Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

W axing moon, Cold Creek, North Cascades Territory

Climbing out of the pickup, Patrin took a long stretch, feeling the relief in each aching muscle. They'd started the long drive through the mountains to Cold Creek, Washington, before dawn. "Fuck, my tail end hurts."

"'Cuz it's fat?" Fell's lips twitched as he looked over the roof of the vehicle.

Considering there wasn't an ounce of fat on either one of them, Patrin only laughed. "Why don't you come and kiss my fat, furry ass, brawd."

With a snort, Fell grabbed the sack for Thorson and closed the door.

Together, they crossed the landscaped island dividing Main Street. Spotting a pixie perched in a rose bush, Patrin detoured to leave her a walnut from his pocket. There had been very few OtherFolk around the Scythe compound—and no matter how long he lived, free and with the Daonain, he'd never lose the sense of wonder at seeing them.

After over a decade of being assassins for the Scythe's brutal bloody missions, a year ago, he, Fell, the other shifter-soldiers and their sisters had been freed. And, even better, they'd eliminated any Scythe living in the forest compound as well as those holding their sisters hostage in Seattle.

He pulled in a breath and smiled. Free. No more prison compound living. He could go where he wanted. Eat real food. Get a beer and chat with other shifters. Or, like now, stroll through downtown with his brother.

Cold Creek in the North Cascades was a fine little town, even in November. Today, a chilly, silver fog filled the streets and swirled in odd directions as a few young sylphs played air elemental tag.

After this meeting, he and Fell would have a chance to visit Darcy. Patrin could feel the warmth in his chest at the thought. Their sister was doing so fucking well—happy and working at what she loved and even lifemated.

Damn, might she someday have a litter of cublings? Patrin almost stopped walking at the thought. He'd be an uncle .

Moving ahead, Fell started perusing the display window for the store named BOOKS.

With a sigh, Patrin opened the door. "Brawd, you don't need more books."

Fell's growl indicated Patrin would get bitten if he kept his brother from indulging.

If they hadn't had an appointment with the boss, Patrin might've pushed a bit more. Been a while since they had a good brawl.

Inside, the gray-haired owner, Thorson, was in his usual spot behind the counter, and Patrin couldn't suppress a smile. Last year, the scarred-up old shifter had taken on the task of teaching Patrin and Fell about Daonain ways—what they would've learned if raised in the clan.

With minimum appreciation for tradition, they'd been a trial to the tradition-loving shifter. Being fair-minded, Thorson had tried to see their point of view—and had clouted them more than once for disrespecting Daonain ways.

Thorson swept a sharp gaze over them, probably checking for blood. He knew they'd been on an operation for the human spymaster, Wells.

Of course, they had been covered in blood by the end, but not being foolish wolves, they'd cleaned up afterward. Showing up in a shifter town while stinking of death was a quick way to start all kinds of rumors.

"Is Wells here yet?" Patrin asked before spotting the lean, gray-haired human by the fireplace, holding a baby. He was talking with the baby's mother, Vicki. Wells might be the only human ever asked to be a caomhnor, the Daonain version of a godparent. Then again, Vicki had been a spy for him before a dying Daonain turned her into a shifter.

Unable to look away, Patrin felt an ache in his chest. Somehow, after a life of killing and blood, the spymaster had found a family of sorts. Had a cubling he obviously loved.

The gift of family wasn't one Patrin or his brother would ever receive. There would be no love for a female or a litter of cubs. There was too much death behind them—and their future would hold more. As long as any Scythe who knew of the Daonain was alive, shifters would be in danger.

All of those Scythe had to die.

This was their task.

"Wait for him in the storeroom," Thorson said.

Fell nodded, then set the sack he carried on the counter.

Patrin pushed it toward Thorson. "It's good to see you, old cat."

"Old?" Thorson's growl rasped worse than Fell's—and would've been threatening except for the flash of humor in his eyes. He looked in the sack and a smile…almost…appeared on his leathery face. "Glenfiddich. Good lads."

They smiled back at him. Because they'd both grown more than fond of the grizzled old werecat who was one of the toughest shifters in the entire Western US.

Patrin glanced at Fell and gestured toward the storeroom. "Let's go."

Instead, his flea-bitten, mangy-tailed littermate ignored him to head in a different direction.

Fell saw the annoyance in his brother's expression and smothered a smile. Hey, irritating a littermate was one of the small pleasures in life.

