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needed to find a quiet place to rest and then he’d take Calla someplace safe. And private. She seemed like a sweet girl. The lion in his head didn’t register much opinion on her otherwise, but the beast agreed she would do. For now.
    “How did they grab you?” he asked over his shoulder.
    Calla hunched her shoulders as if she didn’t want to talk about it. And the way she held the gun? Sloppy. Inattentive. Mason would have kicked my ass.
    Pen led the way, Adrian behind her, while Tru fell back to try explaining some of the finer points of handling a weapon. Calla stared at him, puzzled, as he talked. Yeah, men probably didn’t try to teach her not to need them.
    Calling it a loss, he stepped up his pace and pushed past Adrian to ask Pen, “How much farther is it, O mystic one?”
    “Half a kilometer. I think.”
    “You’re not sure?” It was fun to bait her.
    “Scrying is not a precise science. Be patient or go find your own love nest.”
    Before Tru could reply, everything went to hell. He wheeled as six feral shifters burst from the swampy undergrowth. He should’ve sensed their presence, but fatigue was no excuse. They pounced on Calla. She panicked, flailing instead of shooting. Her scream died to a gurgle as they went for her throat. She dropped her gun as Tru brought his own weapon up, cocked, and fired. The pack snarled, dragging off their prize for a private feast. He nailed them repeatedly, but it was too late to do Calla any good.
    Pen fought coolly at his side, aiming and shooting with more finesse than he would’ve thought possible for a do-gooder witch. Her composure earned his grudging respect, even as adrenaline and remorse mixed a sick cocktail in his veins. Adrian shook but still tried to defend.
    He needs teaching. Mason would have taken him in hand.
    The skinwalkers died like animals. Just as they’d chosen to live. Their corpses twitched, matted fur yielding to human form. Three men, three women.
    This was his nightmare. If I’m not careful, this is how I’ll end up.
    Without looking at the others, he strode over to Calla’s body. He could tell she was dead even before he knelt, but he brushed hair away from her blood-smeared forehead and gazed into those pansy eyes one last time.
    He’d chosen her. That made him responsible for her, at least for a little while. And he’d let her down. It was part of the sexual compact that the lion guarded his mates, however long he chose to stay. Lions were notoriously lazy, of course, and let their females do most of the work, but they did scare off other predators, sometimes with nothing more than a roar.
    I got complacent. An echo of old failure—the one that had cost him so dearly—cut to the bone.
    “Sorry,” he whispered. He closed his eyes so he didn’t hurl. After two deep breaths, regaining his composure, he pushed to his feet. “Shall we?”
    Pen didn’t argue his decision to leave Calla. He guessed she was more practical than she appeared. They couldn’t afford to remain vulnerable. There might be others nearby, who would be drawn to the stink of carnage. Without ammunition or physical reserves, he wouldn’t be able to fight off half the swamp.
    “It’s not too much farther,” she said, low. “We’ll make it before dark.”
    A grim and silent trio, they trudged the last leg of the journey. Just before sunset, Tru shaded his eyes and registered what she called shelter. No more than a tar-paper shack, long since abandoned and claimed by the elements. Some eccentric had used all sorts of rubbish to build his home; Tru would be astonished if the place wasn’t crawling with vermin. But at least it would keep them hidden. And if the clouds overhead were any indication, they were about to get a shower.
    The shelter was mildewed inside, stuffed with piles of broken junk that testified to its abandonment. A skeleton sat in a half-rotted wooden rocking chair. As Adrian watched with dawning interest, Tru picked up the whole mess