Which meant he had to find his answers immediately. Before he was forced to leave.
As he turned to begin the hunt for an Ilina who would tell him what he needed to know, something on the floor caught his eye. A flash of white--a card in protective plastic splattered with a single drop of blood. He bent down and picked it up. Turning it over, he stilled. Ariana's pensive face stared back at him from a photo ID that read ANNA SMITH, R.N.
A nurse. Not just pretending. Was she living among the humans, then? If she truly couldn't turn to mist, then of course she was. No corporeal creature could live long in the Crystal Realm. Not even an Ilina.
He stared at the card, then tapped it against his hand, a savage smile lifting one corner of his mouth.
The hunt was on.
Deep below Feral House, Wulfe watched as Esmeria, the most gifted of the Therian healers, touched the forehead of the human male lying unconscious in one of the three now-occupied cells in the Ferals' prison block. Long ago, all Therians had been shape-shifters, before the race had mortgaged most of its power to defeat the High Daemon Satanan and his horde. Now, only one each of nine of the ancient shifter lines still retained the power of his animal and the ability to shift. The nine known as the Feral Warriors.
"It's time." Esmeria glanced at him as she rose, running fingers through her short, dark hair. "I'm amazed these humans have been able to last five days without food or water. That energy Olivia fed them must have been powerful stuff."
The humans had survived the battle from hell in Harpers Ferry five days ago, only to face an uncertain fate when the Ferals had realized they couldn't steal their memories. And goddess knew, they'd seen too much--shape-shifting Ferals, three Daemons that hadn't existed in the world in millennia, and the gruesome deaths of three of their friends.
During the battle, Jag's new mate, Olivia, had fed them all a potent life energy, the humans included. The Ferals never killed needlessly, but neither did they hesitate to take the lives of humans who in any way threatened the anonymity and safety of the immortal races. Humans could not be allowed to carry tales of shape-shifters into the human communities. Too many odd occurrences might start to make sense to the more open-minded, and a witch hunt of colossal proportions could too easily ensue. The mortals, with their firepower, could end up destroying the only ones who could save them from Satanan's hell if the Mage succeeded in freeing him and his Daemon horde as the idiots seemed determined to do.
No, humans whose minds couldn't be cleared were a danger the Ferals could not tolerate. And yet, after so much carnage on that field of battle, none of them had had the stomach to end three innocent lives. So they'd brought the trio back to Feral House in hopes that the energy they'd consumed would wear off and make them once more susceptible to mind-clouding. They'd kept them unconscious as long as they could.
Esmeria stepped out of the cage. "All three are in need of liquids and some real sustenance, though nothing critical. Just feed them the next time they wake up. Since the unnatural energy is starting to wear off, you may be able to clear their minds now." The woman shrugged. "Or it might take another few days. It's impossible to know."
When Esmeria had gone, Wulfe shucked off his pants and shifted into his wolf. He curled up on the cool stone floor, where he could watch two of the captives and hear all three. The humans had been put in separate cages divided by thick stone walls. He lay in shadow, out of sight, in case any of them awoke suddenly.
Nearly an hour later, he heard footsteps on the stairs, his wolf's hearing identifying the one approaching by both scent and sound. His chief, Lyon.
Wulfe shifted back into his human form but didn't bother to pull his pants on. He wasn't a Feral who could keep his clothes on when he shifted and would just have to take them off again when he returned to wolf--the far more comfortable form for lying on the floor of the prison block.
Lyon appeared from the long passageway that led from the mansion's basement. When he reached him, Lyon extended his arm in greeting, as the Ferals always did. Touch was an important need to the Therians, particularly the Ferals, with their ties to the animals within them.
"Any change?" Lyon asked.
"They're still out. Any word from Kougar?"
The chief of the Ferals shook his head, a low growl rumbling from his throat. "I hate not being able to do anything for Tighe and Hawke. I trust Kougar to do what he can, but there's no way to know if he'll succeed. We can't lose them."
