“Valkyrie?”

Kougar glanced at him. “Valkyries were members of the Nyad race, one of the races destroyed by Satanan early in his rise to power. This woman, Sabine, apparently survived, thanks to her mixed blood.”

“And she’s willing to help us?”

“No, she’s not willing at all. She’s an empath, far too sensitive to be around others. Grizz is bringing her anyway.”

Wulfe frowned. “And why does he think she’ll cooperate? If she’s being forced, we won’t be able to trust a thing she says.”

“A Valkyrie can’t lie, not when proclaiming a soul good or bad.”

Lyon opened the door to the basement and started down, the others following. “Grizz asked for Ilina transport, and Ariana’s sending it. The Ilinas are about to deliver them directly to the prisons.”

The implications spun in his head. “This is great. If the woman can tell us whether the new Ferals are good or bad, we can bring the good ones into their animals, which should heal Kara. And since the new Ferals haven’t been affected by the dark charm, there’s no danger of their losing their immortality. Inir’s plot to free the Daemons fails.”

“That’s what we’re hoping,” Tighe said, but while his voice contained a measure of relief, it lacked true jubilation. Because the original Ferals were still in trouble. None of this would solve the problem of their waning immortality.

“Has anyone else lost the ability to shift?” Wulfe asked.

“Hawke did,” Tighe said, glancing over his shoulder as they descended the last of the stairs. Tighe waited for him to join him and met him with a bleak, somber gaze. “About twenty minutes ago, so did I.”

“Fuck. I’m sorry, Stripes.” If Tighe ever saw his unborn son, it would be a miracle.

They strode through the gym, the Therian Guards parting like a disciplined sea. At the back of the gym, Lyon opened the hidden door in the glass that led to the prisons, releasing a woman’s cry of agony.

Lyon took off running, the others close behind. They burst into the prison block to find six cells full. Three new Ferals and now Grizz, Lepard, and Sabine. The Ilinas who’d transported them stood outside the cells, waiting for Kougar’s or Lyon’s dismissal.

Lyon held up his hand for them to wait, then turned to Grizz ,who was cursing a blue streak.

“What the fuck? You fuckheads! I said transport, not prison.” Grizz grabbed the bars, shaking them hard. “She’s a fucking empath! What part of empath don’t you understand? I told you she wouldn’t be able to tolerate this without touching me. Let me go to her. Now!”

Sabine leaned against the bars of her own cage, her head caught in her hands, keening with pain.

The place was in chaos.

“I can help her,” Grizz said, reining back his temper with obvious effort. “Touching me eases her.”

Lyon swung to the nearest Ilina. “Put the woman in Grizz’s cell.”

The Ilina disappeared, and a moment later deposited Sabine beside Grizz, as directed. Grizz swept her up, cradling her against him as Sabine curled into him, burying her face against his throat.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he whispered, over and over.

But despite the way she clung to him, Sabine’s response was harsh and pained. “I hate you.”

Grizz lifted his head, glared at them through the bars of his cage, and snarled, “Get this done and send her the fuck home. I don’t know how long she can take this.”

The Shaman stepped forward. “Remarkable. I’ve not seen a Nyad in well over five millennia. I believed you all dead, Sabine.”

“We’re going to be,” she gasped, “if you don’t free me soon.”

“Will you help us determine the souls of the males in these prison cells?” Lyon asked.

Sabine lifted her head and met his gaze, pain bracketing her mouth. “Do I have a choice?”

For a moment, Lyon said nothing. “If you lie about what you find, my wife may die. And not only will my own heart cease to beat, but without our Radiant, the Ferals will be unable to keep the Mage from freeing the Daemons. I imagine you’re familiar with the Daemons?”

Sabine glanced up, looking at Grizz with such a depth of fury that Wulfe suspected she’d happily yank his heart out of his chest if she didn’t need him to manage the pain.

“Let me down,” she snapped.

Grizz set her on her feet, keeping one arm tight around her, an arm she gripped with both hands.

“I am called the Shaman, Sabine,” the youthful-looking male said, stepping close to the cage. “I am ancient, despite my appearance, and once knew Nyads. I would touch you, if you’ll allow it, to verify you are what you say and that you’ve not been infected with the darkness that plagues the world.”

