“You were bait.”

“Yes.” His glance briefly shifted to the other curs still huddled together on the pew. “We couldn’t fight him. He gets in our brain and makes us do things.”

She reached out to touch him, surprised to discover she could sense the mass of anger and confusion that tormented the cur.

“No one blames you, Hess,” she said softly. “There was nothing you could do.”

“I blame me,” he growled, his hands clenching. “I have failed my master over and over. I’m not worthy to be his servant.”

Harley frowned, her sympathy being replaced with frustration. Okay, Hess and the other curs had been through hell. She got it. But right now Salvatore needed them to be strong.

And that’s what they were going to be.

Without giving herself time to think, she reached up and slapped the cur with enough force to snap back his head.

“Stop that.”

Hess growled deep in his throat, the dull shame in his eyes being replaced by a spark of anger.

Thank God.

“It’s the truth.”

“Whether it’s the truth or not, Salvatore needs his warriors, not a bunch of self-pitying whiners,” she snapped.

He flinched at her brutal accusation, a meaty hand lifting to rub over his bald head.

“You said Salvatore had ordered us to leave.”

“He did.”

“Then obviously he understands that we are useless.”

“He’s concerned about Briggs taking control of you.”

“Because we were weak.”

“For God’s sake. That’s enough.” She stepped until they were a mere inch apart. The cur might be twice her height and three times her weight, but she was a pureblood and her strength would always be superior. “Salvatore needs us.”

“What can we do?” Hess demanded. “If we get close to Briggs, he will just use us against Salvatore.”

Hardly a newsflash. She’d already realized the danger of allowing the curs near the cabin. Which was the only reason they weren’t charging to the rescue. But she wasn’t prepared to sit around doing nothing.

“We don’t have to be near. Salvatore’s the king. Can’t he use you as a boost to his powers?”

“Yes. But…”

Harley’s heart faltered at the sudden scowl that marred Hess’s face.

“But what?”

“I don’t feel him.”

“You mean he’s not calling on your powers, or you can’t feel him at all?”

His hand shifted to press against his chest. “I can’t feel him at all. There’s something blocking our bond.”

“Magic?”

“It has to be.”

Damn Briggs. He obviously still had enough black magic to interfere in Salvatore’s connection to his pack.

“Why do I still sense him?”

Hess shrugged. “It must be the mating bond.”

“A fat lot of good that’s going to do,” she muttered, then her eyes widened. “Wait. Can Salvatore use it to gain strength?”

“Only from you.”

“Shit.” Harley returned to pacing, the ball of fear in the pit of her stomach becoming unbearable. “This is bad.”

“Really bad,” Hess agreed, his voice grim.

“There has to be something.” Her steps slowed as she was struck by a sudden realization. “Wait. I’m the queen.”

Hess regarded her warily, as if wondering if she was laying some sort of trap.

“Yes.”

“Then I should be able to do the whole…” She waved her hands. “Sucking power thing, shouldn’t I?”

He stiffened, his obsession with formality offended by her casual manner.

“You shouldn’t make fun of our bond with Salvatore,” he rasped, his unwavering loyalty to the King of Weres shining in his eyes. “It’s an ancient tradition.”

She bit back the urge to tell the cur that the feudal days were long gone and the serfs had been freed.

She was slowly beginning to accept that the rituals and customs that were so important among the werewolves weren’t just an antiquated means of keeping the curs enslaved, as Caine had always claimed. They were a tangible expression of the intimate bonds that held a pack together.

“You’re right, but can we worry about political correctness later, Hess?” She reached to lay her hand on his stiff arm. “I need to know if I can be a…” She searched for the proper word. “A conduit to share your powers with Salvatore.”

Hess gave a helpless lift of his hands. “I don’t know.”

She made a sound of impatience, her fingers digging into his arm.

“Then help me try,” she charged. “I don’t even know where to begin. How does Salvatore do it?”

“He just…” Hess halted, clearly at a loss. “Does it.”

Does it?

Well, that helped a butt-load.

Biting her bottom lip, Harley tried to ignore the gnawing sense that Salvatore was in danger. Instead, she concentrated on the vague tingle of distress that she was certain was coming from Hess.

She didn’t know how she could feel it, but she did know that she hadn’t noticed it until she had actually touched the cur.

“Okay, I want everyone in a circle,” she said, ignoring the frowns of the curs as she urged them into the center of the vestibule. “Now take the hand of the person on each side of you.”

“If you think I’m going to sing “Kumbaya,” then you’re out of your mind,” the blond-headed cur muttered.

“Shut up.” She glanced around the circle, grabbing the female cur’s hand on one side, and Hess’s on the other. “If you want to help Salvatore, then I need you to concentrate.”

“Concentrate on what?” Hess demanded.

Wondering how the hell she’d gotten in so far over her head, Harley closed her eyes and filled her mind with the image of Salvatore.

“Me,” she muttered. “Concentrate on me.”

Laying facedown on the ground, Salvatore planted his hands on the floor and willed his stiff limbs to cooperate. Dio. He could already hear Briggs digging his claws into the floorboards as he prepared for another attack.

Now was the time for the grand heroics he had planned.

If only he could get to his feet.

He turned his head, preparing to push himself upright, when a glint of silver caught his eye. Pausing, he pressed his head back to the filthy floor, peering under the sofa.

Of course.

Briggs’s stash of weapons.

He never left home without them.

Now, the question was whether he could battle through the black magic still clinging to his body and find the strength to get his hands on the weapons before Briggs killed him.

Blood dripped from his shredded shoulder and he had at least a half dozen broken bones, but he managed to get to his knees. He would crawl if he had to.

Intent on reaching the sofa, it took Salvatore a moment to notice the stench of Briggs was being replaced by a hint of musk and pure, rich earth.

The scent of pack.

Fear jolted through him. Merda. His curs couldn’t be stupid enough to risk coming to the cabin. Not when they had to know that they would be used as weapons against him.

It took a long moment to realize the scent was coming from him. And that it was strong enough to have made Briggs hesitate in wary confusion.

Painfully rising to his feet, Salvatore felt an unexpected heat flow through his blood, searing away the vile magic and healing his body. He shuddered as sensation returned to his deadened body, deepening his connection to his mate.

Harley.

This had to be her doing.

Somehow she had tapped into the power of the pack and allowed it to flow through their mating bond.

Clever woman.

Perhaps sensing his prey was no longer helpless, and worse, about to kick his ass, Briggs threw back his head and howled with a fury that shook the rafters. Then, bunching his muscles, he launched his massive body through the air.

Salvatore was already moving.

No longer hampered by the black magic, he swiftly grabbed the nearby sofa and smashed it into Briggs, sending him flying into the far wall.

There was a sharp yelp as the Were hit with enough force to crack the wall, but Salvatore’s attention was on the pile of swords and silver daggers that had been hidden beneath the nasty sofa. Reaching down, he snatched a long sword from the pile, and whirling toward the center of the room, he spread his legs and balanced himself on the balls of his feet.

He would be stronger and faster if he shifted, but removing the bastard’s head would be easier with a sword than with his fangs, if not quite as satisfying. He no longer wanted to drag out the death of the traitor with a slow, painful torture.

He wanted the world rid of Briggs.

Now.

Prepared for the next attack, Salvatore watched Briggs regain his footing, his crimson eyes flashing with hatred, and his fur bristled with a battle lust. The Were was crazed, with a combination of pain and frustration, and obviously incapable of rational thought.

Otherwise he would have fled the cabin and prayed he could find a deep dark cave to hide in.