Water, Circle, Moon

by Sally McBride

  Desperately she blurted, “I see it now, how weak our human forms are. How useless. You are my chieftain now.” She let her neck turn, rolling one eye at Jaird in what she hoped was a teasing, submissive glance.

  Either Jaird was falling for her act, or he knew she was lying and didn’t care. Laine was betting that he simply didn’t care. He was the dominant stallion, she the submissive filly. That was the nature of life in the cabyll ushtey world. Of course she would follow him, obey him, meekly find her place in his harem of mares.

  He didn’t know she already belonged—heart, soul, and body—to Arren. Their lovemaking had been a revelation. If what she and Arren had shared was normal for cabyll, then she was hooked.

  She thought of Bethea. Poor Mother, and poor Martin. How could a normal man ever compete?

  Then she heard a low rumble coming from Jaird’s chest. Laughter? She forced herself to keep pacing lightly around him as if flirting, thanking God when she saw him turn to follow her. Jaird was laughing, a thick, self-satisfied sound.

  Good. She kicked her heels and drifted toward the deeper forest. “Father, where is my brother? Where is Innis?” She really needed to know. The last she’d seen of him was when he and Anya went off together. But if he did turn up, whose side would he be on in a fight between father and daughter? Because that’s what it would come to.

  Jaird stopped and lazily stretched his neck, shaking his head. The black thatch of his mane whipped back and forth, some of the tendrils flying upward like smoke to coil above his head. “Ah, Innis,” he rumbled. His tone was dismissive, dimly fond.

  “I need my brother. I need to know he’s safe!” She needed to know how many enemies she and Arren had. Then she thought of a card she might play: Bethea, sleeping at the inn . . .

  “I have a surprise for him. You might enjoy it too, Father.” At least she hoped it was a surprise, and that Jaird didn’t already know somehow that his ex-mate was back in town.

  Another indulgent chuckle as, blessedly, they gained more distance from Arren. What must he be thinking? Hopefully not that she was a betraying bitch eagerly in thrall to the alpha male.

  Jaird said, “How delightful. I cannot imagine what you could give me, my child, other than your sweet self.”

  Again her steps faltered, again she recovered. She had to make him believe her. And she had to get out of horse form before Jaird decided to claim her. If only she knew more about being cabyll. This whole business of father and daughter mating was intolerable. “If you take me to my brother, I’ll fetch the surprise. But I have to be human to do it . . . I’m afraid of being caught like this. I need your help to change. Surely you know everything there is to know about our bodies . . . ”

  “I know many things, my dear, among them that you are a very bad liar. I can smell the sex on you. I know what you have done with that pathetic creature huddling like a rabbit over there.” Jaird wheeled and pranced back toward Arren, shooting up clots of dirt with his hooves.

  “No! Leave him! He means nothing to me!”

  Arren scrambled to his feet and dodged behind the biggest tree trunk he could reach. He glared at them from its cover. Jaird laughed at the sport, snaking his neck around the tree and snapping at Arren.

  “Laine,” Arren bellowed, “Don’t be an idiot. Run! I’ll be all right!”

  Jaird’s heavy body, solid and unwieldy as it was, turned out to be extraordinarily flexible, much more so than a true horse’s. More evidence of the carnivore within; besides sharp teeth, a supple backbone. As he maneuvered his bulk among the close-set trees to trap Arren, Arren dodged, but Jaird twisted in place, his powerful legs driving him in a tight circle that almost succeeded in knocking Arren to the ground. Arren ducked and rolled, and scrambled on hands and knees toward a sturdy tree that had branches low enough to climb.

  Jaird wasn’t going to let him reach it. Laine saw his hindquarters bunch as he prepared to spring. She let out the loudest scream she could muster—which sounded like the shriek of metal on metal—reared up and pawed at him. One hoof raked his flank. He snarled and turned to slash her. Instead of running, she dropped as Arren had done, a tactic that a horse would never use. He hadn’t expected it. Inwardly she rejoiced: he’d thrown his momentum off. His lunge for Arren fell short. Barely.

  Taking the brief advantage, Arren was up the tree faster than she would have thought possible.

