Moonshadow (Moonshadow #1)(10)

Earlier, when the questing, feminine Power had brushed against him, he had bristled and whirled to attack, but now that the heat of battle had died down, he was fairly certain that the woman’s psychic signature had felt distinctly different from both the magical fog and the Hounds.

And the woman he had seen—at first she hadn’t looked afraid or guilty as if she had been caught doing something underhanded. Instead, she had simply looked amazed. He had received the impression of black, curling hair falling into wide, startled eyes. Then she began to reach out to him as if to see if he were real. It had been a gesture of wonder, not aggression.

Perhaps the psychic connection had been an accident. The thought was outlandish, but it wasn’t impossible, in which case, no harm, no foul.

Or perhaps his impressions were wrong and he had indeed disrupted a spy, and the only accident had been that he had caught the other magic user before she could throw another spell. That was the possibility that kept him poised like a weapon, ready to go on the offensive at the first sign of trouble.

While he was lost in thought, the road he traveled narrowed to one paved lane, then the pavement turned to gravel. The steady purr of the car’s turbo engine never faltered. After driving some distance farther, he finally came to a large open clearing. One end was covered with gravel along the edge of a crumbling fieldstone fence.

A variety of vehicles and motorcycles clustered on the graveled end. He pulled the Porsche up beside a large Harley-Davidson. As he cut the engine, opened his door, and climbed out, quiet settled over the area. The cool, damp air smelled like woodsmoke. He reached into the car for his jacket, settled his sword harness into place over it, and slung a heavy canvas bag over one wide shoulder.

Several meters away, the shadowed figure of a large man slipped into view like a knife pulled from a sheath. The figure moved with a leashed aggression, and for a moment an answering aggression flared in Nikolas in response. He controlled an impulse to reach for his sword.

“Nikolas.” The man’s voice was deep, rough, and familiar. Nikolas’s flare of aggression subsided as he realized the approaching figure was Rhys. “When you weren’t here to greet us, we got worried.”

“I ran into a pack of Hounds,” Nikolas replied tersely.

Rhys hesitated. “Is everything okay?”

“They’re dead. I’m not. Situation handled.”

As the other man drew closer, Nikolas took note of the lines of tiredness on Rhys’s face. While they stood close to the same height, that was where the similarity between the two men ended. Nikolas had black hair, dark eyes, and a dark nature, and had a slim, rangy build filled with whipcord strength, whereas Rhys was a wide, solid mass of muscle.

Rhys looked hard and drawn, and a new scar slashed across his cheekbone.

Noticing the direction of his attention, Rhys told him with a tight smile, “You should see the other guy. Oh wait, you can’t. He’s dead and buried too.”

“I expected nothing less.” When the other man reached him, Nikolas hauled him in for a hard hug.

For the briefest of moments, Rhys’s body remained stiff and unresponsive in his embrace. Then the other man relaxed and returned the hug.

When Rhys pulled back, he gave Nikolas a narrow look. “You think running into a pack of Hounds was an accident? Or do you think they somehow found you?”

Nikolas didn’t want to waste time talking about the unknown woman. They had other things they needed to focus on. “When I find out, I’ll let you know.”

“Well, you’re here now, and that’s all that counts, right? Come on.” Rhys slapped his back as he stepped back. “I know we don’t have long, but we can take a few moments before we start. Gareth brought food.”

Nikolas followed him down a narrow, overgrown path toward another clearing and the light of a small campfire. Across the clearing lay a shadowed, ancient ring of standing stones. Nikolas glanced at it before turning his full attention to the group of talking men standing or squatting around the fire.

The sight was like taking a sword thrust to the gut. He took grim note of their total.

He had known their number had diminished before he had come, but seeing was quite a different thing from knowing. Only eight men had answered Nikolas’s summons. Only eight, when they had once been a hundred warriors strong.

Quickly he searched the faces of those who were present. Rhys, Ashe, Thorne, Gareth, Cael, Rowan, Braden, and gods, it was so good to see Gawain again.

Each one stepped forward to greet him with a tight clench. Gawain was the last, most fierce embrace.

“Good to see you,” he said roughly.

“And you.” Gawain clapped his back. The other male had a fist like iron. Nikolas bore the blow gladly. “We made it to another solstice.”

“That we did.” Nikolas took a deep breath as he and Gawain shared a sober glance.

He could see the dark knowledge in Gawain’s expression although neither man said a word.

If their circumstances didn’t change drastically, and soon, their group might not see another solstice. The last cash withdrawal Nikolas had made on the bank accounts meant they were low on funds, although that in itself wouldn’t pull them under. Nikolas could always find or make plenty of money.

No, the real killer was that they were isolated from one another. They had no sanctuary where they could gather to rely on one another and get true rest and refreshment in safety.