Lycan Tides: Guardians of Light, Book 3

by Renee Wildes

  Giving in to the lure of passion could lead to disaster…

  Guardians of Light, Book 3

  Selkie princess Finora is all too familiar with betrayal. Betrayal by her curiosity, which led her from the sea. By her body, which yielded to a handsome human under the full moon. By the human, who hid her skin and took its location with him to his grave. After seven years of searching, she no longer believes in miracles.

  Trystan is a werewolf on a mission to find and return dragons to his homeland. He follows a slim lead westward across an unfamiliar sea. Gravely wounded in a pirate attack, his ship foundered in a storm and sinking fast, he comes face to face with the most unexpected rescuers—Finora and her two half-human children.

  Selkie and werewolf. Both creatures ruled by the moon. The attraction is instant, mutual, undeniable…and impossible. Trystan is destined to return to the mountains and Finora can’t leave the sea. Their only gift to each other is one night of searing passion—which could lead to the greatest betrayal of all…

  Warning: Contains searing passion, bitter betrayal, hard choices, seven-year curses, and lost seal skins. Throw in an impending selkie war and one wicked ship-wrecking storm. Add a cranky sea-goddess, soul-stealing dragons, interfering mermaids, and children in peril.

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  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

  577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

  Macon GA 31201

  Lycan Tides

  Copyright © 2009 by Renee Wildes

  ISBN: 978-1-60504-623-5

  Edited by Linda Ingmanson

  Cover by Anne Cain

  All Rights Are Reserved. 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 and reviews.

  First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: July 2009

  www.samhainpublishing.com

  Lycan Tides

  Renee Wildes

  Dedication

  To my mom and my sister and all other strong women out there who have ever had to fly solo as single parents. Thanks for reminding me of the woman within the mother. I stand in awe. May Finora reflect a fraction of your strength and grace. Thanks for showing me the way.

  Prologue

  “Bran, don’t go,” Finora pleaded, even as she handed him his seabag. Rona, the ginger cat, wound around her ankles with a plaintive meow.

  “One last trip and we’ll have enough coin for a boat of our own.” In the flickering candlelight, Bran’s copper green eyes gleamed down at her from a face ruddied by years of salt air winds and pounding surf. “Think on it, Nora, no more workin’ for others, none to answer to but ourselves.”

  The supreme irony that he worked so hard for his own freedom whilst denying her own was not lost on Finora. Her heart ached. She pushed the pain aside. “I’ve a bad feeling about this trip. Clouds pile up just beyond the horizon and the wind is rising. Please, stay here with me.”

  “Know what I think?” He slipped a thick arm about her waist to draw her closer. “I think the moon’s clouded yer judgment. I know why ye wish me to stay.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Ye burn with the full moon. No matter what ye say by light of day, sea witch, by night ye’re mine and mine alone.”

  He knew naught. His words crawled under her humanized skin, through her mind. She’d tried so hard to resist the pull of the goddess, to ignore the craving, the need. He was her husband, her captor. This was all he ever saw of her. She loved him. She hated him. She cursed the moon, even as her blood boiled at his touch. Her thoughts clouded as he fumbled with the laces of her bodice. She heard the seabag hit the floor, then his big, work-roughened hands cupped her breasts and she couldn’t think at all. She needed him more than she needed her next breath. She gloried in his total domination. He took her, there on the plank table, fast and furious. She didn’t care. ’Twas the way of the selkie cow to yield to the strongest bull. She burned for her mate. Only he could ease the fire in her blood, if for but a little while.

  She shattered around him with a wild cry, shuddered in his rough embrace as he, too, shook with release. “By the gods, witch.” Bran staggered back, his face flushed as he caught his breath. “Almost ye make me forget what I was doing.” His green eyes narrowed. “Almost.” He smoothed his dark, mussed curls, straightened his clothing, buttoned his peacoat and picked up the seabag. “Never fear, I’ll be home afore the next full moon.” Then he was gone. The door shut with a sense of finality.

