Moonlight Whispers: A Reverse Harem Shifter Romance (The Witch and the Wolf Pack Book 8)

by K. R. Alexander

  “He doesn’t like anything,” I said—which was unfair. “Jed, get in the Jeep.”

  He backed a few steps but didn’t turn. He stared at me as if honestly surprised I was put out. He glanced to the little house behind me, then up to my face.

  “No, you’re not coming in there with us. And what is it you think is going to happen? If you want to go to meetings, put clothes on and ride with a seatbelt like the rest. If you want to come like that, fine. Then get back in there and wait. The windows are down. If a bomb goes off, use your own discretion. Otherwise, stay there.”

  While Isaac came around the hood and Zar picked gravel from his hand, Jed still hesitated, looking at me, before slowly turning away.

  He leapt onto the bench seats, sat down with his back to me, and remained that way as Zar slammed the door, calling him names in Lucannis.

  I turned, but waited for Zar, just as Orion was also coming back to the front door, looking to see what had become of us.

  “Everything all right?”

  “Sorry.” Andrew smiled at him. “One of our friends fancying a cuppa as well.”

  “I see…” Orion squinted to the Jeep where Jed’s dark bulk was clearly visible. “All are welcome. Perhaps I’ll close the other dogs up?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “Don’t worry about him. He can wait for us.”

  “A dish of water?”

  While Andrew assured him that Jed didn’t need anything, I tried to see Zar’s hand.

  “It’s just a scratch. It’ll heal when I change.” He spoke under his breath, shaking his head.

  So it was some minutes before the four of us actually made our ways into the low-ceilinged old house with the back door standing open, sunny gardens beyond, and herbs growing in window boxes. The whole place smelled of tilled earth, dog, and honeysuckle blossoms that grew around both doors. There were solar panels on the roof, rainwater collection drums, and the garden was a fenced work of art with sweeping vegetable beds.

  “You must live nearly off the grid out here,” I said as he showed us to a cramped front sitting room off the even smaller kitchen that looked into the gardens.

  Orion chuckled. “We do our best to live in cooperation with nature, and in respect for her plans. We do, however, all enjoy our little luxuries.” Lifting a smartphone off the arm of a broken-down wingback chair. “It is good of you to make the journey. Frightfully far from Sussex, this. Rowan says that’s where most of you are from, yes? And the States?”

  “That’s me, but yes. Most of our group is from the south coast.”

  “Please, have a seat wherever you like. Don’t mind the dogs. They’ll settle down once they get a sniff of you. Here, Tip, leave it. That’s a good fellow. I’ll bring a spot of tea and we can compare notes on these recent disturbances.”

  Andrew gave me a bit of a smirk as he sat on an ancient sofa.

  It was true. Comparing notes, plus enjoying a proper English tea, were some of my favorite activities.

  Chapter 22

  Rather than the tweedy jacket and riding breeches one might expect to go with the accent—or the tunic and cape woven from woodland leaves and ferns to go with the creed—Orion wore plain slacks and a faded blue polo shirt, both looking nearly as old as the furnishings. Despite a few holes in the seams, he otherwise presented a neat, if haggard appearance. A lean, handsome man, who I could imagine walking for miles through this countryside each day with his four dogs, he nevertheless bore signs of strain in the lines at his mouth and graying in his hair. This was already in the half and half stage, gray and brown, though I doubt he was past fifty.

  He served us herbal tea and ginger biscuits, reminding me of when we’d met Ellasandra for tea. So much water had flowed under the bridge since then, I wondered if I was seeing a spiritual mirror. How much had I aged in the past weeks? How was I holding up?

  I’d thought well enough. Pretty good, actually, in love many times over and loving spending time with my pack. Then, a week ago, Henry…

  Ever since returning to England, since that night…

  I was not holding up.

  Kage was out of danger. My head seemed all right, arm staying clean. So much to be thankful for. Yet so much breaking, or simply needing to be faced, addressed, or understood.

