Pamela PalmerPassion Untamed
Thanks to all the wonderful, talented people who helped me bring this book to life, in particular, May Chen, Helen Breitwieser, Laurin Wittig, Anne Shaw Moran, and Kyle Poulsen. I couldnt have done it without you.
To Denise McInerney for a million things.
And to my family for their support and patience when deadlines took priority. Youre always first in my heart.
The newly marked Feral Warrior, Black Panther, prowled the wide, flat stone overlooking the raging Potowmack River. Snow swirled around him, driven by a harsh wind as he waited for the ritual that would, goddess willing, transform him into a shape-shifter, one of the most powerful creatures on Earth.
Months ago, the animal spirit of one of the deceased Ferals had marked him as his own. A bare week later, as hed set out to find Feral House, the Mage witch Ancreta had tricked him, capturing him. For long months hed endured her torture as she viciously tried to pry loose the animal spirit inside him, burning a rage into his soul that never eased.
Now the time had come to know if shed succeeded.
Around him, the six Feral Warriors paced bare-chested, a thick gold armband snaking around each mans arm as they raised the mystic circle. In their midst stood the Radiant, the lone woman accompanying themthe one through whom they pulled their power from the Earth. The mystic circle would enclose the great rock and hide all within it from the prying eyes of the Indians that still occasionally hunted these woods.
The day was dreary, the cold biting against the bare skin of his upper body, a body broken too many times beneath Ancretas torture.
Hatred curled in his belly. Fury lived in his blood. For seven months hed been her captive, the third of three newly marked Ferals the witch had captured over the past two years.
Only two had survived, Vincent and him. Ten days ago, Vincent had escaped. Nine days ago, hed risked capture and death to return. Black Panther tilted his head, letting the wind brush his long black hair from his face. Vincent had returned for . And finally, this very day, they would complete the ritual,to be reborn as Feral Warriors in truth.
Vincent stood beside him. The leather strip that bound his blond hair at his nape had loosened, and his hair whipped around his face, hiding and revealing eyes lit with a humor that never died, even when Ancreta had done her worst. The two newly marked, soon-to-be shifters stood as one, their wary, fascinated gazes taking in the Feral Warriors, the pride of the Therian race. To a man, the warriors were as tall as they wereall well over six and a half feet, with strong, powerful bodies. Black Panther remembered and relived the awe hed felt the morning hed woken to find the claw-mark scars across his eye and known hed been chosen to join them.
As he watched, the warriors took their places around the circle, raising their voices in chant. The magic might keep out prying eyes, but it did nothing to dissuade the weather. The biting wind raked across his skin, the snow swirling around his ankles.
The woman pulled her billowing cloak tight around her, a petulant look on her face. Why we cannot wait a mere day or two to perform the ritual, I do not understand. Tis snowing!
The Chief of the Ferals, Lyon, met her discontent with calm command. The warriors have been through much, Oudine. They need your radiance, and I need their strength added to our numbers. Weve been six for too long.
The woman huffed. You said yourself they may be too damaged by the witch to shift. They may be useless.
Silence, Oudine. Lyons voice was no less harsh for its quietness.
Black Panthers hands fisted at his sides. . The word ripped through him like a cold steel blade, chilling his blood with sharp crystals of frost. Had Ancreta destroyed everything hed lived for?
From the moment he awakened to find the feral marks across his eye, hed waited for this moment. No, in truth, from the moment he was born. His grandmother, the Tauxenent tribes seer, the woman who had given him the name , had predicted at his birth more than 140 years ago that he would someday walk the Earth as both panther and man.
All these years hed believed. All these years hed waited.
Yesterday, arriving at Feral House at last, hed learned that the Feral Warrior killed by the Mage shortly before he himself was marked had in fact been the black panther. The prophecy would, at last, come true. But only if Ancreta had not destroyed his ability to reach that animal as shed sought to do. A Feral Warrior who could not shift would not live long.
