“Connor!” Angus yelled. “What’s going on?”

“Something . . . wrong.” He narrowed his eyes. “A few miles south of the campground.”

Another flash lit up the dark sky.

His breath caught. It wasn’t coming from the sky. “I’ll call ye back.”

“Connor, doona—”

He hung up and dropped the phone into his sporran. He debated fetching his sword, but decided to leave it behind. Instead, he retrieved a wooden stake from his sporran. No sense in drawing the lightning to him. Although he wasn’t quite sure it was lightning.

A drop of rain plopped onto the top of his head, and he glanced up. Another raindrop splattered on his nose, then rolled a chilly path across his cheek. He wiped his face, then focused on the area where he’d seen the flash of light. Everything went black.

He materialized in the dark shadow of trees, his feet landing on the soft cushion of pine needles. The light patter of raindrops sounded overhead, not yet heavy enough to filter through the thick canopy of treetops. He moved silently through the forest, tracing the scent of burnt wood and smoke.

When he heard a man’s voice, he edged close enough to hear the words but remained hidden behind a large tree trunk.

“You left them still alive!” the man yelled. “I had to go back to finish your job.”

Connor stiffened. Either these were Malcontents, or he’d stumbled across some mortals on a murdering rampage.

“We received our orders,” the man continued. “The humans were all supposed to die.”

Malcontents. A mortal never referred to his own kind as humans. Connor tamped down on the rage that seethed within. He needed to stay calm and controlled. His grip tightened on the wooden stake. He had four more in his sporran and the dagger in his knee sock. But before he attacked he needed to know how many bastards he was up against.