Hour of the Lion Cherise Sinclair (8 ebook reader .TXT) 📖

"Just before Lachlan died, did he do or say anything strange? Give you a reason to feel he wasn‘t thinking clearly."

"Well…"

"Victoria, I realize you tried to save Thorson pain, but I need to know it all, ugly or not."

She pulled back. "The kid was trying to think of something and couldn‘t remember it. Then he said...um, something about fire and blood. He got blood on his hand..." She stared down at the table. Remembering…

He touched her filthy face and smiled at the dirt on his bloody fingers. "Earth."

"Honey, I want you to rest," she urged. Please don‘t do this to me—live! "Just concentrate on breathing and—"

"And finally my spirit—that‘s the gift. I remembered it," he told her, pride in his voice.

"C‘mere." He lifted his arm, like for a hug and she leaned forward, winced as his hand came down on her bitten shoulder and dug in.

“…but he didn‘t-didn‘t live. He was—" She blinked furiously, her throat tight, her arms remembering the feel of the boy as he went limp. Why did bodies get heavier when the soul had flown? Flown, God, she was getting all sentimental. She pulled in a shuddering breath, gave up the pretence, and roughly rubbed the wetness from her cheeks.

The silence finally registered. Alec was never quiet. She looked up to see him staring at her as if she‘d grown horns. Calum had an intent look on his face, a finger tapping his lips.

She slapped the table hard enough to make her fingers sting. "Tell me what‘s going on.

Now!"

Calum glanced at his brother, one eyebrow slanting up.

"He performed the Death Gift? For Vicki?" Alec‘s voice was ragged.

She made a fist. If they didn‘t explain, well, she was going to have to hurt them.

Calum took her hand and gently opened her fingers. His gaze held…pity? She stiffened.

"Victoria, just listen to me. First of all, Daonain are descended from the Fae." He noticed her blank look. "The Sidhe? Fairies?"

"You come from something six inches high with wings? Pull my other leg." She attempted a laugh and failed.

Alec snorted. "Not Disney fairies. More like...ah, the elves in Lord of the Ring. Tall, slender, magical. Lived in woods. Didn‘t like iron."

Metal—she could hear Lachlan‘s weak voice, "My body pretty much shut down yesterday; I‘ve been on borrowed time since. It‘s a shifter thing; all that metal, you know."

Calum continued, "Before they abandoned our world—oh, a couple of thousand years ago—

the Fae occasionally had offspring with humans. Some of those Fae were shapeshifters, so their mixed-blood children inherited the ability along with the other fairy traits. When Daonain mate, new shifters are born."

"Yeah. Alec explained that part." That heavy feeling crawled into her chest again.

"Did he now?" Calum‘s gaze went to Alec and returned to her. "There is one other way to create a new shifter. We call it the Death Gift ritual."

Ritual? She had a bad feeling about that word. She tugged at her hand, but he didn‘t release his grip.

"Like the Fae, shifters are partly magical," Calum said. "The Death Gift is pure magic. All Daonain learn it and know it is ours to use if we so choose...at the time of our passing."

She stiffened, shook her head. No.

"Yes. Lachlan wasn‘t confused. He invoked the ancient ritual to make you a shifter."

Relief rushed through her. "It didn‘t work, then. I‘m no werecritter." She turned her hand over within his grasp. "See? No fur."

"And none on me."

Oh, shit. She stared at him, remembering how he‘d blurred, then been a mountain lion, all power and grace.

"How long have you seen pixies?" Calum asked.

"Soon after she got to Cold Creek," Alec said. "Dwarves, too."

What did that have to do with being a furball? "I see what‘s here, and this mountain has pixies and dwarves all over it." She had the urge to hunker down as if a ‗ma deuce‘ had just opened fire.

"So that‘s what you meant." Alec shook his head. "Vicki, there are sprites all over the world."

Her jaw dropped. "No. I never saw them before..."

"One of those fairy traits," Calum said, "is the Sight—the ability to see the OtherFolk."

"Oh, hell." This was so not good. She pulled her hand away from Calum‘s grasp and hugged herself. The entire world seemed to have transformed, like flying from the arctic to the tropics, only much, much worse. Pull it together, Vic. "So, am I going to suddenly burst into claws and whiskers?" She tried for sarcasm, but damned if it didn‘t come out a whine.

Alec stood and wrapped his arms around her waist, pulling her back against his hard chest.

And oh, she needed that—so much so that she tried to pull away. His embrace tightened, forcing her to accept his comfort.

"To trawsfur, you have to want to shift. It doesn‘t happen by accident," Alec said. "There‘s a place in your mind—some think of it as a door. When you‘re ready, you open that door and step through into the wildness."

And if she locked the damn thing? What was this going to do to her life? "Thorson told me stuff about being a shifter. Every month you need to shift into a werecat for a few hours."

Alec nodded.

Wouldn‘t that go over well in Baghdad or even some Iraqi village? "Lachlan shifted when he didn‘t want to."

Calum frowned. "That happens mostly in the first year, before control is achieved. Or sometimes later, if the shifter is very frightened or threatened."

"Uh-huh." So a grenade goes off, and suddenly I‘m a cat?

"You have a problem with metal too, right?"

"Being surrounded by metal for long periods can overwhelm our systems. Magic and iron—

" Alec stopped at the look on her face.

No transcontinental flights? Hell, she‘d just walk to Iraq, right? And once there, she could stay out of hummers and tanks? What about cars? Damn, was that why so many people in Cold Creek walked?

"It has to be a pretty long period of time, Vix, before it‘s a concern," Alec said. "Otherwise it‘s just uncomfortable."

"Listen, I‘m assigned to—" She closed her