  We’d thought we had something. Thought we knew, essentially, what was happening. Now we did not. I’d thought we were a strong pack, bonded into new understandings and unity after the time we had spent between plane trips. Now I did not. I’d even thought I was starting to earn the respect that they showed me as their silver. Now … I was not.

  Someone reaching out like this, the druids also being in danger, trying to help even if there was little they could do, offered a window of sympathy: a friendly wave, a lifeline, that made me want to cry.

  Possibly it was also his age that had me wanting to clutch at Orion’s sleeve, say this was too much for us, too much for me, that we were drowning. Or maybe it was the gentle way he was with his dogs, or the relief of someone in the community who even recognized us for who we were. Or I was so tired and scared and messed up—and pregnant—I’d have wanted to burst into tears and clutch even a sullen young waitress who brought me a cup of coffee just then.

  I did nothing of the sort.

  The elderly dog rested her head in my lap after a careful sniff around the room, like she knew I was fragile. After the amount they’d told me they could smell, I suspected the dog knew at least that I was stressed. The meds I was taking for my arm may have made me smell off as well. Or she just liked visiting and the three wolves smelled too disturbing for her.

  I sat stroking her while we talked, over the white patch at the back of her black neck. I was so sick of ginger it was a long time before I helped myself to tea and a biscuit.

  We didn’t go into details of what we’d been up to. Of course, Orion knew who we were from Rowan. It was the reavers we were concerned about, and wanting to know the latest from the druids.

  I glossed over our story in the Duddon Valley, then Zar talked about the kindred and the undead reavers.

  Orion frowned as he listened, occasionally giving one of the young dogs a piece of biscuit or rubbing his own chin with a bent finger. He’d been calling all the druids he could think of. They knew faie all right, but reavers?

  I also asked about the druids themselves—what had happened? Speaking of calls.

  Orion said a young man had been killed who was a member of a druidic order in France.

  “It was in the southeast of the country, with that similar pattern. I know the order, but have yet to speak with any member who may give particulars. If I learn anything that could be of help I shall let you know, of course.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Did you know wolves in France have been attacked as well? I don’t know them, but elders in the Sable Pack have been in touch.”

  “I did not…” Expression grave. “I assume, then, you have heard of the attacks in the east?”

  “East?”

  Orion frowned, taking in our uncertainty. “There was a pack… Forgive me, the name will come to me. Of the Romani population? Around the Czech Republic and Slovakian border?” Glancing about to the others as if this would ring a bell.

  There were no takers—no one volunteering that they knew which pack that would be. Orion probably didn’t realize how deliberately isolated most shifters were from one another.

  “Diana may know of them,” I said. “What happened?”

  “They’re gone,” Orion said. “So I heard, anyway.”

  “Gone?” I stretched the word while it seemed to fill my brain. “How do you mean … gone?”

  The others sat still, cups lifted or breaths held as if someone had hit pause.

  “The pack, or this group, or families?” For the first time Orion seemed uncomfortable, clearly not having meant to spring this on us, now limited in his information. “I’m unsure what they were, or how many. Only I’m told by our community in the Czech Republ
ic that they were there, a substantial group, and now they are gone. Dead, we supposed. Although, of course, it’s not as if I could say for sure. There may have been some trouble and the pack moved on. There are other shifters in the Ukraine and Russia, are there not? We don’t have to assume the worst.”

  Yet, before he backpedaled to soften the blow, Orion had assumed the worst. So had his Czech druid friends or he wouldn’t have in the first place.

  Silence.

  “We’ll ask our silvers about it,” Isaac said quietly. “See if anyone has heard anything.”

  “How long ago was this?” Andrew asked.

  “Weeks, perhaps months? My condolences. I only recently heard this myself, but I’d assumed you must have already known in the shifter community”

  I had a funny feeling as Orion talked. A sort of prickly, pay attention feeling. It wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. It was like going about your day when something happens that makes you remember a dream. A tap on the shoulder. A reminder of … what?