We shall shift as we were meant to, Vincent said quietly, curling his arm over Black Panthers shoulder. Never doubt it.
Black Panther met his friends level gaze, feeling a deep and abiding bond, deeper than any hed felt for another. It was Vincent whod kept him sane and strong through the months of shared torture. It was Vincent whod shared his grief when the third of their number, Frederick, had finally died. And it was Vincent whod found his way out, yet returned, risking everything for his friend.
He owed the man his life.
He nodded to his companion. We shall shift. Tempered excitement lifted his pulse as he prayed to the goddess of the Therians that his hope wasnt in vain.
It is time, said one of the Ferals, a man with cold pale eyes, the one called Kougar.
Lyon turned to the woman, the Radiant. Prepare yourself, Oudine.
With a disgusted huff, the woman sat in the middle of the wide rock, her woolen skirts and cape billowing in the harsh wind.
As the men formed a broad, loose circle around her, Lyon motioned to the two newest members. Join us.
Vincent at his side, Black Panther stepped forward, into the circle, with a mix of tense anticipation and pride. As he watched, Kougar slashed a knife across his own chest, slapped his palm against the bright red ribbon, and curled his fingers into a fist around the blood. Then he handed the knife to the warrior at his side. One by one, each man did the same until all held a fist damp with his own blood. The last of the six handed the knife to Vincent.
His friend took the blade with a rueful frown, then cut himself as the others had. Bollocks, he muttered. Have they been taking lessons from Ancreta?
Silence, Kougar said evenly.
When Vincent handed him the blade, Black Panther cut his own chest with the bloodied knife, the pain radiating through his body in an arc of fire, but dulling rapidly as his body healed the insult to his flesh. He slapped his palm to the warm stickiness and fisted his hand. As the others shoved their fists into the air, he did the same.
Lyon nodded. It is time, Oudine.
Sitting at their feet, the Radiant pushed back the sleeves of her gown and raised her arms above her head.
The chief turned and met his gaze, then Vincents. New Ferals, you cannot drink the radiance directly until after your first shift. If you touch her, you will die.
The six moved to stand between the newcomers and the Radiant. Lyon opened his fist and pressed his bloody palm atop Black Panthers fist. A second pressed his palm atop Lyons and a third atop his. The other three gathered around Vincent in the same manner.
Kougar began to chant, and the others joined in. Spirits rise and join. Empower the beasts beneath this sky. Goddess, reveal your warriors!
Thunder rumbled. Black Panther tensed as the rock beneath his feet quaked and trembled. Power raced through his body in an arc of excruciating pain. He clamped down against the unwarrior-like urge to yell his misery to the heavens and hung on.
His vision clouded with small, sparkling lights as something started to shift deep inside. Pain erupted within his body as if he were being stabbed by a thousand knives. Only by sheer dint of the strongest will did he remain upright and not fall to his knees in agony. In the distance, he heard the sound of Ancretas laughter. He fought the pain, embracing the power that rushed through him, transforming him.
And suddenly his vision shifted. No longer was he standing at the height of men, but far lower, on four legs. His sight sharpened. Sounds bombarded his ears. Scents overwhelmed himthe snow, the forest woods, the river, and the men and woman surrounding him. Each carried a different scent, each heart beat at a different pace, and he was suddenly, strikingly, aware of them all.
Joy coalesced within him, rare and pure, despite the pain that continued to stab at his body. He threw his cats head back and roared in triumph. He was, finally,a black panther in truth. Ancreta had not won after all.
Shift back to a man, Black Panther. Lyons low voice landed softly on his ears.
He stilled. How was he supposed to shift back?
As if hearing his question, Lyon spoke again. Will yourself a man, warrior, and it will be so.
He did. He wished himself to be a man once more and in a second burst of colorful lights and mind-ripping pain, he returned to his human form. Panting from the dulling pain, filled with an odd mix of rage and elation, he turned to Vincent.
A strange flatness lay in his friends eyes.
