Could they triumph over a pack of eleven . . . ?
The Lykae broke the silence to ask, “Are your people all hunters?”
She debated how much to tell him. “Everyone either hunts or contributes to the cause. The forests of Transylvania teem with monsters, so we patrol and protect the neighboring villages. That’s the circus’s mission. It has been for four centuries.”
“I heard different languages when I was rousing earlier.”
“Hunters come here from across the globe.” Conflicts between nations disappeared in the circus; all that mattered was their shared humanity and their common enemy. “All of them have been hurt by immortals in some way, the veil pulled from their eyes.” Crocodile shifters had eaten Puideleu’s siblings when he was a boy. Jacob’s mother had still been alive when Wendigos had sucked the marrow from her bones. My father’s last two kills destroyed him. . . .
The wolf asked, “Are you an offshoot of the Order?”
“The what?”
“A high-tech organization of humans at war with immortals.”
High-tech? She mentally searched her language glossaries but couldn’t place that word. “Never heard of them.” She’d come across accounts of other Night War organizations but hadn’t been able to confirm their existence. “Do you happen to have their correspondence address?”
The Order must be a sensitive subject; the Lykae’s irises glowed blue with menace, and his fangs and black claws elongated even more—signs his beast stirred. He seemed to have a tight rein over it, but could she bet her life on his continued control?
A wolf with its beast at the fore attacked anything that moved. What would one do to its mate?
Struggling against his temper and his beast, Munro grated, “The Order does sick experiments on Loreans. They captured my twin and cut him open while he was awake. He’s never harmed a human in his life.”
Will’s new mate had a familial connection to the Order, but Chloe wanted nothing to do with those fiends—unlike Munro’s female, who was angling for their contact information.
After a hesitation, Kereny said, “We have no ties to them. Or to any other Night War groups.”
Night War? “You said you come from a long line of monster hunters, yet I scented none of your family at your wedding. I assume immortals killed them all.” Because that was what happened when members of a weaker species challenged stronger ones. “Who murdered them?”
“I do have family. I have my new husband and the entire circus.”
New husband.
Those two words gutted Munro. Was his female in love with another? The mortal groom had been handsome enough, he supposed. Decent height. Not unmuscular.
Had that prick seduced her before their nuptials? Jealousy flared yet again, and Munro’s fangs ached for her. The first time a Lykae male made love to his mate, his beast would bite her neck to leave a claiming mark that would always be visible to other Lykae—a sign that the female was taken. Munro’s gaze landed on Kereny’s flashy wedding ring. In a way, it was a marking.
She’d worn no ring in Quondam, which meant the warlocks had stolen her before she’d pledged her life to another. No’ so this time.
Munro briefly closed his eyes. No, this feeling was not so tame as jealousy. It was corrosive and consuming.
He’d awaited her for nearly a millennium, but she was likely in love with another and considered Munro a monster. His first impulse was to act like one. When a pack of gnomelike kobolds swarmed them as he crossed a glen, he irritably punted them out of the way.
No, Munro, you must think and reason.
“Can we not stop?” Kereny shifted in his arms. “You’ve outrun my hunters.”
But he had only so much time to make it back to the gateway. “Hold on to my neck. ’Twill be more comfortable.”
“As you said, ‘No’ a chance.’”
“Suit yourself.” When Munro adjusted her position, Kereny’s generous curves pressed against him. His lust simmered, all thoughts of husbands and gateway countdowns fading.
He bounded them over a stream, and she gasped, drawing his focus to her sensual mouth. Her full lips were the hue of a new cherry, a shade that was a siren’s call to a Lykae male. Munro wanted to place things between those red lips.
The choicest bite of venison. A dew-moistened berry. The sensitive tip of his manhood.
The thought of her closing those lips around his straining, slickened cockhead, tonguing it at the same time . . .
Munro had to bite back a growl. He hadn’t come in weeks, the longest span since he’d first spilled seed. His shaft could crush granite.
A gust of wind tore through the forest, and he caught yet another ominous scent. In the distance, he barely made out maddened howls. What sounded like a newling army was crashing toward them.
Munro’s erection deflated as if dipped into a bucket of ice water.
His clan had always wondered why mortal books tagged Transylvania as the home of werewolves, had laughed about it from up in the Highlands. They’d had no idea this many Lykae were running about crazed in the Carpathians.