by Jan Delima
Celtic Moon
( Celtic Wolves - 1 )
Jan Delima
Like father, like son…
Sophie Thibodeau has been on the run from the father of her son for more than fifteen years. Now her son, Joshua, is changing, and her greatest fears are about to be realized. He’s going to end up being just like his father—a man who can change into a wolf.
Dylan Black has been hunting for Sophie since the night she ran from him—an obsession he cannot afford in the midst of an impending war. Dylan controls Rhuddin Village, an isolated town in Maine where he lives with an ancient Celtic tribe. One of the few of his clan who can still shift into a wolf, he must protect his people from the Guardians, vicious warriors who seek to destroy them.
When Sophie and Dylan come together for the sake of their son, their reunion reignites the fierce passion they once shared. For the first time in years, Dylan’s lost family is within his grasp. But will he lose them all over again? Are Joshua and Sophie strong enough to fight alongside Dylan in battle? Nothing less than the fate of his tribe depends on it…
Celtic Moon
by Jan DeLima
Celtic Wolves - 1
Acknowledgments
I feel very fortunate to have friends and family who have supported me throughout my writing journey. To all of you, and you know who you are, I am forever grateful to have you in my life.
There are a few who helped directly with this project whom I must mention by name, an amazing group of women I am honored to call my friends: Ann Marie, whose advice on firearms and self-defense from a woman’s perspective was invaluable; Sue, an expat Brit, classicist and teacher, who is as generous with her time as she is with her knowledge; Kathy, a coworker (and cohort in crime), who always encouraged my writing; Wendy, a prolific reader with a keen eye for small details; Janet, for her sound and gentle guidance; Patricia Allen, an intelligent woman of many talents, who proofread my manuscript every time I asked. You’re awesome, Patty!
Thanks also to Michelle Vega, my editor, for believing in my story, and to Grace Morgan, my literary agent, for her continual supply of patience and wisdom.
Lastly, I must acknowledge the scholars and translators throughout history who undertook the monumental endeavor of transcribing The Mabinogion, or The Mabinogi, into English. Because of their insight and dedication, the magical tales from primarily two medieval Welsh manuscripts, The White Book of Rhydderch and The Red Book of Hergest, have inspired many authors over the years. Hence, the tradition of storytelling continues . . .
I shall be until the day of doom on the face of the earth.
—Taliesin
From The Mabinogion
Lady Charlotte Guest Translation
One
RHUDDIN VILLAGE, MAINE, USA
Present Day
Described in a recent travel guide as, “A quiet town tucked into the base of Mount Katahdin at the end of the Appalachian Trail.”
ANOTHER WAR WAS INEVITABLE.
Dylan felt this with utter certainty. The Katahdin territory, his territory, had remained unspoiled over the years by human progress—due to his calculated precautions. Nature thrived in untouched glory, raw and powerful, a precious achievement during these modern times.
An achievement his enemies coveted.
“It’s a message,” Dylan said with deliberate calm as he watched his brother stalk across the kitchen.
“No shit,” Luc snapped, throwing a crumpled ball of linen in Dylan’s direction. Dressed only in a pair of faded jeans, with wild black hair tangled about bare shoulders, Luc looked just as much a predator now as he did in wolf form. His skin was absent of tattoos, indicating that he had shifted in haste, a warning to those who knew him well to tread lightly.
Dylan snatched the offending item in midair and smoothed it out on the wooden island. It was blue linen with a gold stag embroidered across the top, circled by a horned snake. The royal banner of the Gwarchodwyr Unfed, the Originals of their kind. The Guardians. Vicious, powerful, and without conscience. Self-appointed protectors of their race.
Inbred assholes, the lot of them.
He traced the hand-hewn embroidery of the banner. “Where was it found?”
“On the north ridge.” A dangerous light sparked in Luc’s silver eyes, promising vengeance. “Tied to the Great Oak.”
The tree stood a short distance from the north entrance to their territory. Not a direct challenge. Not yet. But the message was clear: We are watching you.
“It seems”—Dylan brushed the banner to the side, his inner battle carefully masked by a calm exterior—“that the Guardians are restless.”
“We must respond.”
“I know,” Dylan growled. The walls of his control began to fracture. His wolf didn’t understand politics or passivity. It wanted the blood of the idiot who dared challenge his dominance.
He walked over to the sink, shoved open the window, and breathed in the fresh spring air. The scent of his forest, pine and wet earth, soothed the animal within.
Luc stilled, watching, waiting, utterly quiet—a pose unnatural to a wolf just as dominant, just as powerful as Dylan.
“We will respond,” Dylan continued after a few moments, arriving at a dangerous decision. “But not in the expected way. I’m going forward with the plan as discussed. It’s time to gather with other leaders who have valued territories.”
Leaders without loyalties to the Guardians.
Luc stayed silent for several moments, and then gave a sharp nod. “I just wonder who’ll have the balls to come.”
“All of them,” Dylan surmised. “Either out of curiosity or need.”
“Or deceit.”
“That too.”
“But they are Celts.” Luc sounded more persuaded by that simple fact.
Celts protected their people.