She stared at him. “If my pain at being near others is terrible, touching is ten times worse.”

Lyon stepped forward, his expression determined if not unsympathetic. “I’m afraid I must insist you cooperate with the Shaman, Sabine. You understand my concern.”

Sabine closed her eyes, her mouth tight, as if trying to gather her courage. She stepped out of Grizz’s embrace, but took his hand and gripped it tight as she walked to the bars of the cage and thrust her hand through.

The moment the Shaman took her hand, she threw her head back, her back bowing in pain. Grizz pressed himself against her, holding her as closely as possible, his jaw rigid. The male might have anger-management issues, but he was clearly suffering at the woman’s misery.

“A good soul,” Sabine cried.

The Shaman dropped her hand and stepped back gingerly. “She is Nyad, as she claims. And pure. There is no darkness here, I’m certain of it.”

Sabine sank against Grizz, and he pulled her tight against him. Wulfe could almost see the grizzly shifter flaying himself alive for hurting her.

“Why is she calmed by your touch?” the Shaman asked.

Grizz looked up and met the male’s gaze. “I have no fucking idea.”

“Finish this!” Sabine cried. “And then let me go. Please.”

Lyon strode to the door of Grizz’s cage and opened it. Grizz stared at him for a moment, then swept Sabine up into his arms and carried her into the open space.

Lyon motioned him to the cage where Castin watched with piercing eyes.

“Your hand.”

Castin pushed his hand through the bars of the cage.

Sabine hesitated, shaking now. Wulfe could see her terror of the touch to come and imagined being told he had to reach into the fire and grasp hold of a red-hot iron. Considering her reaction, he thought it might be just that bad for her.

Grizz, clearly thinking the same, shuddered, tipping his head against the top of hers. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again.

Slowly, Sabine reached for Castin’s hand and held on until she was quaking violently. “Old,” she gasped. “So much death, so much suffering. A good soul,” she cried at last and released the hand.

The Ferals watched the proceedings with a mix of fascination, hope, and unhappiness. Not a one would let a woman suffer needlessly and it cut at every one of them that they were forcing this woman to suffer now.

At Lyon’s direction, Grizz approached the cage of the silent, dark-skinned male with the watchful eyes. As the male extended his hand, Sabine took it weakly, and screamed. “Death. Pain.” She was trembling, now, shuddering. But her declaration was strong and sure. “A good soul.”

Goddess, how much more of this could she take? How much more of this could any of them take? Wulfe was ready to declare enough! They already had two they should be able to bring safely into their animals. But to leave the others in limbo, when they had this opportunity to learn the truth, was unthinkable. There was no choice but to force Sabine to press on, and Lyon did just that.

Grizz turned to the cages across the aisle, to where Lepard stood, his hand extended, his brows drawn.

Sabine didn’t reach for him. She was shaking so badly, Wulfe wondered if she could even if she wanted to. Grizz lifted her hand, his face lined with misery, and handed it to Lepard.

Sabine screamed, her body bowing in agony. But her pronouncement was the same as the others. “A good soul,” she announced in that singular voice that was hers and yet sounded almost a thing apart.

The moment she spoke, Lepard released her, and she fell against Grizz’s chest, gasping for air.

Grizz cradled her as gently as a child. “I’m sorry, Sabine. I’m sorry.”

“One more,” Lyon said. “Then yourself.”

“Can’t,” she gasped. “Can’t read Grizz. It’s why I can touch him.”

As if dragging leaden feet, Grizz turned toward Rikkert, who glared at him with a raw hatred the Ferals had yet to understand.

Grizz lifted Sabine’s hand to him, and the male took it carefully. Sabine’s scream was terrible, enough to shatter eardrums.

Finally, in that same, strong voice, she declared, “A good soul.” A moment later, she fell limp in Grizz’s arms.

Grizz whirled on Lyon. “It’s done. Send her home.”

“Get back in your cage first.”

Grizz glared at the chief of the Ferals but did as commanded. As the door clanged shut behind him, he dipped his head close to Sabine’s.