Or maybe he was feeling nippy because the last operation had been long and exhausting, because he had more blood on his paws, more deaths on his soul.

And yeah, maybe he was fucking envious of the spymaster who looked so comfortable holding a cub and chatting with a pretty female.

It'd be nice to be able to talk so easily. Fell sighed once, quietly enough his brother wouldn't hear. Even if he couldn't speak more than a couple of words without choking, he'd like to simply sit by a warm fire, drink coffee, and read an interesting book.

Sorry, wolf, that's not in your future.

Although…the coffee was going to happen.

He stalked over to the big machine that Thorson kept for his customers and drew two cups. The aroma of rich brew wafted up. After adding a splash of hazelnut syrup to one cup for his sweet-loving brother, Fell handed it over.

"Thanks, brawd." Patrin's flashing smile appeared, his annoyance gone in seconds.

The Gods couldn't have given Fell a finer brother.

In the storeroom, boxes of books formed a rambling maze. No windows. Feeling penned up again, Fell took up a position against the wall.

"Couldn't he have picked a bar or diner for this meeting?" Patrin used the boxes to build himself a seat.

Fell grunted a response, then automatically started cataloging locations for an ambush.

The door opened, and Wells entered, silent as a werecat, despite being only human. Then again, he'd spent his life doing covert operations. Sweeping the dust off a stack of boxes, he took a seat.

Fell moved a few feet closer but stayed on his feet. Just in case. Maybe, when he was a grizzled old wolf, he'd be able to relax.

Probably won't live that long, though.

"Gentlemen. Excellent work with your operation," Wells said.

"Thanks." Patrin leaned forward. "Do you have our next target picked out yet?"

Having spent his life in service to the US government, Wells had apparently been infuriated at how the Scythe had manipulated the US and other governments, instigating conflict between them to increase their own riches and power. At this point, the spymaster was as driven to the entire organization's eradication as Patrin and Fell were to eliminating the Pacific Northwest division.

"That's what you're here to talk about." Wells gave them a chilly smile. "Your teams of shifter-soldiers have eliminated every single Scythe operative not directly working with the Colonel or the Director."

"What about the Colonel and the Director then?" Patrin's frustration was obvious.

Matching anger was an itch under Fell's skin. The bastards needed to die.

Twelve years ago, when the Scythe's Pacific Northwest division discovered the Daonain, they'd attacked Dogwood, taking some and killing the rest. In a long-term power play, the division hid the shifter's existence from the larger organization—and thank fuck for that.

Not knowing the fatal effects of confinement and metal, the Scythe imprisoned the kidnapped "research subjects" underground. Far too many of the Daonain died.

Mum had died.

Fell took a gulp of coffee, not tasting it at all.

Last year, their sister Darcy escaped, found the Cold Creek shifters, and led a rescue of all the captives. Fell smiled slightly. He was so fucking proud of her.

After being sent to the Daonain Elders for the traditional education, nearly all the shifter-soldiers volunteered to help Wells bury the Scythe. Seemed only fair. The Scythe taught them to kill; the organization was now learning how thoroughly their prisoners had mastered those lessons.

As far as Wells could tell, the Pacific Northwest division hadn't shared information about the Daonain with the rest of the Scythe. Probably because the shifters had quite embarrassingly escaped.

Those Scythe all needed to die before they could tell their leadership about the shifters' existence.

Wells folded his hands on his lap. "Right now, we're at a dead end. The Director's lost most of his operatives; they're easier to find and aren't as trained as the Colonel's. At this point, the Director is scared enough that he wants all of you dead rather than recaptured."

"No surprise. He's a paper pusher who ran the compound for the female hostages. He's no soldier like the Colonel." Patrin frowned, his expression going hard. "Speaking of which—what about the Colonel?"

Fell's gut tightened. The Colonel had been in charge of the shifter-soldiers and their savage, often lethal, training. The human was at the top of his must-die list.

"He's quite possibly dead. He arrived at a location Bryn and Rhys were watching, and Bryn took a shot." Wells almost smiled. "Nice to see you shifters using tech now and then."

As werecats, Rhys and Bryn had the patience and skill to make excellent snipers.

"What happened?" Patrin rose and started to pace between the boxes.

"Apparently at least one shot hit the Colonel's chest, but Bryn and Rhys had to retreat. Almost got caught. By the time they shook the pursuit and called, the Scythe were long gone. The death hasn't been confirmed."