Henceforth, Kougar intoned at Lyons side, you will be known among us as Paenther.
Vincent studied him, his eyes hard as his gaze dipped. You accomplished the feat, B.P. You bear the armband.
Paenther looked down at the thick gold snaking around his upper arm. At one end, a panthers head glowed with emerald eyes. His gaze snapped to Vincent, to his friends arms, devoid of gold. And with piercing, painful clarity, he understood.
You did not shift. The realization came out on a hard burst of disbelief.
Vincent shook his head, his expression as grim as Paenther had ever seen it. Even during all those miserable months, Vincent had been the one who believed theyd eventually get out of there. That they would eventually become Feral Warriors. Now it seemed even that was to be stolen from him.
Paenther frowned, his head moving in denial. You shifted before. You should not have been able to, but you did.
Perhaps tis why I cannot now. Ancreta and her dark magic have fouledthe one good thing in my life.
We shall try one more time, Lyon said, drawing their joint gazes. The Chief of the Ferals expression was grim.
Paenther stilled. And if he fails to shift a second time?
Lyon shook his head. A Feral Warrior who cannot shift cannot receive radiance and will eventually die.
He knew it to be true. The third captive, Frederick, had been trapped in Ancretas dungeon for nearly two years when his immortality began to wane. Hed bled to death from one of Ancretas tortures as an immortal never would have.
We are at war with the Mage, Lyon continued. We cannot wait two years to replenish our ranks.
The rage boiling beneath Paenthers skin found an outlet as he whirled on the Chief of the Ferals. He lunged forward, stopping a mere yard before the powerful chief, baring his human teeth. You shall estroy him.
Lyon growled low in his throat, a sound of warning. Then he must shift.
Paenther whirled back to his friend with fierce determination. Did you feel anything? Anything at all?
Vincent shook his head. I heard Ancretas laughter.
As did I. In the distance.
No. I heard it as clear as if she stood at my side.
Paenthers lip curled. She still has her claws in both of us. More so in you. He turned back to Lyon. The witch must die. This day. Before we try again.
Lyon held his gaze, his own hard. The Earth retaliates when we kill the Mage. The Elemental has already died this day. The witch is safely locked away in our prison. It is enough.
Paenther held firm. She must die. Her power over us must die for Vincent to shift.
The Chief of the Ferals shook his head, unbending. We shall try again, this moment.
Fury and denial stole Paenthers fraying control. Before Lyon could turn away, Paenther ripped the knife out of Kougars hand and plunged it into Lyons breast, pressing it against his heart.
In a lightning-fast move, Lyon grabbed him around the neck, his claws sprouting and sinking deep into Paenthers throat until the blood ran warm down his chest.
Animals growled all around him, the tension on the rock turning thick as tree sap in winter. If Paenther killed their chief, hed never take another step. But none dared tackle him when doing so might cut out their leaders heart.
Lyons fangs dropped, his eyes turning the glowing amber of a lions. You would kill me? he growled, his voice calm, but deadly.
Not unless you give me no choice. I will do whatever I must to save his life as he saved mine.
For long, breathless moments, the two bleeding men stared one another down. On some dark level of his mind, Paenther knew he was sacrificing his status as a Feral Warrior in order to preserve Vincents. The devastation of that thought was nothing compared to his desperation to save his friend.
Finally, never taking his eyes from Paenthers, Lyon spoke, his voice clipped and tight. Get the witch. Shell die this day. Before we try the ritual again. In those hard amber eyes, Paenther saw the truth. The Chief of the Ferals had made the choice to comply with his demand. If he had chosen to kill his attacker instead, Paenthers throat would be gone, and he would be the one with the blade in his chest.
Paenther withdrew the knife and offered the hilt to Lyon. Hed won the concession hed wanted. Now he would suffer the consequences. He understood all too well the law of the pack, as hed been raised by the law of the tribe. If you challenged the chief, you killed him. Or expected to die.