  “Ha!” crowed Jaird. “Now I have you, little squirrel. I’ll crack your nuts and eat them, and I’ll have the female for myself.” He reared up and braced his forelegs against the tree, heaving at it like a bear till the branches shook. His hooves left slashes in the bark.

  Arren bellowed rage and climbed higher. Branches rattled and leaves drifted down as he settled into a notch and prepared to wait. Smart man. Laine felt a surge of love, buoyed higher than ever by adrenaline.

  Now, to slip away from Jaird. She could get help from Arabella and Tommy, she was sure—

  “May I join the fun, Father?”

  Laine’s blood froze. Innis. At the worst possible time. Shit!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Her brother trotted out of the gloom like a golden statue come to life. “What’s this I hear about a surprise?” He looked sleek and fresh, his body smaller than his sire’s but just as tight with muscle. He glided to Laine’s side, his ears pricked forward and a gleam of madness in his ember-bright eyes. “I love surprises, don’t you? Tell me, big sister, what is it?”

  “Innis,” she cried, with as much conviction as she could muster. “Thank God you’re all right!”

  “Of course I’m all right.” He went to stand at the bottom of the tree, beside Jaird. Both of them looked up. Laine could hear Arren growling like a trapped wolverine. “Better than all right. This evening is shaping up very well indeed.”

  “Glad you think so,” snapped Laine. “Where have you been? And where are Arabella and the others? Where’s Anya?”

  “No idea about Arabella and her gang. Anya went home to London, not that it’s any of your business.” He looked her over critically, as if judging a new outfit, so very Innis it made her feel even more disjointed from reality. “Well, Laine, I see you’ve mastered a new skill. You look smashing, lots better than I’d imagined.”

  “Gosh, thanks, asshole.”

  “Children, enough.” Jaird turned away from Arren’s tree. “Innis, my boy, I must find out what your sister’s surprise is. You may go with her to fetch it. Make sure she doesn’t run off. I plan to stay here for a while and enjoy the gentle sounds of the night.”

  The tree emitted a string of curses and a shower of leaves and twigs.

  “So peaceful.” Jaird drew a deep, appreciative breath of the night air. Laine knew he was sifting it for the information carried, molecule by molecule. He must be aware of so much. The scent of blood, of sex, of fear. Stupid to think she could outwit him. “Go now, you two. Come back in, oh, an hour or so. That should be enough time.”

  She knew exactly what he meant. Enough time to enjoy the pleasure of killing Arren. Was he allowing her to go to spare her the sight of her lover’s annihilation? Did he think she’d be grateful for that miserly drop of compassion?

  Laine eyed Innis with calculation. This might be her only chance to try to find help; she had better go with him. Not that she had a choice. But Innis didn’t frighten her, not the way Jaird did. She was taking the gamble that Jaird wouldn’t risk changing to human form and climbing after Arren. He would be at a disadvantage lower on the tree, and besides, she suspected he was a coward, unwilling to participate in a fair fight. Small, inexperienced females and the elderly were his preferred prey.

  Innis said, “I’d rather stay with you, Father. Looks much more amusing.”

  Jaird laughed and shook his head.

  Laine suppressed a sob. With a panicky edge in her voice, she cried, “Innis, I can’t stand this any longer. I swear all I want is to get in bed and pull the covers over my head. But I don’t know how to change back to huma
n!”

  “Oh, come on, Laine, don’t whine. Why do you want to change? You’re cabyll now and should stay that way.”

  “Innis, please!”

  He sighed. “Oh, what the hell, I suppose you’ve had enough excitement for one night . . . Father, are you sure you wouldn’t rather we stay with you?”

  Jaird swung his massive black head toward them and bared his teeth. “Go! Or I’ll lock you both in the stable.”

  Remembering the cold iron padlock on the stable door, she shied sideways and crowded close to Innis. A padlock that had burned her hands when she’d touched it. So that was how he liked to control his females. “Innis, don’t let him trap me!”

  “Will you just fucking shut up? Damn it, Laine, you’re such an infant.”

