Wilderwood
Wilderwood
Halli Starling
Halli Starling Books
Wilderwood
Copyright © 2021 by Halli Starling.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
For information contact :
http://www.hallistarling.com
Book and Cover design by Halli Starling
ISBN: 9781737323419
First Edition: August 2021
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
To Keikei, Agu, Sirus, James, and Leah: for being the best cheerleaders and divine friends.
To Cayla, for being my first reader and artist, and for loving vampires as much as I do.
To everyone who has ever encouraged my writing and told me to do the damn thing.
One
They say we are born, not made, as vampires. Created vampires are feral, ruthless killers who desire blood above all else. Those who are born into this fate have better control and thus are civilized. That we are only brutal if we choose to be. And so because we have free will, we are more like the humans and the other creatures with souls. I have never once felt human, or like anything else. I know what I am, and it is because of that feeling, and because of the marks on my flesh, that I stand steadfast in my cause.
I know this - each of us bears the marks of the sin that created us on our flesh. These marks tell the story of that crime, committed by an ancestor, which cursed the bloodline and resulted in such creatures. But no matter my ancestor’s sin, I will not let their viciousness affect my people. Everyone who lives in my territory, human or otherwise, is under my protection. And I will fight to the death, and then beyond, to keep them safe.
—From the journal of Octavia Wilder, 1824
1889
The rap of knuckles on solid wood broke Octavia’s concentration and with a sigh she called out, “Come in, if you must.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, my lady, but Maribelle says the sheep got out again and one is over the river.”
Octavia turned in her chair. “Over the river?”
Simon, the wereboar groundskeeper of Wilderwood, clutched his worn straw hat in his fingers, but his eyes danced with mirth. “Yeah. Over the river.”
Ah there’s that headache I was expecting. Damn. “That’s twice this week. Grab the net, Simon.”
“Yes, my lady.”
Octavia silently thanked the gods she’d not changed out of the clothes from her morning ride and went with Simon - and his net - to the empty field behind Wilderwood Manor. The ground, muddy from the spring rains, seemed determined to suck at their boots and trip them up. Simon muttered a few curses, each one followed by an apology to Octavia.
She brushed his apologies aside. “It’s not a worry, Simon. You know that.”
“Still is improper, my lady.”
“Yes, well. We have bigger concerns than a few bruised social norms.”
At least that got a chuckle out of the old groundskeeper.
As they neared the river, which split the field in two and preceded the bank of a heavy treeline, a Baaa rang out. Floating above the lazily churning river was Beep Beep, the most troublesome sheep Octavia had ever the displeasure of meeting.
Simon stood beside her, net at the ready. “You’d think the blasted thing was a goat, as much as it gets into.”
“And yet, if Beep Beep were to...wander off and never return, I’d be making one little girl very unhappy.”
Simon sighed dramatically, earning him a snort from Octavia. “Shall I?”
“Please.”
Simon marched over to the riverbank and deftly swiped the net down over the levitating sheep. When his net caught empty air, he was so startled that he began to tip forward, toward the river. Octavia rushed to him, throwing an arm around his chest and pulling him back from the muddy water.
“Much obliged,” he panted, swiveling his head to see where the sheep went.
“Baa.”
Octavia pointed to where Beep Beep was hovering above the river, roughly fifty feet from them. “As if a levitating sheep weren’t enough. Damn thing’s learned to teleport.”
***
He’d never had the occasion to come this far south, but Roderick instantly recognized Wilderwood as the type of sleepy little village where not much happened and gossip was de rigueur. And if he was going to avoid being the focus of all that idle chatter, it behooved him to find the inn quickly.
Rangers tended to attract attention, and he was in no mood.
Roderick hefted his bag over his shoulder, hearing the satisfying clank of crossbow bolts within, and walked into town. He was dressed like a traveler, albeit one not used to such stifling refinery like Wilderwood. So he got a few confused glances from the folks walking in the town square market. But he kept to the shadows and kept his head down, eyes only tracking up to mark locations in his mental map.
Always be prepared, and always know where the safe places are, his mentor Guran used to say. Know your entrances and exits. And always expect trouble.
Wilderwood looked like the kind of place where trouble came to die a wheezing, dusty death. Roderick chuckled as a boy about six years of age came to a frozen halt as he passed, his sweet dropped to the ground in shock.
He was tired, his feet hurt, and he could smell the inviting aroma of roasted meat up ahead. The inn glowed with soft light, the door open to let in the fresh air, and from the noise echoing down the street, they were doing a bustling lunchtime trade.
