally turned to Wells. He tilted his head slightly. "You are the spymaster?"

"Wells, yes. You're the new Cosantir?" Wells' clipped voice stayed level, but his weapon was still in his hand.

" Oui . This is my territory." The shimmer of power around the Cosantir was growing visible. At least to shifter eyes.

Wells nodded. "In that case, I apologize for the mess."

"Do you now?" André considered the body at his feet, not at all unsettled by the blood everywhere. Then again, the Cosantir had been a Canadian Mountie before being called by the God. "This is the one called the Director?"

André and Madoc had undoubtedly heard Wells shouting at Bron. Patrin almost sighed.

Wells' face darkened. "Yes. I needed him alive, not a meatsack with his throat torn out."

"If we had known of your…operation…and intentions, that might not have happened." André's voice had grown as dark as his eyes. "You have trespassed in my territory, spymaster. The usual consequence is death."

The blast of power from an angry Cosantir buckled Patrin's knees. With a grunt, Fell dropped beside him. From behind them came the thuds and groans of all the shifters in the area. Bron, Madoc, and Niall were also on their knees.

Even without being tied to the God and the Mother, Wells was openly struggling to stay on his feet. He sucked in a breath. "Cosantir. I…" He paused, then holstered his firearm. "I'm accustomed to operating in the black without notifying the higher-ups. I didn't take into account the authority of a Cosantir."

Wells might have been told, but the human wouldn't have believed that the authority of a Cosantir came directly from the God.

"I screwed up." The way he straightforwardly admitted his error was just one reason why the shifter-soldiers took his orders while hunting the Scythe. "What can I do to make this right?"

Patrin's spirits sank. Nothing would make this right. The Director—and their hope for answers—was dead. For all they knew, these were the last of the Scythe who knew anything about the Daonain.

But they didn't know . The thought of continuing the hunt…forever…felt like a weight dragging at his soul.

"I believe the Law of Reciprocity would be most appropriate here." André's eyes were black with the God's presence. His gaze turned to Patrin and then Fell. "I require that you gift me with these two shifters. Release them from your service."

"I…what?" Wells stared at the Cosantir. "You can't just demand two people. This is the United States; there is no slavery here. And I need them."

"You've had them. They are done now."

Wells narrowed his eyes. "What if they don't want to stay here? What if they want to keep after the Scythe?"

André studied Patrin, his gaze piercing. After a long moment, he turned to Fell. A hint of a smile appeared. "Answer the spymaster, please, Fell."

Fell swallowed, glanced at Patrin, and his spine straightened. "We'll stay, Cosantir." He pulled in a breath. "I think this is our home now."

" Oui , I believe it is."

Patrin's mouth dropped open. What? What had Fell just done? Yet the blossoming sense of…of freedom, of relief shook him.

By the Gods, he wanted to stay.

He was still going to kill his littermate.

André was watching him. He nodded and turned to Wells, his expression implacable. "The others may remain with you if they wish, but their time is also coming to an end. A hunt is not meant to last for years."

Mouth in a straight line, Wells stayed silent.

The Cosantir's gaze swept the area again. "Remove the bodies. And notify me before you enter my territory again."

Fell watched his brother stomp up the steps to their apartment.

Patrin's anger was so vivid he should have been glowing red. "What the fuck were you thinking? ‘ We'll stay, Cosantir .'" He glared down at Fell before stomping down the hallway.

As Patrin fumbled with the recalcitrant lock, Fell caught up. "I was thinking that—" He broke off as the other apartment door opened.

Moya stepped out. Her eyes were sleepy, her cheeks flushed, hair tousled. In a long, fluffy robe, she looked far too cuddly.

Fuck, they'd woken her. "Ahhh, sorry?" He jerked his head at Patrin. "He's louder than a stompy moose when pissed off."

"I see that." Her ever-ready sense of humor showed in the curve of her lips. "If I'm not overstepping, what did you do to upset him so badly?"

Could he tell her about the operation?

Why the fuck not? Bron, Niall, and Madoc had been with André. Down the street, there'd been more Daonain, all within hearing. No point in keeping secrets. Still… "Long story. It's late."

She touched his arm. "You don't look calm enough to sleep, and I'm in the mood for a beer. Would you two like to join me?"