  Laine hung her head and trod after Innis, hearing the muffled clop of their hooves in the leaf mulch. Not as loud as her heart. At least she’d got Innis away; one less stallion to threaten Arren. She didn’t dare look back. If she saw him, helpless in his tree, she’d lose her wits completely, and that would do no one any good.

  Arren, I love you. I’m not abandoning you. Be safe.

  She felt an itch behind her ears and translated it as Arren’s eyes upon her. Which might or might not be true. She had so much to learn.

  Saying a mental goodbye to her clothes, she hoped some plan or opportunity would occur to her soon. What would Bethea do when she saw her children in their shifted forms? Laine felt dizzy.

  If Mother wasn’t already out lurking in the woods like everyone else, she had probably woken up and discovered the lounge and its liquor cabinet. She and Lottie Cardew might be swigging it down right now, champion drinkers that they were.

  Holy shit, Laine lamented; what had possessed her to come to England in the first place?

  Arren watched through a gap in the leaves as Laine and Innis disappeared. Her hoof-steps faded, and he found himself sniffing vainly at the air, hoping for her scent. But, now that he was human again, his senses had lost that demanding insistence they’d had as cabyll. Though the fog of pheromones was clearing from his head, his thinking was still skewed. He’d had to restrain a wild urge to leap like a monkey from his branch onto Jaird’s back and attempt to throttle him with his bare hands. Which would have been ridiculous.

  He considered his position. He was naked, cold, trapped, and his tender parts were being scraped raw by tree bark. Jaird Fallon, whom he had not planned to meet this way, was pawing and huffing ten feet below, ready to snap him up like ripe fruit should his grip fail.

  Trying to escape by clambering to the next tree and away wouldn’t work: Jaird’s hearing was acute and Arren’s brachiation skills minimal. His only real hope was that Jaird would become bored with hanging about taunting him and think of something else to do. He must have other things on his agenda tonight: for instance, claiming his daughter for his herd.

  Or killing her.

  Arren shifted position slightly, trying to ease his awkward perch. This was insane. He felt like a fool, a useless sod unable to protect his woman. His mate. Never mind engineering some sort of revenge for Delsie’s death.

  And it was his own cabyll nature that had undone him. The sight of Laine going to Jaird had shocked him. Had it been bravery on her part, or obedience? He could guess, but he couldn’t know. Whatever the reason, her leaving him for another had been the trigger that started his shift. He’d felt abandoned, small, weak, and confused. But only for a moment, damn it. The lapse in strength, the feeling of powerlessness, had made him shrink—literally—from horse to man again. Once it started, he couldn’t control it.

  And besides that emotional blow, there was more. When he’d detected the scent of the dominant stallion, he had been unable to prevent a purely instinctive action: his body went into submission. He diminished in response to the overwhelming male pheromones the evil bastard emitted.

  What the hell was wrong with his male pheromones?

  Arren tried to tell himself that if he’d been mentally prepared, he could have resisted the urge to submit. But he couldn’t be sure. It had been utterly humiliating, and he was afraid it might happen again. Was this chemical whip the way a cabyll chief ruled his herd?

  Right now none of that mattered. He was in no position to challenge anything larger than a tree frog. Laine, though temporarily out of the clutches of her father, had gone off with her brother. Her crazy, unpredictable, moon-addled brother, whom she loved and trusted. Arren ground his small, blunt primate teeth together, wishing they were large and sharp again. Now that he was human, Jaird’s pheromones didn’t affect him—he would happily pounce onto his back and start tearing at that gleaming black hide with his too-small teeth.

  He had to smile at the image, that of a small domestic cat riding a hurricane, but the smile turned to a grimace. Jaird was stalking around the tree, humming tunelessly like a bloody great lorry engine.

  Arren ripped a branch off and threw it at Jaird’s head out of sheer useless frustration. What the hell was he going to do now?

  Laine and Innis reached the road and began to move faster along the verge, breaking into a trot, then a canter. Innis seemed unworried about discovery, and led the way with his tail high. Perhaps he could scent humans before they got too close. Her senses were still mostly indecipherable, overwhelmed with input. Running felt wonderful, and she was sorely tempted to just keep on going and lose herself in the endorphins. Run away from it all, run forever . . .