Fell scowled. Everything inside him demanded to see the Colonel's corpse.

"What about the papers and hard drive we sent you?" Patrin stopped to frown at Wells. After eliminating the Director's operative, they'd taken everything from his office.

And, as always, finished by loading a cloud malware virus into the system to ensure any backups were wiped out.

It'd been one of their fears—that the Scythe might have information about them somewhere. But Wells was a master at eradicating anything that might reveal the Daonain existence.

"Good job there. I went through it, and we possibly have an opportunity." The spymaster's icy blue eyes held a spark. "Did you look at the map you sent?"

Patrin shook his head. "We didn't have a chance to study anything."

"On the map, the town of Ailill Ridge is circled. The notes are scanty, but it appears a Scythe operative might already be there, looking for shifters."

Fell straightened.

Patrin's mouth twisted as if he'd stuck his snout into a mint patch. "Wasn't Ailill Ridge where that idiot Cosantir was from? The one who put up posters about the Solstice Festival?"

Which was why the Scythe had attacked the Solstice Festival—held in neutral territory—last summer. He'd heard the God had called for a new Cosantir.

"That's the town, yes." Wells leaned forward. "Having lost so many operatives over the last few months, the Colonel and Director are growing desperate. My informants in the other divisions say the Director hinted at sharing something exciting. He might have given up on keeping the Daonain secret."

Fell scowled, waiting for Patrin to ask. When he didn't, Fell forced himself to speak up. "Why is he hinting? Why wait?"

"They lost any proof of your existence when we burned their Seattle compound and the training stockade, then hacked their online backups." A corner of Wells' mouth tipped up. "I believe the Director has an operative in Ailill Ridge and hopes to capture shifters for proof."

The idea of another Dogwood made Fell want to vomit. The room felt colder, his skin clammy.

Patrin glanced at him, an eyebrow up.

With a shrug, Fell signaled he was all right.

Yeah, it was a lie. They both knew it.

His brother returned his attention to Wells. "Unlike Dogwood, Ailill Ridge isn't a completely shifter town. Half the population is human."

"Which is why their investigation will take time. They'll have to figure out who in town is a shifter. Although there are a couple of your comrades there. Kennard and Fletcher."

Stiffening, Fell took a step forward. "You think they'll be spotted?" The two were still cubs—no, they might have turned eighteen this year—but young. So fucking young. Wells hadn't allowed any of their under-age shifters to join the hunt for the Scythe.

"Actually, no. The Scythe's photos of you shifters appear to be from a couple of years ago," Wells said. "Those two work on a ranch out of town, and they're not especially distinctive."

Tall, skinny, brown hair and brown eyes. A Scythe beating had damaged Kennard, but most of his scars were on his back and didn't show.

"You're probably right." The pain in Patrin's eyes showed he remembered Kennard's scars. And, like Fell, he couldn't get past the guilt that they hadn't been able to prevent the beating. As if anyone could have.

"Why us?" Fell managed to ask.

Patrin tilted his head. "Maybe…for bait?"

"Exactly." Wells gave him a thin smile. "Of the shifter-soldiers, you two were the most successful. And visible. Unlike Kennard and Fletcher, you don't blend in. If you uncover their spy, we can follow him back to his leader—or lure the leader out."

When Patrin glanced over, Fell nodded, despite the sick feeling in his gut. Time was running out if the Director was going to reveal the Daonain.

And if Kennard and Fletcher were in danger, then Ailill Ridge was where Patrin and Fell needed to be. They'd protected the shifter-soldiers for over a decade. Their job wasn't finished.

Patrin straightened. "Aye, then. We're in. How obvious do you want us to be?"

"I want you working where you can be noticed."

Fell moved closer to Patrin. "The Cosantir?"

Patrin nodded his understanding of the question and turned to Wells, "The Cosantir of Rainier Territory must approve us being in his territory. Do you want him informed as to why we are there?"

"Hell no." Wells scowled. "It's bad enough dealing with Calum, and he's almost reasonable for one of your guardians. I realize the idiot Cosantir in Ailill Ridge was replaced, but let's not ask for trouble."

Patrin looked as if he wanted to argue—Fell certainly did. Pussyfooting around a Cosantir took stupidity to a new level.

After a moment, Patrin shrugged. "In that case, we'll get moving."

Fell finished off his coffee.

Goal accomplished; next mission ready to go. A chance to find and kill the Director.

Sounded good.