He couldn't imagine a time when he wouldn't want to be with her. "Fair exchange." When his brother didn't move, Fell growled and nudged him toward Moya's.

Patrin's upper lip rose, showing a fang.

As if. Fell gave him a look. Try it, brawd.

If they'd been alone, there would've been a fight, but not in front of Moya. Patrin turned and stalked across the hall to her place.

A fire had left glowing coals in her woodstove. Bending, she tossed on kindling and a bigger log. "There you go, Sally. Enjoy."

Who was she talking to? Oh, there was a salamander buried in the coals, tail twitching as new flames began to rise.

She really did talk to everyone and everything. As Fell smothered a smile, he saw his brother's expression begin to thaw. Slightly.

"Sit, you two." Moya went into the kitchen, returning with three bottles of beer.

Stiffly, Patrin took a chair.

Fell smiled and sat in the middle of the couch. As if he'd object to sharing the seat with an adorable female. When she handed him a beer, he pulled her down next to him. Close enough her softness pressed against his arm and thigh, and he could breathe in her tantalizing female fragrance.

After the shootings, the blood, the deaths, having her beside him was a tangible reminder of…life. Just by being herself, she balanced his world.

"Okay, I'm ready for a story." She glanced at Patrin, flinched slightly, then turned to Fell. "Sorry, wolf, you'll have to use all the words."

Her ability to lighten his mood—even after everything that'd happened—was a blessing. "Words, right." He turned so he could watch her face. "You know the shifter-soldiers are eliminating any Scythe who know the Daonain exist. The two at the top are the Director and the Colonel, although the Colonel is probably dead. The Director died tonight when he and his operatives tried to kill me and Patrin."

"What?" Her gasp of horror warmed the coldness still lingering in his chest.

He explained about the trap and Wells' reluctance to share their plans with the Cosantir. Bron had said Murtagh had called her, worried about Gregory's interest.

Fell continued telling her—muting the violence—about the fight, André showing up, and his decree.

"Wow. He didn't give your spymaster any choice." Moya shook her head. "André seems kind and gentle until his limits are crossed. Then the claws come out."

And those claws had been sharp.

"When he was talking…" Patrin finally moved, opening his beer. "His eyes went dark."

Fell nodded. "Like Darcy's Cosantir when we broke the Gathering laws. Tonight, André's eyes turned black."

"Fairy farts, your spymaster is lucky to be alive." Moya shivered so hard he could feel it. "Could you hear the difference in the Cosantir's voice?"

André's voice had deepened to something primal. "Yeah."

Moya laced her fingers with his, so tiny and warm. "If a Cosantir's voice goes weird, the God is speaking through him. The judgment came from Herne."

Fell rubbed his face. He and Patrin were less familiar with the Daonain rituals than the rest of the shifter-soldiers. My fault we weren't taught much as children. He'd been such a chatterbox, Mum hadn't trusted him not to share shifter secrets with everyone, humans included.

"Why make Wells release us?" Patrin asked. "It doesn't make sense."

Fell half-smiled. It made sense if the Gods actually gave a damn about shifters. Even messed-up shifter-soldiers. "Maybe Herne knows your nightmares won't go away until you're off the battlefield." After all, if I can figure it out, surely a god can.

Patrin blinked in surprise before glowering at Fell for sharing his personal problem.

"Considering what you've been through, of course you have nightmares. I have them too." Rising, she hugged Patrin. "I know how the loss of sleep and the emotions afterward can mess a person up."

Oh, the look on Patrin's face . Trying to hold back a laugh, Fell choked. His stoic littermate had no idea how to handle sympathy, especially from the little wolf who was so generous with her kindness.

But Patrin was nothing if not adaptable. After a second of shock, he lifted Moya onto his lap, settling her firmly with his arms around her. "I need lots of comforting."

He glanced at the empty spot on the couch and gave Fell a smug look.

Fell straightened. Huh. Now this sucks.

Moya wasn't sure what to do. How had her hug turned into sitting on Patrin's lap? With his very muscular arms wrapped around her.

Okay, yes, they'd had sex and all that, but in the three days since, he hadn't been all that different. Friendly, but reserved. He hadn't been affectionate or touchy like now.

Why was he acting different?

And why couldn't she stop thinking about the future?