Perfect. He could slip in while it was busy and start from an advantage; be able to observe the town and listen to gossip. Tracking his prey wasn’t going to be easy in the ancient forests around Wilderwood, but if anything strange had been happening lately, it would certainly be the talk of the inn.
Roderick stuffed his hat in his pocket and ran a hand through his too-long dark brown hair before stepping into the common room of the inn. With practiced ease he scanned the space. At first glance it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary - a room full of what mostly looked like locals, farmers and merchants and such sharing tables and chatter.
The tall, older woman behind the counter was barking orders at a young man, who bustled by to wipe down a newly vacated table in the corner. And that’s where Roderick headed. He gave the youth a wan smile. “Busy in here.”
The boy, probably no older than sixteen, blew sweaty auburn hair out of his eyes and gave a spot by Roderick’s elbow another swipe with his towel. “Always is.” He gave Roderick the kind of assessing look to be expected from someone much more worldwise - and much older. It sparked something in the back of Roderick’s mind, made him narrow his eyes. “Always is. Mama Stockton’s stew is famous. People come from all over for a bowl.”
“Must be some stew,” Roderick murmured. The boy didn’t seem to notice.
“You’ll be w
antin’ a bowl then?”
He nodded. “And some ale and bread, if possible.”
The boy gave a salute and ran off. The moment he left, the buzzing in Roderick’s mind faded. Strange. He idly wondered if the boy had a touch of fae in him; humans with only a tiny dose of magic in their bloodline often made his head ring like that, but they weren’t a danger. They rarely, if ever, knew about their ancestry.
He sighed and leaned back against the wall, content to watch the room and take in the drone of conversation as it ebbed and flowed around him. Most of what he overheard was typical small town fare about engagements and rumors and the state of the crops for the upcoming year.
No one seemed to be paying him much mind, so he closed his eyes. It felt so good to sit and rest. If he could just stay here for a few moments….
“Beep Beep got out again?” This voice was rough, male, had a bit of a northern accent.
There was a feminine laugh followed by, “Damn thing. Ella would have my head if anything happened to him.”
“Simon said he was floating over the river.”
“Floating. And then teleported. We chased him for two miles before Simon finally got the net on him.”
The man roared with laughter and accompanied it by a slap to the table. Roderick cracked an eye open, his curiosity piqued. What the devil were they talking about? He scanned the room for the voices’ owners and found them two tables ahead, an empty table between him and them. The pair had just arrived, from the state of their unremoved coats.
The man was well...huge. Absolutely massive. Easily nearly seven feet tall with a bright red beard, broad barrel chest, and hands large enough to palm a human skull. He was dressed like a farmhand, rough clothes dotted with patches and stains, but there was something about the way he held himself that spoke of more.
The woman couldn’t have been more different. Roderick saw sharp cheekbones and a pointed chin, which were on display due to the elaborate braid she wore piled high on her head. Her riding clothes were of fine make and fit, so she obviously came from money. But she treated the man before her with warm consideration, and the way she patted his hand spoke volumes.
Intrigued, he slumped on the bench and sipped the ale the young man had just brought to him. “Stew be out in a minute, sir.”
“Thank you.”
As the odd pair in front of him settled, that same youth ran over to their table. “My lord. My lady.” He gave a little bow and set napkins and cutlery down in front of them. “The usual?”
“Please,” the woman responded. “And if you know any good recipes for mutton….”
The man snorted. “Don’t listen to her, Jacob. Octavia’s just sore she keeps getting outsmarted by a sheep.” The woman grumbled into her ale but her eyes shone over the rim of her mug.
“Understood!” And the young man dashed off again, leaving the pair to chat.
***
As Octavia opened her napkin to spread in her lap, a small card tumbled to the table. With a pointed look at Gregory, she flipped it over. Gregory saw her mouth thin as she read the single line, then took the card as she slid it over.
We’ve got a Ranger - table behind you, in the corner.
“More exciting than Beep Beep’s great escape, isn’t it,” the man asked in low voice.
“Apparently so,” she responded, hand tensing around the card. She caught the flash of volcanic orange in his eyes and she gave his boot a swift kick under the table. It was like kicking a mountain, and had about as much impact. Gregory didn’t so much as blink but as he reached up to scratch his beard, the orange resettled into warm brown. A silent acknowledgement of her authority and what Gregory thought of the whole Ranger situation.
“Don’t let your glamour slip, O’Malley,” she said into her mug.
