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!"

The words sliced through Lyon's mind, icing his skin. He thrust out his hand. "Give it to me."

As Vhyper laid the blade on Lyon's palm, faint etchings snaked over the flashing steel in the moonlight. Lyon's eyes widened, shock washing through him as his hand closed around the blade's handle.

With a snarl, Lyon sprang across the circle, grabbed Foxx around his thick neck and jerked him off his feet. "What have you done?"'

The kid looked as shocked as Lyon felt. "Nothing. I mean… I didn't know. You said get the ceremonial blade, and I did. I swear, I didn't go near the vault. Why would I get the Daemon blade?"

Lyon felt his eyes turn feral as fury had his claws unsheathing. Blood began to run freely down Foxx's neck. "You. Tell. Me."

Foxx's face began to turn red. "Can't… talk."

With a growl, Lyon retracted his claws and dropped him to his feet. "Tell me."

Foxx coughed and backed up a step, his hand against his throat, his eyes wide and confused. "I wouldn't. I didn't. I swear."

Vhyper grabbed the kid's arm and jerked him back from Lyon's reach. Tighe stepped in front of Lyon, his mouth grim. "We're blooded. Let's finish the ritual before we mete out punishment. We can't accidentally free the Daemons."

But Lyon wasn't so sure. "Hawke?" If anyone knew, it would be the whipcord-lean warrior with more college degrees than most of his men had Weapons.

Hawke shook his head. "The first step in freeing Satanan and his horde is the same as raising the power of the beasts—the blooding of the nine. But there's far more involved. A complex ritual requiring the free will of all the Ferals and the blood of their Radiant. The ancients made certain the Daemons would never rise again."

"Then there's no problem," Vhyper said, shielding the kid from Lyon's fury.

Hawke frowned ruefully. "Every time that blade comes out of the vault, there's trouble."

Lyon gave Foxx a look that promised deep and painful retribution, then turned back to the others. "Tighe's right. Let's finish this before the blood dries and we have to start over." Lyon shoved his fist into the air. The warriors resumed their positions, covering his fist, one by one.

Lyon began to chant. "Spirits rise and join. Empower the beast beneath this moon." The others joined in, the murmured words flowing around him, over him, sliding across his flesh. Thunder rumbled in the clear sky. The ground beneath his feet trembled as the great force of Mother Nature herself rose from the depths of the Earth, through the vessels of bone and skin and up through their arms to the blood raised to the heavens.

"Empower the beast of the lion!"

A flash of lightning lit the sky, burning through the flesh of Lyon's palm, sending energy and power flooding his body like a wash of hot oil. Power. Strength. He thought of his other half and shifted into his animal form at last. Fierce joy surged through him at the change. The others moved back, circling around him as he raised his thickly maned lion's head to the starred canvas above and let out a deep, rumbling roar. It was a damned good thing the mystic circle enclosed all sight and sound or they'd have Fairfax County Animal Control on them within minutes.

Lyon paced in the tight circle, reveling in the rush of power flowing through him as he used his beast's senses to search slowly in every direction. Tens, dozens, hundreds of miles.

A spark lit his mind, a connection formed that could not be severed. Relief surged through his brain.

He'd found her.

His nose high in the air, he let out another fierce roar and shifted back into his human form. Around him, his fellow warriors watched, their eyes glowing with the feral light of the animals they'd shift into once they got their Radiant ascended.

"Did you find her?" Vhyper asked.

Lyon grabbed his jeans and pulled them on while the knowledge from his beast's senses flowed into his brain. "West. Beyond the Blue Ridge. Beyond the Mississippi."

Vhyper grunted. "How did she get all the way out there?"

"Beats the hell out of me."

"You'll take someone with you?" Tighe asked.

"No." Lyon shook his head once. "I go alone."

Vhyper frowned. "I wonder if she even knows what the mark means."

Jag laughed, an ugly sound. "If she doesn't, our little Radiant is in for one hell of a surprise."

For once, Lyon had to agree

Kara MacAllister paced the floor of her mother's blue-sprigged bedroom, frustration and grief shredding her insides as rain slashed at the windows.

"Kara, honey." Her mom's words sounded pained and slurred as she eased out of another drug-induced nap. "Why don't you hire a nurse?" The same question every day.

"No nurse, Mom." Kara's heart shriveled as she met her mother's pain-filled gaze. Propped up on thick pillows stuffed into white, lace-trimmed pillowcases, her mother looked twenty years older than she had just a few months ago. Her once-full cheeks lay sunken in pools of skin, the pasty gray of the terminally ill. The doctors had opened her up to remove a tumor on her left lung only to close her back up and send her home to die. A few weeks, they'd said. Maybe a month. That was two weeks ago.

It felt like two lifetimes.

"But your job, honey. You'll lose your job."

Kara squeezed her mother's thin hand. "It's okay, Mom. I found someone to cover my class until I get back." If she went back. For nine years, ever since high school, she'd been content to stay in tiny Spearsville, Missouri, to share the old farmhouse with her mom and teach preschool in the basement of the local church. Maybe it wasn't the most exciting life, but her mom had begged her to stay, and she'd been okay with it. Even happy.

Until three months ago. Two days after Christmas, she'd woken up a frustrated bundle of restlessness as if overnight she'd developed a chronic, severe case of PMS. Everything annoyed her all of a sudden. Her boyfriend, her friends, her life, even the preschoolers she adored. She'd felt as if she needed something, but didn't have a clue what.

The only thing she knew for certain was that her mother's dying wasn't it.

Her mom squeezed her hand, her grip weaker even than yesterday. "I want you to… have fun, honey. Not watch me die."