They were also suspicious, stubborn bastards, unwilling to follow any form of leadership other than their own. Add a little wolf blood to the mix and any gathering had the potential to be downright volatile, as history had proven countless times.
“So be it.” A malicious smile of anticipation spread across Luc’s face. “The time is ripe for a gathering.”
Dylan ignored his brother’s comment as he looked out the kitchen window. Spring was quite possibly the worst time of year for a gathering of their kind.
Orange hues from the setting sun filtered through bare branches, forming dark silhouettes against the horizon. His forest looked dormant, with brown fields and patches of snow lingering in sunless areas. However, Dylan knew the truth, as did his brother, as would anyone with wolf blood running through his or her veins. Underneath the shroud of a waning winter, plants grew, buds formed, animals ended their hibernation. Life awakened. Its energy hummed along his skin like a thousand fingers, whispering promises of power. “We must watch our sister closely.”
“Elen can take care of herself.”
Dylan braced his arms on the counter, letting his head fall forward. “That’s what concerns me.”
Luc chuckled, a sound more sardonic than amused. “It may be time we revealed our strength.”
“If our enemies push us,” Dylan said, looking over his shoulder to meet his brother’s gaze, “they will learn soon enough.”
Luc crossed his arms and leaned against the center island, his relaxed stance a controlled deception. “I suggest we call everyone in from the cities.”
“Agreed.” A few of their people lived amongst pure humans, secret ambassadors of sorts, as was necessary to influence the laws of an accelerating world. “Let’s bring all our people home.”
* * *
SOPHIE THIBODEAU STOOD OUTSIDE THE PROVIDENCE Public Library trying to decide who was more insane, the homeless man practi
cing a colorful sermon on a milk crate, or her as she punched in Dylan’s number on her shiny new disposable prepaid phone.
There was a strong possibility that she may have won the crazy contest, considering the man she was about to call had been hunting her for over fifteen years.
Sophie hugged her jacket closed as a chill shuddered down her spine. She had traveled into the city specifically to activate the phone using a public computer at the library. Her location needed to be as untraceable as possible. Was she being a tad paranoid? Hell, yes. Hiding from a man who wasn’t exactly human had taught her a few lessons.
Her heart pounded as she stared down at the phone. Questions flooded her thoughts, weakening her resolve. What if Dylan wasn’t there? What if the number had been changed? What if he refused to accept the call, deciding instead to contact her on his terms? To hunt her down and trap her.
Calm down, she coached herself, taking a deep breath. And just push the little green button.
For Joshua.
The transient paused in his sermon, adjusting a rainbow-colored beret over matted brown and gray hair. A cool breeze carried his stench: mildew, unwashed skin, and alcohol. Sophie thought he had paused for dramatic effect, but then large brown eyes met hers.
“Are you okay, child?”
Child? For the love of God, she was thirty-six years old. And pathetic, if a drunken homeless man was asking her if she needed help.
“I’m fine,” she answered back with a tight smile, simply because her mother had taught her never to be rude. Her mother had also taught her not to be a coward. The man didn’t look too convinced. No surprise there; neither was she.
Sophie turned her back on him and walked a short distance down the sidewalk. The streetlights flickered on, mingling with headlights from passing traffic. Either she was going to make the call or brave Providence traffic during rush hour.
She pushed the button and held the receiver to her ear.
Six rings, then a terse, “Hello.”
Male, but not Dylan.
Her breath whooshed out. But the rush of relief lasted only moments until reality forced her to form coherent words. “Is Dylan available?”
“No.” The tone was dismissive. “Are you wanting to leave a message?”
Porter, she guessed. One of Dylan’s guard dogs—a tattooed skinhead on steroids. The prick had locked her in Dylan’s room once. She had escaped under his watch. That thought gave her some satisfaction. She cleared her throat, gaining courage. “This is Sophie.”
Silence.
Is it a sin to gain pleasure at someone else’s discomfort? Probably. A small part of her enjoyed it anyway. “I will be at this number for another hour. If Dylan wants to talk to me, have him return my call.” Three heartbeats later she added, “It concerns his son.”
No answer.
“Are you still there?” she asked.
“Yes.” The single clipped word screamed, Bitch.
She gave Porter the number and hung up, tucking the phone into her coat pocket. To keep busy, she grabbed her purse, found twenty dollars, and walked over to the homeless man.
He reached out a gloved hand but paused when a passerby snapped, “He’ll only drink it away.”
Sophie turned to the middle-aged woman, dressed in a casual coat and jeans. “Maybe that’s what he needs to survive this world.”
The woman shrugged and kept walking.
“God bless you, child.” The transient snatched the money. “I’ll pray for you.”
“Thank you, sir.” Sophie fingered the phone in her pocket. “I need all the prayers I can get.”
She searched the area for a secluded place to wait and headed toward a vacant park across the street. There was no grass in this section of the city, just brick and pavement, marble-colored benches, and tall slabs of granite.
As she dashed across the busy street, her left thigh began to ache, a tingling numbness rather than true pain, where nerve endings had been severed in a long slash from hip to calf by a red wolf with golden eyes. A female wolf.