  She slid off the table, stumbled to catch her balance. She stared around her, at her home, her prison, as she shook out her skirts and re-laced her bodice. Well, there was no help for it. He was gone, and without that key to freedom, she was stuck here. She cursed her long ago carelessness that gave him this power over her. The sea called to her with every wave, with every breath, and though her soul bled, she was unable to answer. Without her lost sealskin she could not return. Some days it was enough to make her ache for death. Except for…

  “Mama?” That precious little voice pulled her back from her dark thoughts.

  “Coming, poppet.” Finora slipped into the nursery, around the massive black and white dog drooling on his paws. A small figure with dark tangled curls sat up in bed. Braeca, the one good thing to come of her ties with Bran. “What’s wrong?”

  “Bad dweam,” the two-year-old confessed. “Wind. Big waves.”

  Finora’s heart seized. Had her daughter inherited her curse, the sensing? “’Twas just a dream,” she lied. She lay down on the edge of the bed, pulled the little girl close. “Ssh, now. I’ve got you. No more nightmares.” She began to sing of blue skies, the cry of gulls, sun shimmering on peaceful waves. Braeca’s seal-brown eyes closed, and she slipped her thumb in her mouth as she drifted off to sleep.

  Finora eased off the bed. The dog, Storm, watched her go. With Rona the cat in her wake, she climbed the stairs to the Light, the chamber of flame and mirrors at the top of the tower entrusted to her as Bran’s wife. Keeper of the Light, guardian for all mortal souls that sailed above the waves. The lighthouse inherited by Bran from his grandmother signaled the way clear of the rocks that sheltered the safe harbor of Lighthaven. She snorted. That’s what they’d named it, the harbor and town that flanked her prison. Lighthaven. Foolish humans, entrusting a sea witch with their fragile mortal lives. Had she been a vengeful creature…

  But she wasn’t. She sighed, buffed mirrors that didn’t need cleaning, trimmed wicks and filled oil. She lit the lamps and replaced the chimneys. She’d friends below, people in no way responsible for Bran’s actions. ’Twas her own foolishness that had brought her to this end. She’d no one to blame but herself.

  The dream came to her a week later. Thunder crashed, icy rain poured sideways. Clouds covered the crescent moon. Lightning flashed, struck the mast, an explosion of light and splintered wood, burning ropes and falling sails. The ship bucked, listed in the churning sea. Waves surged over the sides of the doomed vessel, made the deck slippery, treacherous. Voices screamed to their gods as men grabbed what they could to avoid sliding overboard to their deaths. Finora cried out in her sleep, unable to wake, unable to save them. The sea goddess Cilaniestra would not be denied Her due this night. With a horrific grinding, the shi
p twisted beyond all salvaging. Timbers shattered, broke apart. Finora’s lungs threatened to burst as she slipped beneath the voracious waves, as crushing darkness took her… Her eyes refocused on the stern of the ship, at the name painted in green letters.

  Hope of Lighthaven.

  Finora tore herself from the dream, sat up in bed. Gasping. Shaking. Cold to the bone. Bran, Ranulf, Viktor and all the others. Lost. Gone forever. Her heart bled for Mari, for all the other wives, now widows. And she cried for her own loss. Bran had taken the secret of where he’d hidden her skin with him to his watery grave.

  The full moon came and went. But this time there was no burning. She shook with the realization that Bran had left something of himself behind, after all. She was pregnant again.

  Would she ever be free?

  Chapter One

  Four Years Later

  He was Trystan, mightiest of the clans’ guardians, scourge of demon and hellhound alike. Well he recalled marching into battle to the sound of pipes and drums, the cries of the enemy and the smell of their sweat, their fear. The predator in him gloried in the taste of their blood…

  “The mighty Trystan, who canna pull his wee head outta yon bucket for two breaths in a row,” his mentor Niadh thought-sent.

  The vessel plunged through yet another wave, and the retching began anew. Trystan groaned. His sides ached from hours of heaving over said bucket, although his stomach had long since emptied. The air in the tiny cabin was stifling and foul, but Trystan was too weak to stand up and open the porthole, and Niadh in his current lupine form had no hands to do so, either.

  A knock heralded Giles, the Lighthaven sailor who’d booked this passage from hell. “Came t’ see if ye were still breathin’.”

  “Wish I werena,” Trystan rasped. Lord of the mountains, lord of the night, son of the moon…brought down by mere water. ’Twas beyond humiliating.