  “With the lack of strong communication across borders it raises all kinds of questions about the rest of Europe,” I said. “We knew there had to be a large group of people involved when they hit England and France at once. This…”

  “It’s a whole network,” Andrew said. “A group large enough and organized enough to operate across multiple countries.”

  “Powerful and magical enough to create reavers and block scries,” Zar continued.

  “Which brings us back to our recent encounter,” I said.

  Orion glanced at the sling on my arm. I had removed my new coat but had on long sleeves to shield the red and pink puncture wounds and black bruises. Still, even my hand was bruised.

  “Yes, back to that…” Orion said. He met my eyes. “A letdown for you and me both, but I could not scare up an answer as to any known casters—or anyone else—who might be in the habit of making such monstrosities. We do have contacts in the magical community, however. If I may presume? Do you have any ideas? Perhaps we could help you find someone?”

  I glanced at Zar and back. “Well … not with anything solid to go on. What came to mind for me were … wild mages.” I hesitated but didn’t add that Gavin had mentioned them as well. “Probably the most famous, or infamous, group of casters in history. I take it you know of them?”

  Orion’s eyes had widened at the name. “Yes, of course. You are correct with regards to the fame.”

  “But they’re gone. There are no more wild mages … are there?” Adding the last as I kept watching his face.

  “I’m sure you know more of them than myself. I have heard some such mage groups remain, though certainly not in Britain. It is, perhaps, a stretch to speculate that simply because they do still exist, they could be behind such a thing?”

  I had to think about that, gazing distractedly at the dog. “Actually … if there are still wild mages, I don’t think it’s a stretch. They leapt to mind.” I looked up. “This sort of magic … it’s not usual. Most casters, even the very best casters, would never be capable of such a thing. Those arts have died out from modern memory. Just like reavers themselves are nowadays relegated to myth. I wouldn’t have had the faintest idea what those things were without Zar. As soon as I did, though, the first people who came to mind were wild mages. To read the history books, nothing was beyond them and nothing fell outside their morals to test. Hence the reputation that earned them the name. Alchemists and magical daredevils, pushing boundaries, they were a menace to our own undercover lives, a danger to mundanes and magical people alike—including themselves.”

  With a wry smile, Orion brushed away dog hairs. “Not pleasant neighbors. I suppose we are blessed not to have any to hand.” He reached for his cup on the coffee table. “Little as I can offer feedback in that regard, I must say you offer a compelling picture. If these casters are truly the most powerful, and most reckless, it does sound possible.”

  “It does,” Zar spoke up. “Even I’ve heard of wild mages, Cass. But I’m with you. Past tense?” Looking at Orion.

  “Well, I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I can only tell you what I’ve heard.”

  “Which is?” Isaac asked.

  “I cannot personally vouch for it, but I’ve heard there is a remaining organization of wild mages in France. Paris to be exact.” He rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and steepled his fingers, again frowning slightly with thought. “Now, that might be no comfort. If you are correct that these people are unhinged, it would seem to be a fraught proposition to approach. Much less getting a straight answer from them as to whether they have been reanimating faie. However, your own statement sounds convincing. I spoke with our young friend Rowan this morning—an aspiring scholar, as I’m sure you know—and even he had no prospects to offer.”

  “How could they still be around and hardly anyone know?” I looked again to Zar.

  “Orion knows.” Zar glanced at the druid.

  Orion gave a gentle shrug. “Hearsay from a network throughout the fringe magic community around Europe. One does pick things up. It was why I hoped we might meet and exchange ideas. I only regret that mine remain limited despite connections. You’re the one with the best explanation I’ve heard in all my recent conversations, Cassia.”

  I sipped from my tea. “Paris sounds as likely a place as any to headquarter … though I don’t see that we have any way to find them—even if we were that desperate.”

  “Paris is as specific as I have heard,” Orion said. “Rowan says you have been able to use magic to seek things out?”