The scars bothered Sophie most when it rained, an annoying reminder of the night she ran away from her son’s father, the night she learned that the monsters in legends did indeed exist.
Two
DYLAN ESCAPED TO HIS SECOND-FLOOR STUDY TO CLEAR his head. He poured himself a glass of scotch, leaned back in his perfectly worn leather recliner, and took a large gulp, savoring the smooth heat as it spread down his throat. Logs and paper had been stacked neatly in the fireplace, ready to be lit when necessary. Porter’s work, no doubt, even though he’d been told on countless occasions not to do menial tasks.
Loud voices and laughter filtered up from the main floor. Rhuddin Hall had always been open to the people of his territory. On most nights he enjoyed the sound of their contentment. On this night, however, he was on edge for many reasons.
Only a select few had been told of recent events, guards and defenders, all of them powerful, most of them shifters. The rest remained uninformed for one more night. A village meeting had been scheduled for the morning.
But, unfortunately, thoughts of his people were not his main cause for distraction. Oh, no—he took another sip of scotch—his restless conscience was all due to her. Always her. For reasons he was unaware of and could not control, Sophie was heavy on his mind this night.
Like poison that refused to be purged, anger and fear churned in his gut. Worst of all was the fear. And the not knowing. Where were they? Was his child well? Were they hungry? Were they safe? Cold? Scared?
Alive?
A soft knock jarred Dylan away from his self-destructive thoughts. Elen leaned into the doorjamb, with her Birks in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. She wore black slacks and a plain white shirt, simple as always in a world that cherished the extravagant.
She took a sip from her glass. “Luc said you wanted to see me.”
“Come.” He waved her in with a purpose.
Elen set her glass on the butler’s table, settled into the sofa, and loosened the tie in her hair. She groaned as golden waves fell around her shoulders. Very few saw his sister like this. Relaxed. Unguarded. Most only knew the doctor. Although some, he was well aware, remembered the child who had been tortured by their mother in an effort to force transformation.
At one time, the Guardians wrongly believed that survival instincts might call the wolf.
Not so for Elen, no matter how brutal the sessions. And since a shift never occurred, two thin scars remained on either side of her lower spine. The torture had been administered under the surface to produce the maximum amount of pain with the least damage. Their mother, if anything, was prudent. Merin would not have threatened her daughter’s beauty. Beauty had value. Sanity, not so much.
Elen looked up, and then frowned. “You think of Merin.”
Dylan forced a smile. “Do you read minds now too?”
“No need.” Sadness settled into her soft blue eyes. “You always get that distant look on your face when you think of our mother.”
“I’ll always regret leaving you with her.” Very rarely did either of them speak of that time. Why, he wondered, did he choose this moment to breach such a forbidden subject? Weariness, perhaps.
Her eyes widened.
Had he never apologized?
No, he supposed not. Apologies were for the weak.
Elen swallowed hard and then took a deep breath, gathering courage to voice difficult memories. “Please don’t regret what cannot be changed. Everything happens for a reason. You were only thirteen, and Luc needed you more. Merin would have killed our brother but not me.” Her voice softened to a whisper. “Besides, you came back for me.”
Her words didn’t lessen the guilt. Dylan suspected they never would. Over sixteen hundred years had passed and he still remembered the night of his brother’s birth with regret.
It had been close to dawn when Aunt Cady barged into his roundhouse, covered in blood. Wild-eyed and hysterical, she handed
him a wolf cub and said, “Run. Run or watch your brother die.”
He had been forced to choose a sibling, and he chose Luc—the first of their clan born in wolf form. Dumbfounded, Dylan had ogled the black ball of fur mewling in his arms.
“Go to the high grounds of Gwynedd,” Cady had whispered as she tucked a wool cloak around the cub Dylan held. “There are others like your brother. Families. They will help you.”
His disappearance, Dylan knew, had harmed his sister more deeply than the metal spikes shoved under her skin.
“Justice has come full circle,” Elen whispered.
Dylan looked up, slogging his way out of old memories. “How so?”
“We were chased from our homeland and forced to settle here, across the ocean, far away from the rest of our kind.” A thread of melancholy weaved through her voice, despite her harsh words.
“Has it been so bad?” he asked softly. It had taken a long time for her and many others to accept that Cymru, now known as Wales, was no longer their home.
The Guardians had claimed Cymru, like maggots within a rotting carcass. Descendants with mixed lineage, or others considered beneath them, were forced to become servants or slaves. Or killed, if judged too feeble in power, unworthy of procreation, dangerous to a weakening race losing its ability to call the wolf with each new generation.
A few powerful shifters had rejected the Guardians’ demands. Some, like Dylan, had been unwilling to watch their loved ones suffer and escaped to new lands.
A gathering with those other leaders was long overdue.
“Of course not,” she chided. “And you’re missing the point. In our absence Cymru has become barren of wolves, overrun with sheep and empty hills, while we thrive. Our forest is rich with life. We have taken the precautions necessary to make sure that our land is protected against development. For some of us, wolves run through the trees once again. We are blessed.”
“Yes,” Dylan agreed. “Perhaps a little too blessed. It will not be long before we are challenged.”