Lyon stared into one of the cages. "The sooner we get these three stripped of their memories and out of here, the better. I don't like that they're here. And I sure as hell hope you can get into the male's memories if it turns out he's blind, as you suspect."
Minds were clouded and memories stripped by staring into the eyes. A blind person offered no easy entry. Possibly, no entry at all.
Wulfe shrugged. "I'll do what I can." Tighe would do better. He was the best at clouding human minds. But Tighe wasn't here and, goddess help them, might never be again.
The soft rustle of clothes on stone told him one of the humans was stirring, and he shoved back the grief that tried to crowd him at the thought of his friends lost in that spirit trap.
The blonde was the one stirring. He'd taken watch enough times over the past days to be well acquainted with which human lay in which cell. The blind male, who'd been ignored by the Daemons even though he'd been staked with the others, was in the cell out of his direct line of sight. The other two were females--the one with the lip ring who looked to be still in her teens, and the blonde who, he was certain, was older than the other two by at least eight to ten years. She was thirty, or close to it, her limbs long, her face pretty but for the three-inch gash one of the Daemons had opened in her cheek.
Wulfe had healed the cut enough to stop the bleeding, but she was going to have a hell of a scar. And if anyone knew a thing or two about scars, it was he. He rubbed his jaw, feeling the soft brush of day-old whiskers. Whiskers that did little to hide his own disfigurement--the hideous marks that had long ago transformed him from a male women admired into one from whom they ran.
At the sound of a soft feminine groan, he and Lyon both stiffened. "You'd better talk to her, Roar," he said quietly, reaching for the jeans he'd tossed against the wall. "She doesn't need any more terrorizing."
Lyon grunted. "I don't have much luck with terrified humans . . . or females who think they're human." Wulfe knew Lyon referred to the night he'd plucked their new Radiant, Kara, out of her human world with all the finesse of a bear in a flower garden. She'd adjusted beautifully, but apparently that had been one hell of a night. For both of them.
He and Lyon eyed one another, each looking to dodge this particular task, each certain the prison block was about to erupt in screams and/or tears.
"We need Kara," Wulfe muttered, pulling on his pants.
Lyon nodded, relief flooding his eyes before he turned back to the passage that led into the house. "I'll get her."
"Use your cell phone."
"It won't take but a few minutes."
"Coward."
"Not denying it." With a quick, feral grin, Lyon disappeared into the passage, leaving Wulfe alone with the waking human female. Dammit.
Safe in the shadows, Wulfe watched as the woman struggled to sit up, working her way back to full consciousness. Her blond hair was straight and mussed, her casual clothes wrinkled, but not visibly damaged. Confusion clouded soft gray eyes beneath knitted brows as she looked around. Lifting a hand, she touched the wound on her face and winced, then jerked and slowly turned to stone.
Remembering.
Her jaw dropped, her eyes at once flaring and tightening with pain and a horror few humans had experienced in the last five thousand years, and none had lived to tell about.
Here it comes. Wulfe tensed, prepared for a flood of tears and a few good screams, even before he showed his ugly face.
But no tears came. Instead, she shot unsteadily to her feet, grabbing the bars of her cage. "Xavier?" Her voice was hoarse with lack of use and raw with fear. "Xavier!"
The fear wasn't for herself, he realized. Not directly. He noted the modest diamond solitaire on the third finger of her left hand. Was the male her intended mate, then?
Her agitation grew as the seconds passed without answer. And while he could tell she was struggling to hold on to control, she was losing. The tears were beginning to spring up in her eyes though they'd yet to fall."Xavier!"
He'd been hoping to leave the woman to Kara. Like most males of his acquaintance, he took off . . . or wanted to . . . at the first sign of tears. But this one was fighting them so valiantly, he found he couldn't let her suffer.
"Is Xavier blind?" he asked from the shadows.
"Yes." The word burst from her lips, her gaze spinning toward him. Hope and fear shone in her damp eyes.