  Giles grimaced. “I’m sure. Pgah, it reeks in here!” He strode in to open the porthole. Fresh salt air swept into the cabin. He handed Trystan a cup of brackish water. “Rinse yer mouth an’ I’ll get rid o’ this bucket.” He was as good as his word, removing the foul-smelling bucket as Trystan collapsed onto his berth.

  “’Twas yer idea t’ come, remember?” Niadh asked.

  Unfortunately, Trystan recalled the beginning moment of his own folly all too well. Standing in Queen Dara’s cave, staring at the pictographs on the wall of the last dragon guardians flying off into the setting sun. Vowing to follow them westward, to find them and demand to know why they’d abandoned his people. He’d marched out of the mountains with Niadh and Ealga, the great mountain eagle, across the snow-covered plains of Arcadia to Land’s End. There, a vast expanse of salt water blocked his path. A conversation with Giles in a smoky pub had landed him passage on the Sunrisen, a merchant vessel setting out on the first trip of spring, her hold filled with timber, coal and hides.

  And so, here he was. “Sun and moon, what was I thinkin’?”

  Niadh nudged Trystan’s hand with his cold wet nose. “Ye were thinkin’ o’ our people. Ye were thinkin’ like a guardian. None can fault ye for that.”

  Trystan stared into his wolf-kin mentor’s silver eyes. “I’m sorra for draggin’ ye with me. I’m sorra the council punished ye with that form an’ tied ye t’ me.”

  “Ye werena meant for Wolf Clan, but Badger.” If a wolf could shrug, Niadh did so. “’Twas me own error, t’ bite ye durin’ the full o’ the moon. ’Tis me own fault Badger Clan is now short a warrior. Teachin’ ye The Way an’ guardin’ yer back be a small price t’ pay.”

  “But ye canna shift. Ye canna heal if ye canna shift.”

  “I can heal. Slow, like any other creature.” Niadh closed his teeth around Trystan’s hand. “Go t’ sleep, laddie.”

  Trystan closed his eyes, drifted off to the rock of the ship, the sound of birds and waves.

  A pounding on the door woke him again. Giles burst in. “If ye’re not dead, on yer feet. We need all hands on deck.”

  “What’s goin’ on?” Trystan struggled into his boots.

  “Black sails spotted on the horizon.” Giles’ face was grim. “Corsair vessel. They prowl these waters betwixt Land’s End an’ Lighthaven in search o’ prey like us. They’re small an’ swift whilst we lumber ’long like a pregnant woman in her last month. We can’t run for long. They’ll stalk us through the night an’ be on us by dawn. We can but fight.”

  Trystan grabbed his boar spear, battle axes and knives. “If’n we lose?”

  “They’ll keep the ship. They want the cargo. They’ll spare Doc an’ the cook. The rest o’ us are but fodder for the deep. Fight well, an’ they might sell ye t’ those that traffic in gladiators, but ye’ll be chained t’ the oars ’til the day they dock.”

  “I wasna born t’ be ’nother mon’s slave,” Trystan growled.

  Niadh bared his fangs, black fur standing on end.

  “Ye’ve ne’er fought on a pitchin’ deck, have ye?”

  Trystan shook his head.

  “Once the blood starts runnin’, deck gets slipp’ry. Ye’ll want t’ widen yer stance, keep yer knees bent. Shift yer weight ’gainst the pitch.”

  “No’ unlike the rope bridges in trainin’,” Niadh reminded him.

  Trystan recalled how many times those accursed bridges had dumped him on his arse in freezing cold mountain stream water. Not a comparison he’d have favored, no matter how accurate. He clenched his jaw. He’d not come all this way to be stopped by a bunch of thieving pirates. His journey was to Lighthaven and he’d not be stopped afore then, bad food and seasickness notwithstanding.

  They went out into the alleyway. Trystan’s eyes locked on the white face of little Toby, the cabin boy. Those big green eyes were wide with fright, and Toby gripped a cook’s knife in his thin hand. Trystan frowned, shaking his grizzled grey head at the concept of an armed eight-year-old, more dangerous to himself than anyone else. “Stay with him,” he ordered Niadh. “With yer claws ye’re safer belowdecks. If’n they make it this far, he’ll be needin’ ye.”

