by Trisha Telep
“I don’t want to talk about Tara any more than you want to talk about her grandfather.”
“Oh, I’m happy to talk about that lying, foresworn son of Adam.”
“Just not right now, all right, Gran?”
Not that Alistair’s plea did any good. He held the mobile away from his ear to let her curse out the old man without having to listen. Andrew Thomas had always been a crusty but kindly neighbour as far as Alistair was concerned, but he knew Gran had good reasons for her loathing of the old man. The loathing was returned by Thomas. The couple had brought grudges and bickering to such an art form over the last sixty years that their feud had become the main source of entertainment for the inhabitants of Wolf Crag.
But his granddaughter Tara wasn’t part of their battle. No one had tried to destroy his relationship with her but Alistair himself. Tara’s absence from his life still ripped at Alistair’s heart.
Tara was––
He heard the scream the same moment he caught the scent – the unmistakeable, undeniable fragrance that was her. The hair on the back of Alistair’s neck stood up. He ran. The transformation proceeded with every step. Even if darkness and shadow hadn’t shielded him, he wouldn’t have bothered checking for witnesses. Within moments he was running on four legs instead of two. His eyes glowed red in the night. His teeth were sharp, white razors. His claws were steel-hard daggers.
Someone was attacking Tara, and that someone was going to die.
There were two of them, Alistair discovered. He found them at the end of a nearby dark alley. A broken streetlight didn’t give them the protection of darkness from his red night vision. He saw them bending over a prone figure on the ground. They didn’t notice him, not until two hundred pounds of hard muscle and deadly natural weapons barrelled into them.
Their hot blood was delicious on Alistair’s tongue. Tearing flesh from bone was a delightful exercise. He didn’t toy or play with his prey – he was a werewolf, not a werecat, after all. But the pleasure of the kill was intoxicating after so much time spent living a human life.
Once the attackers were dead he rushed to Tara. She sat up at his approach. He was aware of the scent of her blood, and the shift in body heat that indicated bruising. She looked shaken. But she didn’t look surprised to see a large wolf with blood on his mouth leaning his muzzle close to breathe her in.
She put her hand on his head, fingers sinking deep into thick fur. “You are not the love of my life,” she said firmly.
Just before she fainted.
Tara woke knowing she was naked, which didn’t surprise her – because she recalled who’d come to her rescue in the filthy, stinking alley.
“You had better be laundering my clothes, Alistair Douglas,” she said, from beneath the cover of a duvet on a lovely, soft bed.
“You could use a shower,” his deep voice rumbled from nearby.
Tara’s toes curled in response to that voice. It always sent a thrill through her. She remembered when it had cracked when they were growing up, then changed, deepened. Suddenly, she’d felt closer to being a woman every time he spoke to her.
“I have been rolling around in muck.”
“Nonsense, you haven’t been to bed with me in years.”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. But she bit her tongue on saying anything. The past was very far away when she found herself lying naked in a bed that held Alistair’s scent, faint and spicy, in the bedclothes.
She reminded herself that one of her first projects had been spinning his werewolf fur, then weaving it into a lovely, soft scarf. She’d worn it to a fibre arts show on a rainy day and ended up smelling like a wet dog among people she was trying to impress. Black Fang Douglas had always brought her trouble.
Of course, this time, he’d saved her life.
Shouldn’t have got herself in trouble to begin with.
She knew she was still a bit tipsy as she sat up, duvet pulled around her. Or maybe the rush of dizziness came from getting her first good look at him in several long years. Since he wasn’t wearing anything but a pair of tight black briefs, it was indeed a good look. Was it possible that he was even handsomer than she remembered? Maybe it was that maturity suited him. His was a hard-muscled man’s body now, with none of the lankiness of the boy she’d loved. He’d grown into his strong jaw and thrusting beak of a nose. He was as scruffy and fuzzy as ever, with an artfully stubbly jaw and dark hair a bit too long for fashion. Of course he still had a thickly furred chest that trailed into a line that arrowed sexily down his abdomen and disappeared into his underwear.
“You’re looking at my crotch, woman.”
“Don’t sound so pleased about it. You could use a waxing,” she added sarcastically.
“And you a shower, as I’ve already pointed out. And you owe me a new suit. I didn’t bother stripping when I came at your call. It was my best suit, now it’s a rag.”
“I’ll get started on making you some tweed, right away.”
“Still weaving?” he asked.
“Still practising law?”
Every word out of both of them had grown tight and tense. Tara drew back from the hot anger that suddenly seethed through her. It was far too easy to argue with Alistair rather than talk to him. The anger was longstanding and had nothing to do with the here and now. Here and now, he’d saved her life. Damn! How she hated owing him!
