Celtic Moon cw-1

by Jan Delima

  The woman walked around to face Sophie with a swish of dark skirts. She was curved, not athletic like Siân and Taran, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths of nervousness. She was smaller than most Guardians, at least the ones that Sophie had seen, with wolf eyes the color of purple pansies, striated with streaks of blue and burgundy. Her hair hung to her waist like burnished brass in the flickering light. She looked no older than her early twenties but that meant nothing.

  “Who are you?” Sophie asked.

  “My name is Rosa. My husband is Math. You met him earlier although you may not remember.”

  “I remember.” The age difference, as much as the betrayal, took her by surprise. “Why are you helping me?”

  Rosa lifted her chin. “I have a message for you to give to Dylan.”

  Wary, Sophie managed to keep her voice neutral. “What is your message?”

  “Tell Dylan I know of the gathering. Tell him I will be in his territory sometime before Beltane, and that I am coming in peace and without my husband’s knowledge. Tell him I have a proposal. Will you do this?”

  She didn’t ask how Rosa had known of the gathering, not wanting to indicate there had been one. “I will give Dylan your message.”

  “One more thing,” Rosa added. “Tell him he owes me.”

  “For what?”

  A calculating smile turned her lips. “For saving your life.”

  Sophie only nodded, choosing not to argue with a woman offering freedom. The price of that freedom could be negotiated when she was home with her family. Grabbing the arm of the chair for balance, she hauled herself into a standing position, working the muscles in her legs until her circulation returned. A dark stain drew her gaze to the arched doorway. The stench, she realized, emanated from the inner chamber beyond. “What’s in that room?”

  Rosa followed the direction of Sophie’s gaze. “Siân came to Math for sanctuary.” She did not refer to Math as her husband, or her mate, or with any form of affinity whatsoever.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Siân spent too many years with a kind leader. She forgot our ways . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Sickened, Sophie turned. “Is Siân in that room?”

  “Don’t—” Rosa grabbed her arm when she took a step toward the chamber. “There’s naught you can do for her now. Siân’s dead.”

  She glared down at her arm. “Dead?”

  Rosa dropped her hand. “I heard she handled Math’s interrogation with honor and strength.”

  “His interrogation? You mean torture!”

  “Lower your voice,” Rosa hissed, pointing to the inner chamber, silent and pleading. “Or we will both follow Siân’s fate.”

  Sophie swallowed her reply in silence, survival instincts overpowering her conscience. Taking a deep breath and almost gagging on the stench, she gave a sharp nod for Rosa to continue.

  “Let Dylan know I don’t believe Siân spoke of the gathering. I know Math well.” Too well, her tone suggested. “He would have acted differently had he known.” She went on to say, “It wasn’t until the end that Siân told them of Elen. And from the rumors circling our halls of what Elen did to Minka . . .” A smile of respect turned her lips. “It may have been Siân’s final vengeance on us.”

  Perhaps it was, for Sophie had seen the way the villagers had treated Elen in the basement; they feared her, and for good reason. “I will let Dylan know.”

  With a nod, she unlocked the chamber door and motioned for Sophie to follow. “Come.”

  A man stood outside, pointing to a maze of hallways lit by torches, his face knotted with scars. A jeweled patch covered his left eye; his right eye scanned Sophie with blatant contempt. “Is it true your son is a shifter?” he asked.

  His voice tagged a memory, no longer muffled but still familiar. It was the voice from outside the door when Math had visited earlier. The guard, it seemed, was more loyal to Rosa than to her husband. There was dissension in this household.

  Good.

  “Yes,” Sophie said. Lying was pointless now.

  His one eye, dark gray surrounded by scarred flesh, lifted over Sophie’s shoulder to where Rosa stood. “Then you are no longer the last.”

  “I am the last unmated female shifter. It won’t change the Council’s plans.” Tucker sauntered past Sophie and rubbed his nose inside Rosa’s palm before moving toward the hallway. Rosa jumped, her wary gaze following the hound.

  “What do they have planned for you?” Sophie found herself asking, even though it was none of her business.