  “I’ve no burnin’ desire t’ feed the fishes,” Niadh agreed.

  To guard the weak and helpless was what they’d been created for. Trystan knew Niadh would guard Toby with his last dying gasp. He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. Surely the merchantmen were prepared to repel boarders. He followed Giles up the companionway stairs, out into a hornet’s nest of activity. Ealga plummeted down from the mast to land on his shoulder, dug her talons into the quilted leather jerkin and flapped her wings to keep her balance. Her weight threw his own balance off, but he widened his stance to compensate for the pitching deck.

  Captain Reed strode over to them. Trystan marveled at how such a great bull of a man rode the deck as lightly as Giles. “But a matter o’ time afore they close in. If we can get close enough t’ Lighthaven, they’ll veer off. They hunt their prey in open waters. They’ve no desire t’ risk the wrath o’ the wizard.”

  Wizard? What wizard? Trystan frowned at Giles. “Sommat slip yer mind?”

  Giles flushed. “Ye don’t know if he’s a wizard or not. They moved into the Widow Sera’s manor. Him an’ his daughter. They don’ mix with our folk. ’Tis naught but rumors.”

  “Back t’ lookout,” Reed ordered.

  “Aye, Cap’n.” Giles nodded and scrambled up the knotted line, which hung down the mast from the crows’ nest, to follow those ominous black sails.

  Trystan’s stomach lurched just watching Giles sway in the wind, and he lowered his gaze to meet Reed’s. “What d’ye wish me t’ do, ’til there’s need t’ fight?”

  Reed smirked. “Ye’re no sailor, lad.”

  Trystan bristled. “Mayhaps no’, but I’m no’ useless, either. I’ll earn me passage. Now give me sommat t’ do where I willna be in anyone’s way an’ there’ll be an end t’ it.” He closed his eyes and reached for Ealga’s mind, pictured a ship with black sails. “Find it. Watch it.”

  She launched herself into th
e air, fierce and focused.

  “Where’s yer wolf?”

  “Guardin’ Toby below. Dangerous on deck. No way t’ catch himself should the ship list.”

  Reed nodded. “Ye could fetch buckets o’ sand an’ line them up along the sides. When ye’re done, see if ye can help Doc.”

  Trystan nodded, laying his spear behind a massive coil of line as thick as his wrist. He grabbed a bucket from one of the men and went below to the hold, where the sand was stored. He passed Niadh and Toby on the way. “What’s the sand for, laddie?”

  “T’ soak up the blood, save footin’ an’ put out the fires,” Toby replied.

  Two by two, Trystan hauled buckets of sand and secured the handles over bronze hooks along the sides. The watches changed just after sunset. Those on deck went below for a quick meal. Trystan passed on Giles’ offer of food. Ealga sent Trystan a steady stream of images of dirty lash-striped men with matted hair. Rowing hard with the wind, they closed on their larger prey. Her two side rudders and the foremost artemon sail on the bow steered her to take best advantage of the wind, and her mainsail strained to its limit, but the Sunrisen was no match for the smaller, lighter and swifter galley. The pirates took the advantage of oar as well as sail. Even with her holds full of cargo, the Sunrisen rode too high in the water for oars to have any effect.

  The sun set with that ever-present ghost stalking just within sight. As the darkness swelled, Reed ordered all lights put out. Trystan recalled Ealga. The eagle was a creature of daylight and the darkness hampered her vision. Reed came up as Ealga settled herself on the sternpost. “Get some rest, lad. We change shift in four bells.”

  “I hate waitin’ the worst,” Giles confessed as they dropped onto the floor of Trystan’s cabin. Toby was fast asleep, his cheek resting in Niadh’s rough black fur.

  “Sleep whilst ye can,” Trystan advised, closed his eyes and let his mind float free. He sought the moonpaths, followed them across the churning waters to the other ship. Niadh strode the beams with him in man-form, bearing the familiar black hair and beard and silver eyes, through the mists of the dream-state that allowed a guardian’s body to rest whilst his mind worked through a problem. “Blood an’ fire,” Trystan thought. “T’ take a ship, ye must stop her. How t’ stop a ship without sinkin’ her?”