  She had to separate the sensations of her strange new body from the black fear in her human brain. The one part of her that was still human. The farther she got from Arren, the worse the fear was; she had to use it, cling to it, let it fuel her anger. There must be something she could do.

  First, figure out where Innis stood. Was he crown prince in Jaird’s empire, or was he a free agent?

  She caught up and cantered beside him. “Did Anya really go back to London?”

  He jerked his head and sped up. She paced him easily. Her body was bigger and longer-legged than his, which gave her a certain level of confidence. Finally he retorted, “What’s it to you?”

  “I liked her.”

  “I like her too, and I know what you’re thinking.” They came to an intersection and slowed to a walk, Innis raising his head to sniff the air. They stayed on the verge, which was grassy enough to muffle the clop of their hoof-steps. A couple of dogs had barked at them as they’d passed but been wiser than to give chase. “What if I killed her, right? What if I’m like my father?” There was bitter bile in the deep tones of his shifted voice.

  “Well, are you?”

  He narrowed his large, liquid-amber eyes at her. “Just leave Anya out of this, Laine. She’s . . . she’s safe.” Laine heard for now in his tone. “Look, what’s this ‘surprise’ you’ve got? I know you’re desperate to rescue your boy back there. Surely you’re not stupid enough to think you can trick Jaird?”

  “Maybe I am,” she stated mulishly. “Somebody has to do something. Why should we just give in to him?” They neared the bridge. The inn was close. Her vague plan to enlist the help of Arabella and whomever else she could find was becoming indistinct, lost in a fog of doubt and fear. “Innis . . . Mother’s here.”

  His head snapped around. “What? Here? You’re kidding.”

  “She knows what’s going on, she knows about us.” She considered her hooves for a moment. They were small, sharp, and sort of metallic-looking in the moonlight. They caught the light with every step. Think of them as weapons. “Well, maybe not about me, yet.”

  “Is that the surprise? If so, it worked on me. Not sure about Jaird.”

  “I’ll bet the bastard’s aware of her, somehow. Or will be soon. But maybe she’ll have some special way to manage him, some kind of connection . . . ” If Bethea could reconnect with her lover, she might distract him, lure him away. But what if their connection went deeper? What if she was yet another enemy for Arren?

  What if she was ready to turn against her own child
ren?

  If Innis was Jaird’s creature, he too would attempt to block any half-baked plan to challenge the alpha male. Not that her and Arren’s attempt to locate and confront Jaird had amounted to anything. Jaird could be excused his arrogance. So far, he was in control.

  They crossed the road stealthily, keeping an eye out for late-night observers. No matter how lightly she trod, her hooves clacked on the pavement and echoed eerily. Her heavy, powerful body was exhilarating to inhabit, but it was still an awkward shell to the human consciousness that rode inside, like wrestling the controls of a semi when you were used to a compact car.

  The river seemed to be on their side, at least. Obscuring mist rose and swirled around them. They passed beneath the darkened windows and locked storefronts of the village; then they were in the privacy of the inn’s secluded grounds.

  She said, “I take it Anya is cabyll ushtey. Is there anyone around here who isn’t?”

  He barked a short, humorless laugh. “If there are, they’re tucked abed.”

  “So, where is she? Has Jaird got her behind an iron padlock?”

  She could hear him grind his teeth. “I asked you to leave Anya out of this.”

  “So are you two mated? I kind of thought you—”

  He turned and nipped her sharply on the shoulder. It hurt. “What’s going on between Anya and me is none of your bloody business.”

  “Oh, and what’s between Arren and me is yours?”

  “In the cabyll world, it is.”

  The set of his body held a definite threat, but she detected another emotion. It could be doubt, or it could be despair. Her assessment of Innis’s position shifted. Was his lady in peril, was that why she was “gone” and why he was so damn touchy?

  Was Jaird using Anya as a lever to operate Innis?

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  “Innis, I’m your sister. You can trust me. Tell me what’s going on!”

  He shuddered all over, his golden hide rippling over the vibrating muscles. “Someday . . . someday, if we get the chance, I’ll tell you about Anya. But for now, back off. Jaird’s my father. You don’t understand what it means to be in the direct line of succession. There are . . . obligations. Expectations.”