  Unsurprisingly, Rosa ignored her question. “Can you run?”

  A sardonic smile tugged her lips. “Yeah, I can run.”

  “Take a left at every doorway. There will be a tunnel that opens behind our burial grounds. You’ll be surrounded by rivers. Go north until the rivers meet. There is a shallow point where you can cross. I’ll do what I can to distract Math but you must hurry.” Her eyes darkened to an inhuman color of burgundy mixed with blue that reflected purple in the surrounding torchlight. A wolf resided not too far under the surface of this woman’s skin. Those otherworldly eyes landed on Sophie, threatening yet desperate. “And remember our agreement.”

  * * *

  SOPHIE EMERGED FROM THE NARROW DIRT TUNNEL AND took her first breath of clean air. Immediately, she scanned her surroundings for movement and found none, then smoothed a hand over her hair and face to remove cobwebs from her climb. It was dark, the moon a mere haze in the sky, blurred by clouds. Grave tombs stood like sentries in the night, casting shadows on the ground and concealing the secret exit.

  It reminded her of the graveyards in New Orleans, rows of dank stone structures covered in mold, with the dead resting in their afterlife above ground. It was an unusual sight in a northern town, and even more unusual for a commune of immortal Celts. She could only assume the water level in this particular area must be quite high, or something other than the dead resided in those tombs.

  And she didn’t intend to stay and find out what. Tucker emerged like a white apparition from the narrow exit, his stance alert, silently scanning the darkness. Without pause, she listened for the sound of running water and tracked the nearest river upstream. Once she gained some distance, she began to run. Tucker kept in cadence with her strides.

  Trees stood tall yet weakened, their roots exposed due to an eroded forest floor. Soon, one river merged with another, two sources of water that forked around Rosa’s secluded parcel of land. Just beyond the point where the two rivers merged, there was, as Rosa had promised, a trail of exposed rocks. The water flowed in steady currents but seemed shallow enough to cross.

  Pausing by the river’s edge, Sophie spared a glance at the hound. “I hope you can keep up, Tuck.” A disgruntled canine huff reached her ears as she plunged forward. The water seeped through her jeans and found her skin, so cold it stole her breath. Tucker kept pace through the fast-moving currents, but just as they reached the other side, he looked to the woods and issued a soft whine.

  A flash of blue, too vivid to be natural, caught her eye then disappeared.

  Her heart sank. Mind racing, adrenaline pumping, she scanned the darkness and found a fallen log, rotted on one side. Low brush, thick and tangled, grew along the shoreline. She began to wade toward the covering.

  Tucker barked and she cringed. She dared not speak to chastise him. But then a voice, a familiar voice she would recognize in every dream, over any man, and for the rest of her life, echoed from the forest.

  She almost crumpled with relief.

  “Tucker,” Dylan said. “Is that you? Where’s Sophie? Can you bring me to Sophie?”

  With a cry, Sophie crawled her way out of the water, stumbling to gain purchase on dry land, and ran toward the sound of her husband’s voice. Dylan halted for a second when she came crashing through the brush, but then let out a growl and met her halfway.

  “Sophie . . .” His hands were in her hair, patting her down, and then around her waist,
lifting until her feet left the ground. She wrapped her legs around him, buried her face in the warmth of his neck and began to sob.

  “Is Joshua okay?” She asked through broken breaths, almost unable to bear the answer.

  “He’s safe, my love.” Dylan nuzzled her neck, then sought her lips in a desperate kiss that bared his soul as he shuddered in response. “He’s home, waiting for us.”

  Relief made her sag in his arms, but once the tears came they wouldn’t stop. “My mother . . .”

  “I know. I’m sorry, Sophie. I’m so sorry.” Dylan began to walk, carrying her in his arms. She told him about Math, about Siân, how Rosa had helped her escape. She gave him Rosa’s message. He remained silent, listening.

  “Where are we going?” she finally asked.

  “Home,” he said. “We’re going home.”

  It wasn’t until they cleared the trail that she realized they were not alone. Too tired to ask questions, she tucked her face in the crook of his neck and inhaled the scent of safety.