They'd been here in Ailill Ridge as part of their job working for the spymaster. If they'd been released from that job, did that mean they might stay here in Rainier Territory?

Which led to what was messing her up.

If they stayed, would they be interested in…her? As more than a friend and neighbor?

Just the feel of Patrin's arms around her sent her heart rate into a fast sprint.

"Aw, brawd, did I steal your female?" Patrin chuckled, stood with her in his arms, and sat beside Fell. He set her down with her legs on his thighs and her butt on Fell's lap.

"Nice, Top Dog. You're forgiven." Fell put an arm behind her back and his hand on her stomach…just below her breasts.

She bit her lip, wanting to be touched, wanting them both.

Only…two? At once?

His fingers under her chin, Patrin tipped her face up. His dark eyes were warm. "You're not ready to mate with us both, blodyn tatws. Don't worry. We're not going there tonight."

Fell made a sound of agreement.

She studied them, could feel the lingering violence. "All right. How about you go shower and then bed down here in front of the fire?"

"With a little wolf between us?" Patrin asked softly.

"Um. Yes. If it's what you'd like."

"Oh, aye, I like," Fell kissed the top of her head.

Patrin smiled slightly and caressed her cheek. "Aye. Together."

As Wells unlocked the door to Thorson's house in Cold Creek, something lightweight bounced off his head.

What the— The moonlight revealed a pinecone lying on the steps.

Apparently, he'd annoyed more than a Cosantir this evening. Turning, he glanced around, hoping to see…something.

In the cold night, all he saw were trees and darkness.

Because humans couldn't see OtherFolk. Even when something called a tree fairy threw things at them. Dammit. There was so much about the world of the Daonain he didn't know. Earlier, his lack of knowledge— no, be fair —his lack of belief had nearly gotten him killed.

With a huff of exasperation, he walked inside.

Thorson's gravelly voice came out of the darkness. "'Bout time you got back."

Of course, the old werecat stayed up to hear about the fight.

"Had a bit of clean-up to do." Wells looked across the dim room, feeling his age in his bones, in his soul. How many of his fellows, his friends, had passed on, leaving him behind?

Odd that the closest thing he had to a friend now was this grumpy old mountain lion shifter. Even odder that they understood each other so well, more than he'd experienced in all his years before.

"You gonna tell me how it went?" Thorson asked.

Recently, Wells had taken to staying in Thorson's house when visiting Cold Creek. When Patrin called to set up the trap, Wells had been in the kitchen. With those damned shifter ears, Thorson had heard both sides of the conversation. In fact, the werecat had wanted to join the operation.

Stubborn old cat.

After checking that the drapes were pulled, Wells turned on a light. "Human eyes, remember?"

"It's a wonder you humans don't hide in your houses the minute the sun sets."

Wells smiled slightly, knowing Thorson's eyes, even when in human form, could see in the dark room. Sometimes, he envied the shifters for their added years of age, for the enhanced senses. And the ability to shift.

He was one to enjoy the unknown, but others weren't. If the Daonain were revealed, narrow-minded people would respond as they always did—by trying to kill the source of their fears.

Others would want to take what they didn't possess, and the Daonain would end up on some lab table, being rendered down in search of those answers.

"How'd it go tonight?" As a werecat, Thorson possessed more than a healthy amount of curiosity.

Wells settled into an armchair and gave the bookseller some Dickens: "‘ It was the best of times; it was the worst of times …'"

Thorson's laugh sounded like rocks rubbing together. "This sure isn't the age of wisdom . What happened ?"

"The Scythe died. A few injuries otherwise." Some shifter-soldiers had been injured from bullets hitting nearby trees or woodwork. One caught a bullet in the leg. But none of his had died.

Wells had long ago become used to seeing blood on the soldiers and operatives he sent into battle, but deaths… Those never got easier. In fact, the cumulative weight had become draining.

"And Vicki calls me terse." Thorson headed to the dining room bar and poured two glasses from the Old Forester birthday bourbon Wells had given him. He handed one over before resuming his seat.

"Appreciated." Wells gently swirled the glass, breathing in the mixed scents of vanilla and aged oak. He took a sip, holding it on his tongue. Soft and smooth with hints of fruit and caramel.