Two
Eating a meal while having a regular conversation - all within hearing distance of a Ranger - was setting Octavia’s nerves on edge. Rangers weren’t unusual in this part of the world, since the ley lines and ancient forests drew all manner of nasty creatures. But having one this close to Wilderwood was trouble. Rangers acted first, thought second (and it was a distant second at best). The glamours around Wilderwood and its inhabitants would hold, but if this man had any level of skill, he might sense something was a bit amiss about their little enclave.
If their talk of a teleporting sheep didn’t already set off alarm bells.
As she and Gregory left The Drake’s Rest, she had an ale sent the Ranger’s way. Mama Stockton delivered it herself, along with the calling card for Octavia’s residence. Octavia caught a glimpse of the man’s furrowed brow as he read the card with dark, liquid brown eyes, and since he didn’t launch himself at her or anyone else immediately, she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Going to be trouble,” Gregory rumbled as they crossed the square. “Rangers are always trouble.”
Octavia frowned and picked her way across the muddy path. “And aren’t they usually paired? Why would a Ranger be here, alone?”
“I’ll have the clan run a scout trail through the woods tonight. The Ranger could be here for a contract on a beastie, or following his own path. But if he stays too long…”
Gregory didn’t need to finish the sentence. Octavia knew what his silence said. Their wards were at their lowest point of the year, waiting to be refreshed by the coven on the hill. It had to happen on the spring equinox, which was a week away. The closer to the equinox, the weaker the wards, and the more unstable their glamours. If the Ranger stayed during that time, he’d eventually see through their magic.
Octavia wouldn’t allow it.
Hence the calling card. An invite up to the house on the morrow for the Ranger to discuss his business - and hopefully a swift exit from Wilderwood - with Octavia. She could suss out his intentions, provide assistance, and put on the face of the worried baroness of the land without disrupting the coven’s rituals or arousing suspicion.
Probably.
Hopefully.
Octavia blew out a breath and ran a hand over her now loose braid. Gregory chuckled. “No offense, love, but you look a fine state. Might want to go check a mirror before the Ranger comes knocking.”
She wrinkled her nose at him. “I can think of a thousand other things that need my attention than my hair. You worry about the clan. I’ll make the rounds elsewhere, ensure everyone stays as far away from the Ranger as possible.”
Gregory hummed in thought, gaze drifting across the rain-splattered roofs of the buildings across the street. “Odd looking, for a Ranger. They’re normally more...rough around the edges.” He grinned. “He’s handsome. Refined.”
Octavia shrugged as if she hadn’t noticed the man’s sharp nose or dimpled chin. Her vampire eyes were keener than most, and shadows the Ranger had sat in hid certain details. But she’d also made out those eyes and an arching jawline dotted with stubble. “You seem awfully caught up on appearances of late, Gregory. Something I should know?”
He scratched at his beard again and she could hear his nails scraping over dry flesh. Faster than he could track, her hand shot out and stilled his; it was a gentle, but commanding, touch. “Sorry, boss. Nervous habit.”
She shuddered at the memory of the sound, but a brunette eyebrow twitched in interest. “What’s their name?”
Now the big man flushed, splotches of red creeping up his neck. “I uh….aw shit, you’ll find out soon enough.” He grinned, looking all the more like an embarrassed hound dog. “Stephan.”
“Stephan. Stephan. Hold up.” Octavia whirled on him with a grin. Her fangs showed now, thin and sharp and indenting her bottom lip. As they were no longer out in the open of town and nearing the road to lead her back home, she felt a tad safer. “You soft touch! From the Friederich clan?”
Now Gregory’s flush was blazing across his face and Octavia’s heart grew a couple sizes bigger. Gregory was one of her oldest friends, had helped her re-establish her ancestral home and build Wilderwood as it stood now - a safe h
aven for the misunderstood, the feared, the rejected. Both supernatural and human alike. But Gregory O’Malley had been a lifelong bachelor, dedicated to his clan for nearly a century. Seeing him in love was beyond adorable. It made Octavia stupidly, proudly happy.
“Yeah, we’ve been seein’ each other. Just meeting whenever one of us would travel the coast.” Gregory dug around in his jacket and pulled out a dark green velvet box. “I’m seeing him next weekend. Had this made.”
Octavia could hardly stand it. “Can I?”
Gregory nodded and pulled back the hinged lid. Nestled safely inside was a bright gold O’Malley clan brooch, elaborately, gorgeously dotted with emeralds and tourmaline. “Do you think he’ll like it?” Gregory asked, eyes fixed on Octavia’s face.
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