  Thirty

  THE PAIN WAS LIKE A FISTFUL OF HEATED NEEDLES shoved under her skin, greater than anything Merin had ever done to Elen in her childhood. Power did not like to be contained. It wanted release. Unfortunately, her body was the vessel that held it. Her nerves screamed with its force.

  Elen winced as she undid the latch of the iron gate Koko had designed for her, an intricate weave of faeries on lilies that offered both beauty and privacy. Following the stone path, she stumbled toward the hidden gardens behind her beautiful little house. She regulated her breaths through clenched teeth, much like modern childbirth techniques.

  With a broken moan of relief, after a day full of suspicious glances and avoidance from the villagers, Elen finally allowed the power to consume her. She collapsed in a bed of anise hyssop and let its vengeful pressure bleed from her skin and into the ground. Purple flowers bloomed around her and a licorice scent filled the air like a basketful of candy, offering treats and bellyaches of a more noxious variety.

  The villagers thought she was this power-hungry freak, when in fact she was only a conductor, a mere rod of transference. She was a puppet of a merciless master, no more in control now than when it had first begun, when the gods had reached out their hands of vengeance with their unwanted gift.

  Afterward, when the transference passed, she wept. If the villagers knew how much it hurt, would they be more understanding? Doubtful, she mused bitterly. Francine and Taran were dead because of her. And Cormack . . .

  A ragged breath fell from her lips.

  An ivy leaf broke ground through the hyssop, nourished by her tears, and reached for her cheek as if to console her. She ripped it from the earth until life drained from its roots. She knew when it died, because she felt it.

  She was a freak. But not a power-hungry one. Never that. If possible, she would give her gift away, but her conscience wouldn’t allow her to curse another soul with this burden.

  Melissa is alive, she reminded herself, because of her ability to take life and transfer it to another source. Her ability had its purpose, a purpose she had just begun to learn. Still, Taran’s mate had refused to see his child until Elen left the clinic, more afraid of her than a Gwarchodwyr. They had been frightened of her before, and now . . .

  Even Cormack refused to see her. He had changed back to his wolf form and growled every time she approached.

  She had never felt more alone.

  A brush of movement caught her eye. Before she could react, warm arms enclosed her. For a moment she was hopeful, for a moment she thought it was Cormack until ebony hair cascaded around her, distinctly familiar and brotherly.

  “Luc, what are you doing here?” She tried to push him away but he only gathered her closer.

  “Tell me what I can do for you, Elen.”

  Shaking her head helplessly, she said, “There is nothing.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “No.”

  “You’ve been avoiding your family,” he accused softly. “Sophie’s been asking to see you.”

  Knowing her new sister was safe and home gave Elen some comfort. She snuggled closer to her brother’s warmth. “Does she hate me?”

  “Hate you?” She heard the frown in his voice, the confusion. “No, Elen, Sophie doesn’t hate you. Your actions saved her son. You did what you had to do to save our nephew. You are not to blame for the actions of the Guardians. Sophie knows that.”

  Elen rubbed her sleeve across her face, drying her tears. Her brother thought like a warrior, not a healer. Still, his words soothed her. “I’ll come to the house tomorrow morning.”

  “Come now,” he coaxed, tightening his arms. “Or Dylan will return to get you himself. His wife is grieving. Don’t make him chase after you when he should be with her.”

  Guilt was a powerful persuader. “Fine.” She stood, bending forward to brush dirt off her slacks, a well-used trick to hide a sudden twinge of discomfort. She felt bruised internally, never before having pulled the life-force from another living animal. It had taken its toll on her body. “I’ll go see them now.” She hid the weariness from her voice. “Have you seen Cormack?”

  A slight hesitation. “I have.”

  “Is he well? Every time I go near him . . .” Her voice broke, revealing her emotions.

  “Cormack needs time. He needs to learn how to be a man. He doesn’t know how to walk on two feet, let alone speak.”

  “I don’t care about him being a man.” She sounded like a pouty teenager but she truly didn’t care. She missed Cormack. She missed her friend more than the air that she breathed.