He glanced over at Thorson,

Thorson sipped his drink. "Was the Director there? Did you get your answers?"

And there was the worst of times. "Yes and no. The Chief of Police—a cougar—tore out the Director's throat."

"You brought in shifters from the territory?"

"I didn't, no." Although as von Moltke said—no plan survived contact with the enemy, and all possible outcomes needed to be prepared for. I fucked that up, didn't I? "I hadn't expected the local Daonain to butt into our well-laid trap."

Brows pulled together, Thorson leaned forward. His sweater sleeves were pushed up, showing the network of fine scars over his forearms. He was one tough old bastard. "How'd that happen? I heard the Rainier Cosantir was unusually reasonable."

"Not when he isn't informed about an operation in his territory." Wells knew his mouth was twisted into a sour smile.

"Ha! Stepped on your own tail, did you? How'd the Cosantir find out?"

Since the Chief of Police stayed until everything was cleaned up, Wells had taken the opportunity to ask her exactly that.

"It seems the grocery store owner was already suspicious of his bagger. When the operative showed too much interest in Patrin, the grocer notified the Chief of Police. And then…" Wells shook his head. "The Chief said the Cosantir noticed the shifter-soldiers I sent in."

Thorson snorted. "No doubt. Most Cosantirs check their territory every evening. He'd know exactly where your males were."

Bullshit . The way shifters boasted about their Cosantir's abilities could drive a rational person to drink.

"The Chief brought her own fighters, including the Cosantir's brother who is a cahir. Like she is."

Male Daonain cahirs resembled the huge weightlifter called the Terminator in an old classic movie. Bron, though… She was like an older, larger Sergeant Victoria Morgan. Impressively dangerous, competent—and striking.

He rolled his glass of bourbon between his palms. "When we had the Director cornered, the Chief jumped in."

"And there went your trap. How angry was the Cosantir?"

"Very." Wells could still feel the sinking sensation in his gut—because he'd truly understood that the Daonain possessed the ability to kill him, right then and there. "Then he gave me the terms for something called the Law of Reciprocity."

"This should be good," Thorson muttered.

"He demanded I release Patrin and Fell—my two best shifter-soldiers—and gift them to him."

It'd been an unwelcome surprise when, rather than arguing, Fell had agreed.

Thorson studied Wells and asked slowly, "Was it André or the God who demanded you release them?"

Wells had seen—rarely—when Calum's eyes turned black, and he hadn't been exactly convinced it wasn't some trick or psychosis. Not this time. This time, he'd known right down to his boots—he was in the presence of something…more. "The God."

"Then that's that." Thorson shook his head. "Maybe you need the lads, but if Herne the Hunter stepped in, then they need their clan and territory more."

Damn. Guilt slid like a sharp blade through Wells' defenses. He'd recognized the haunted look in Patrin's eyes—the same one he saw in the mirror every morning. It happened to those with too much blood on their hands and too many deaths weighing down their soul.

To those who needed to get out.

"André was right to take them." The last sip of his drink couldn't cut through the bitterness in his throat. "I think the Scythe who know about you are probably eliminated."

Slowly, he set out his thoughts. "The Director would have brought all his people tonight, the few he had left. Patrin and Fell almost succeeded in killing him the last time—probably why he went for a kill here rather than a capture. He was running scared." And couldn't have gone to the Colonel. They'd had a falling out, each blaming the other for the fiasco of losing their Daonain captives.

"You think it's over?" Thorson straightened.

"It's impossible to know definitively." Wells rubbed his face. Damn, he was tired. "But I am starting to think it's time to let the rest of your shifters go."

The shifter-soldiers were close to each other, even now. Earlier, Patrin and Fell had been swarmed and embraced by their comrades, and it'd been touching to see the affection the rest felt for the two who'd been their leaders in the Scythe compound. "I'll keep the shifters for another month to ensure there are no surprises, then send them back to your territories."

Thorson's eyes narrowed. "What will the spymaster do at that point?"

Good question. He'd turned over most of his responsibilities to his staff in order to pursue this division of the Scythe—the ones who could reveal the shifter's existence.

With that goal accomplished, the rest of the Scythe organization had to be eradicated. But his people could handle that without a problem, just as they were managing his tasks now.

He had no real interest in picking up his duties again.

Did spymasters ever retire?