Chapter One
One woman, in all the world, held the key to the survival of life on Earth.
And they'd lost her.
The Therian race called her the Radiant, for it was through her that nature channeled the energy to their guardians, the Feral Warriors, enabling them to track and destroy the Daemon remnants, the draden, before they snuffed the life from Therians and humans alike. In return, the Feral Warriors protected the Radiant with their lives.
Which was damn hard to do when they didn't know where… or who… she was.
Lyon grimaced as he led his eight warriors along the dark, rocky trail high above the falls of the rugged and deadly Potomac River. Hell, they'd lost two Radiants. The old one to death. The new one, the one marked by the goddess to take her place, had never come forward. And the situation was growing dire.
The rocks felt cold beneath Lyon's bare feet as he left the trail and climbed down toward the goddess stone wearing nothing but a silk shirt and a pair of jeans. In his hands he carried two deadly switchblades in case of a draden attack. Below, the glow from the full moon tripped over the bounding water, shooting brilliant shards of light into the night air.
"What in the hell are we doing out here at 3:00 a.m. ?" Jag's tone, as always, challenged.
Anger rumbled deep in Lyon's throat, the sound of an irritated lion. Which he was, down deep.
Jag had no use for any of them, and the feeling was more than mutual. Lyon cut his gaze toward the warrior, taking in the oh-so-familiar belligerence in Jag's eyes and the sneer forming on his cynical mouth. In his camouflage pants and army green tee, Jag took his role of warrior a bit too literally. None of the Ferals had ever served a day in the United States military. As a rule, they stayed out of all things human.
"Cat got your tongue?" Jag prodded.
"What do you think we're doing out here at this hour? We're raising the power of the beasts." He leaped down to the path he sought, Jag close behind him.
"So you haul us out here in the middle of the night because you, mighty chief, couldn't do your job?"
Raw violence clawed at Lyon's self-control, his beast's instincts begging to rip the asshole's throat out. His control, battered by their increasingly critical situation, snapped. The tip of his fingers burned a moment before his claws sprang out. With a growl, he shifted both his blades to one hand while he whirled and sank the claws of his other in the man's neck as he slammed him against the rock.
Blood trickled down Jag's throat, but no fear flickered in his eyes, only a spark of malicious amusement that he'd pushed Lyon too far. Even if Lyon completely lost it, he'd be hard-pressed to do Jag any real damage. Physically, they were a match, Shape-shifters simply didn't break that easily.
What he longed for was a comeback to Jag's snide remarks, something to put the surly warrior in his place. The bitch of it was, he didn't have one. Jag was right. Lyon had failed to find their new Radiant. With a jerk and a snarl, he released the man and shoved himself away, sheathing his claws. Every muscle in his body vibrated with frustration as he climbed down to the goddess stone.
Within a couple of months of their old Radiant's death a Therian woman, should have woken to find a mark upon her breast like a long-healed scar. Four-inch-long claw marks.
The mark of the chosen one.
It was Lyon's job to find her and get her ascended to her power, renewing and empowering all the Feral Warriors. As the finder, Lyon was the only one who possessed the ability—the senses—to seek her out. He'd waited, knowing the marking wouldn't happen immediately. But now too much time had passed. The only thing he could figure was that she was out of range of his human senses. Worse, his Feral strength had drained to the point he could no longer access his deeper, more primal power—the power of the beast that lived inside him.
Without an ascended Radiant to renew them, the Feral Warriors—the guardians of the Therian race and last of the true shape-shifters—grew weaker by the day. Except for the occasional show of claws, fangs, and animal eyes, they'd all lost the ability to shift. With each passing sunrise, Lyon's ability to find the woman diminished.
He had one chance left. Tonight.
Vhyper joined him, his bald head glistening pale in the moonlight, a silver earring hanging from his right lobe. "So, what do you say we build a campfire and make s'mores while we're out here? We could send the cub back to the house for marsh-mallows and grahams and those little chocolate squares."
Lyon threw the man a rueful glare.
"You're a moron, Vhype." Tighe's short pale hair gleamed in the moonlight as he threw his arm around Vhyper's shoulders, buddy style, in the easy manner of most shape-shifters.
An ease Lyon had never understood. "Let's get this over with."
"Are we really going to bleed ourselves?" Foxx had a shaggy fall of orange hair and the pale complexion and freckles to go with it. The youngest of the Ferals, he showed surprising power and great promise, if he ever matured.
Lyon glanced at him. "Didn't you bring the ceremonial blade like I told you?"
"Yes. But I thought…"
"We're going to invoke the Feral Circle, pooling all our energy into a single force. The ritual requires blood."
"Well, shit," Vhyper drawled, tugging on his earring as Tighe released him. "I'd rather sing a few campfire songs."
"Shut up, Vhyper," Jag snarled.
Lyon clapped his hands. "Let's do it." His palms were damp, the muscles in his neck tense with worry as he prayed they still had enough power among them to make the ritual work. Raising the power of the beasts would steal what little mystic energy they had left. They wouldn't get a second chance.
Lyon shoved his knives into his pockets since the draden couldn't reach them within the mystic circle, then pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it onto the rock. The chilly, early-spring air felt good against his heated flesh. While the others stripped to the waist, Lyon continued, pulling off his jeans. If this worked, he was shifting. And unlike a couple of his comrades, he possessed no odd strains of Mage blood that would allow him to keep his clothes intact. Only the thick silver armband that snaked around his biceps and channeled the Earth's energies stayed with him through a shift.
The nine formed a circle on the flat, wide goddess stone, silver armbands gleaming as the men stood bare-chested against the clear night sky.
Lyon held his hand out to Foxx. "The knife."
Foxx slapped the hilt onto his palm. Lyon turned the blade on himself and made a shallow, searing cut across his chest. An odd surge of energy twined with the pain, sending a jolt through the blade and into his flesh. He handed the knife to Tighe, glad the mystic powers were with them this night. He slapped his right hand to the burning wound, then fisted his hand around the blood and thrust his arm into the air in front of him. Tighe followed, slicing his chest and slapping his bloodied hand around Lyon's fist, then handed the knife to Jag. One by one, they added their slick hands to the knot of flesh until only one remained.
Vhyper carved his chest with the knife as the others had, then jerked, the knife clattering to the rock. "Damn this is a bitch. We need some new rituals."
But as Vhyper squatted to reach for the blade, his hand stilled, his body going rigid. "What the hell?" He grabbed the knife's handle and surged to his feet, whirling to face Lyon. "It's the Daemon blade!"