  “He does,” Luc said with an odd tone to his voice. “For you, sister, he cares.”

  * * *

  THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, WHILE HIS WIFE SLEPT IN THEIR bed, exhausted with grief, Dylan returned to the White Mountains alone. Normally, it was a four-hour drive, but on this night he didn’t obey traffic rules, and it only took three. Math’s home was located in Avon, New Hampshire, an hour north of the more touristy areas, and, unfortunately, closer to Maine. Dylan often sent one of his guards to Avon to pose as a vacationer, to fish and secretly gather information. In passing, the townspeople described Math as an “eccentric recluse” and “a generous man”—meaning he donated large sums of money to the local government and charities to be left undisturbed.

  The Guardian’s home, aptly named Castell Avon, or the River Castle, sat in a section of forest effectively surrounded by two separate rivers. Unlike the rivers in Maine, these were shallow but wide. Only one bridge allowed pedestrians access to the island. A carriage house built of stone and iron secured the entrance to the bridge, guarded by Math’s men.

  Dylan traveled farther north, where he had found Sophie, and crossed the river on foot. He carried an oblong pack that held his sword and a change of clothes. Once dry, he discarded his pack and wet clothes within a rotting stump. With sword in hand, he finished his journey in the shadows of trees. Castell Avon soon came into view. It sat within a section of cleared forest, as ostentatious as the Guardian who lived inside its stone walls.

  Too easily, Dylan found the graveyard his wife had described with the hidden passage. A foreboding chill crawled over his skin while skirting around the rows of neglected tombs, like the hands of a dark witch bartering potions for a favor. Bodies of dead slaves, he assumed, were massed in the unmarked graves—poor souls who had suffered under the Guardian’s control, only to end up rotting above ground in their afterlife.

  A dull ache began to form around his joints and limbs as his inner wolf growled, sensing danger or, more likely, the residual of misused power.

  Focusing on his objective, he gained access through the concealed tunnel, wary once again that Rosa had shared this weakness of her home. Not for the first time, he questioned what Math’s wife was about, what her demands would be for freeing Sophie, and how she had known of the gathering. He suspected one of the leaders had leaked her information, but did not discount the possibility of a sp
y among his people. Either way, he wasn’t pleased and would uncover the traitor.

  The air inside the castle reeked of mildew and discontent. Guards in street clothes walked the halls, eyes heavy and easily distracted, faithless and uncaring of their master’s safety. Complacent.

  Only a single woman noticed his approach, cleaning before dawn, pausing as she swept below the staircase. She wore modern clothes but watched him with the eyes of a slave, hooded yet sharp. She had survived a fire or something worse, unable, he assumed, to shift and heal afterward. Scars ran along her face and neck. Her hair grew in clumps, exposing bare patches of scalp with knotted flesh over destroyed follicles. She quickly looked away, too broken to shout an alarm, or too afraid of being the bringer of bad news.

  Inwardly, Dylan sneered at the very idea of keeping slaves, the Hen Was, descendants of their kind who couldn’t shift, as vile in modern day as in medieval Cymru.

  The bedchambers were easy to find. Sounds, sexual and aggressive, came from a door at the end of a long corridor.

  “It’s locked,” a feminine voice whispered.

  He turned to see the slave lurking in the shadows, having followed him in silence and without detection. His initial assessment of this woman immediately changed. If she was going to raise an alarm, she would have done so by now. Yet, if her spirit was broken, she wouldn’t have followed.

  He shrugged. This was a minor obstacle for what he’d come to do. “A single slave and a locked door won’t hold me.”

  “You are Dylan ap Merin.”

  “Yes.”

  A curious glint sharpened her glare. “I see death in your eyes, warrior, but also honor. Is it Math you’ve come to claim, or our Rosa?”

  “Math.” Denial, he sensed, would only delay his intent.

  A contorted smile turned the unscarred side of her mouth. “Then you are correct . . . this single slave and a locked door won’t keep you from your task. But I will have your word you’ll not harm our mistress.”