  “Yes, scrying. Only these are casters. And no ordinary casters if they really are throwbacks, or continued members of the wild mage order. Where one caster might ward against detection, they will have a fortress.” Still, I had that feeling. A sort of prickle at my back. A pay attention to what’s going on here, this is important feeling that would have had my whiskers quivering if I’d been a cat.

  “Can’t you try, Cass?” Zar asked. “If you tried to scry them, search Paris for wild mages, what’s the worst that could happen? They couldn’t actually hurt you, could they? You would only be blocked?”

  “No, I don’t think they could. I’m warded also.” I stroked the dog. “You’re right. And … there’s the matter of asking good questions. Maybe we don’t need Paris? With the lead, if there are wild mages behind this, if I search a bit nearer to us now it could turn up a hint. They would have to be here in the north, killing and animating the kindred, right? They couldn’t do it in Paris and ship them over in cattle cars.”

  “Steady on,” Andrew said. “You ‘don’t think’ they could hurt you if you scry them? Plus you’re only going on a vague idea? But first thing you’re going to do upon finding out these dangerous casters might still exist is go sticking your neck out?”

  “I’m certain they can’t hurt me if I scry for them,” I said. “It’s possible they could know, possible they could interfere. But they can’t send an electric shock ‘down the line.’ Anyway, I might not be seeking their headquarters at all. Better than anything in Paris would be a particular mage to find right here. Even simply knowing that was who this was would be worth it.”

  “What do you need from us?” Zar asked. “A chant?”

  “Oh … right now?” I glanced at Orion, but he had looked at his phone while Andrew and I talked, lifting it from the side of the chair where it must have vibrated.

  “Please, by all means,” he assured me. “Begging your pardon, I must write back to my wife. May I help? Clear the room? Put on music? Candles? Dreadful manners but I don’t know the procedure.”

  I smiled. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a meditation for me. You can all stay right where you are. It shouldn’t take long to have a look.”

  “Meditation music?” Opening something on his phone. “A harp? A peaceful river? This one is my wife’s favorites.”

  “That would be welcome. Thank you.”

  Orion started the meditation music on his pho
ne and sat back with it raised to text his wife, as if to show he was busy and giving me privacy. The young dogs had finally lost interest and lay at his feet. The older still rested her chin on my knee. I, in turn, rested my hand on the back of her neck. Isaac, Zar, and Andrew swallowed a couple more biscuits and sat quietly, waiting.

  I shut my two eyes, submerged into the music and quite pond in the forest, opened my third eye, and went looking for wild mages.

  Chapter 23

  I started with the reavers. Simple questions that I knew the scry answers to before I began: Who created the reavers? Show me those people.

  Yes: blocked, blank, same old nothing.

  Precisely because of concerns like being detected, I tiptoed around other questions.

  Are there still wild mages? Show me evidence of their work if there is any.

  Wimpy, weird questions that didn’t get to the heart of anything. I saw a flash of a great city, though it might have been Paris or might have been anywhere in Europe. Then a sense of graves. New mounds where bodies of faie were thrown? Rows of human graves? I wasn’t sure. It was more a feeling, a wisp like that disremembered dream.

  Yet it was something—important even in its hint. It was an answer. If there were no wild mages at all, I’d have received nothing.

  Palms tingling, breaths shorter than they should have been with the steady work of a scry, Andrew’s reminder of my own misgivings about these people kept me inching around the issue with gentle questions about wild mages being in Britain, in France, did anyone know about them in Paris. Le magicien effréné they’d been in French, right?

  Drifting on a sort of scry raft down a lazy river, working up courage to jump in, when I saw the house.

  Coming about it sideways, never asking directly for a headquarters or a name, I saw it anyway. The whole thing:

  A cemetery for pets along the bank of the river, many lanes of traffic, a side street, a park surrounded by a fence, a low brick wall, brick and concrete buildings, street signs. A corner house in a terraced row, gray, with tall double doors, grubby and nondescript. The sort of house that it’s easy to walk right past, attracting neither admiration nor condemnation. A very tall, gray blob. A crooked number 77 looked rusty above a heavy iron door knocker.