“I’m sorry.”

“I hate you.” Her words were barely audible even to Feral ears, and broken.

“I know.”

As Wulfe watched, one of the Ilinas appeared in Grizz’s cage, and in the blink of an eye, Grizz once more stood alone.

“Are we going to perform the Renascence, now, or wait for nightfall?” Tighe asked, a thread of excitement weaving through his words.

Kougar stroked his beard. “She claimed every one of them a good soul.”

Paenther nodded. “And Kara’s told us she was wholly unimpressed with the two Ferals she was forced to bring into their animals by Inir. Neither revealed much courage, let alone honor. It makes sense that the honorable ones were drawn to us, the evil ones to Inir.”

Lyon turned and strode out of the prisons, his expression grim. Glancing at one another, Wulfe and the others followed silently.

“My office,” Lyon said, as they reached the foyer.

A moment later, Paenther roared, “No.” The male turned ashen, his eyes filling with anguish. “My panther . . .”

Another one down. Wulfe clasped him on the back and they followed, single file, into Lyon’s office. As Lyon rounded his desk, his hand went out to steady himself.

“Roar?” Kougar reached for him, but Lyon reared back with a shout of agony and despair, and Wulfe knew he’d lost his animal, now, too.

They were falling like flies.

“You still have yours?” Tighe asked.

Wulfe nodded. As far as he knew, there were only five of them who could still shift now, himself and the four newest Ferals—Falkyn and Fox, Lepard and Grizz. How long until their lights, too, went out?

Deep inside, his wolf howled in misery.

Lyon sank onto his chair, burying his face in his hands. The others took seats or stood silently, waiting for him to grieve and to gather his thoughts. Finally, he looked up, his expression more than fury, more than grief. In that strong visage he respected above all others, Wulfe saw fear.

“It’s critical that we bring the new Ferals into their animals as quickly as possible.” Lyon’s jaw turned hard as granite, his voice dropping to an anguished whisper. “But what if Sabine was wrong?”

“A Valkyrie can’t lie,” Kougar said.

“And the animals always mark the strongest, most honorable Therians to become new Ferals,” Lyon countered. “We believed that, too. What if both are wrong?”

Kara would die.

Paenther sighed. “We only have to bring one new Feral into his animal to stop Inir.”

“Which one?” Lyon turned to him, his eyes as bleak as an arctic storm. “Is there one of the three you would stake Skye’s life on?” His gaze swung around the room, pinning them in turn. “Or Ariana’s? Or Delaney’s? Or Natalie’s?”

Wulfe’s reaction was fierce and immediate, his hands fisting at his side. He didn’t care what the hell Sabine had claimed, there was no way he’d risk Natalie on the word of a stranger. And no way they could risk Kara. Yet the fate of the world might ride on this decision.

To a male, they looked away, unable to hold their chief’s gaze.

Lyon shot to his feet with a furious roar. “We must bring one of them into his animal. We must.” His voice fell to nothing as he leaned on his desk, palms flat, his head bowed. “But goddess help me, I can’t. I can’t risk Kara, even to save the world.” Slowly, he lifted his head, staring at them, one by one, his expression a mix of guilt, desolation, and belligerence, as if he expected a fight. As if he wanted one.

But not a male there had it in him to argue. Not only would they have made the same decision in Lyon’s shoes, but every one of them adored Kara. None would risk her life.

“Grizz is going to be furious when he realizes his efforts were all for nothing,” Tighe murmured. His gaze turned to Lyon. “Now what?”

“The same as before. We figure out how to get our immortality back, then we go after Inir and stop him before he can free the Daemons.”

So very simple.

So fucking impossible.

Chapter Seventeen

Wulfe climbed the stairs, his heart heavy with worry and dread, his nerves frayed. He needed to see Natalie, to settle his wolf and quiet his own desolate soul. He found her sitting on the bed with the other Feral wives, sipping a glass of wine as Kara talked about her time as Inir’s captive. If this was meant to be a party, it was a failure, in his estimation. Then again, every woman there was as sharp as the tip of a spear and knew exactly what the Ferals were facing. It only made sense that they’d discuss their worries among themselves.