Damn. He was hoping he'd been wrong about the blind part. "He's unharmed, unconscious, as you were. He's in one of the other cells." From the angle of her cage and where the blind male was lying in his, he doubted she could see him.
Her forehead dropped to the bars, her shoulders bending as if crumbling beneath the weight of her relief. After several, deep, trembling breaths, she straightened again, once more spearing him with that gaze that he found oddly . . . visceral.
"Who are you?" By the tone of her voice, he wondered if she feared he was one of the Daemons.
"We're the ones who rescued you. You're safe now."
"Then why are we caged?"
Good question. And he couldn't see any reason not to tell her the truth. "We can't set you free until we're able to take your memories of us and all you've seen."
She was silent for a moment, as if processing that. Would a human believe memories could be taken? Then again, after all she'd seen, she was likely to believe anything.
"Then you'll let us go?"
He hesitated. "Yes." There was no sense in scaring her. But it was unlikely Xavier was going anywhere. Alive.
"Let me see him. Please."
Ah, crud. Where is Kara? "Someone will be down soon . . ."
"Please."
He'd given her hope that her male was alive, but no proof. And she clearly needed that proof. Hell. "All right. But . . ." I'm ugly as sin. "I'm not going to hurt you."
He sighed and stepped out of the shadows, watching her carefully, surprised when she seemed almost . . . relieved. Well, hell, of course she would be. She'd probably feared he'd be a Daemon.
The band of tension eased from his chest, and he strode to her cell and unlocked her door. She was out like a shot, brushing past him. Spying the male, she surged forward, clinging to the bars of the male's cage while Wulfe unlocked the cell door. The moment he swung it open, she bolted inside and fell to her knees beside the young man.
"Xavier? Xave?" Her hand went to his throat, to his pulse. As she clearly felt what she was searching for, she sank back on her heels, gripping one of Xavier's hands, the tension flowing out of her.
"Is he your mate?"
She turned to meet Wulfe's gaze, looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. But still no revulsion or fear crossed her features. "He's my brother."
Had the other human male been her mate, then?
As if reading his mind . . . or his expression . . . she shook her head. "My fiance wasn't there." Remembered horror swam through those soft gray eyes. "The others . . . Jill, Mary Rose. They're dead, aren't they?"
He hated to add to her misery, but the knowledge lived in her eyes. There was no sense in lying to her. "Three died. Two females and a male. The remaining female is the one in that cage." He motioned across the block.
Her head snapped around where she could see the one with the lip ring clearly, but her expression didn't change. She clearly felt no relief.
"You don't know her."
"I . . . yes, I know her, or at least I know who she is. Her name is Christy. I only met her today. Her boyfriend is Mary Rose's brother. Was." She swallowed hard. "He was."
She'd handled all she could take, he could see it in the faint shaking of her shoulders and the way she was beginning to hunch over with pain. Though five days had passed, she thought it had all happened today.
"What's your name?" he asked quietly.
"Natalie." Her voice was thickening with tears. "Natalie Cash."
"I'm sorry, Natalie."
A fat tear dripped from her cheek. Then another.
Wulfe gripped several bars of the cage as he watched her struggle with the grinding grief, and loss. He'd expected to want to run at the first sign of tears. Instead, he felt a compulsion to move forward, not back. To try to comfort her, which was a laugh. He wouldn't even know where to begin.
Her crying grew worse, and she bent over, wracked with sobs.
If only he'd been able to take her memories in Harpers Ferry, she wouldn't have to suffer like this.
He straightened. Esmeria had said enough time might have already passed. He might be able to take them now.
Easing his big frame into the cell, he squatted beside her, hoping he didn't scare her by getting too close.
"Natalie?"
She straightened, looking at him with tear-drenched eyes, her hand going to her face as she choked on another sob.
"Look at me. Look into my eyes, and let's see if we can't make you forget."
Her head jerked. "I don't . . ." The sobs wouldn't leave her, and she quit fighting both of them and looked into his eyes as he'd requested.