She still made herself say, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He handed her a black terry robe that was soft as velvet. He turned his back as if he were a gentleman and pointed towards a hallway. “Off with you.”
Tara was more beautiful than Alistair remembered. He’d forced himself not to look at her as a woman as he undressed her and checked her for serious wounds. Once he’d stripped away the muddy, bloody clothing and determined she’d be fine he’d covered her and not taken a single peep while she’d been out. He put her clothes in the wash, cleaned himself up, and was drawn back to her side despite the effort to keep busy with other things. He had watched her, studying every line of her fine-featured face. Her features might be described as elfin by anyone not born on Wolf Crag. Tara’s features weren’t knife blade sharp enough to belong to an elf, nor were her teeth. Though she did well enough biting and nipping with what she had during love-play, as he remembered so well.
He’d stroked her silky dark hair and regretted that she’d cut it short. He’d breathed her in. She was more delicious than ever, the ripe, calling scent of a woman that curled deep into him. It overrode the old wanting and brought out a newer, deeper hunger.
And he didn’t have to fear that she’d react with horror when she woke up. She’d accept that her attackers had paid the price they deserved. She understood his nature, and she had always accepted that. He’d missed being around a woman so in tune with his world. It was her world, too, after all.
It was fate. Had to be. Why else would Gran have reminded him of Tara just as Tara cried out for help? It was meant to be. He may have left Wolf’s Crag, but he wasn’t fool enough to deny when the magic of the place was at work around him. He was trying to save the island. And the island was telling him it needed Tara to come back home.
With him.
Perhaps the island wasn’t going that far, but he chose to interpret it that way. Maybe Wolf Crag just wanted its people back, but Alistair Douglas had always known he and Tara were meant to be. Maybe he’d forgotten it, a little, but seeing her drove the knowledge hard back into his blood and brains and bone again. She was his fated mate, alpha to his alpha, no matter how hard he’d run from her once he discovered the world and the women outside the island.
By the time she came back from the bathroom, he had a plan.
Tara lingered in the bathroom as long as she could, taking full advantage of being alone, and the ultra-modern plumbing in Alastair’s flat. Hot water helped a lot. It helped the aches, the street stench, it helped to clear her head of the last of the alcohol. It didn’t help Tara’s physical, visc
eral reaction to Alistair, but cleaning up the physical mess helped strengthen her wits and willpower. All she had to do was get dressed and get out, get away from him. Of course, she’d have to get her clothes back from him first.
She steeled her nerves, wrapped herself up as tightly as she could in the oversized robe, and returned to the large room that contained a sleeping area, kitchen, office and lounge. The walls were old, exposed brick, the ceiling was high, the wooden floors polished to a glossy sheen.
“Quite the bachelor pad,” she said. “You are still a bachelor?” She didn’t mean to sound bitter, or hopeful, but heard both mixed in her tone.
He turned from the computer on his desk. “Yes.”
His grin made her blush, but she deserved to be embarrassed. At least he’d put on some clothing. Black, of course – tight jeans and T-shirt. Douglas men always wore black. It wasn’t an affectation, really, it was that they were colour-blind in human form and their women folk trained them away from fashion mistakes from a young age.
“Is there a man in your life?” he asked.
“I have a boyfriend.”
“Aye, but do you have a man?”
She snorted. “Go chase your tail.”
His answering laugh sent the familiar dark shiver deep inside her. As it always had and always would, she supposed. It was best that she leave now.
“Where are my clothes?”
“I made tea.” He waved towards the lounge area as he stood. “Have a seat. Let’s get caught up.”
That was not what she should do, but Tara gave in to what she wanted to do. She settled into a comfortable chair, with her legs tucked under her.
“How’s your granda?” Alistair asked when he brought her a big mug of tea. “Must be lonely for him with you gone, him being old and frail for a mortal.”
Alistair’s comments stirred niggles of worry and guilt in her, but Tara said, “Theo Simmones moved in with him a while back.”
“What? That old goat? He can’t be much company for old Randall Thomas.”
“He was talking about making up a couple of the spare bedrooms and hanging out a B&B sign. Not that tourists make their way over to the Crag that often.”
Alistair leaned back in the chair opposite and looked at her over the steam rising from his tea. His blue eyes were suddenly bright with enthusiasm. “That’s going to change soon. I’m working on opening a resort on the south side of the Crag.”
“I’m appalled.”
“You look it. Even the folk on Wolf Crag change with the times – and we could certainly use the revenue summer people would bring.”
“Yes, but – what if some nosey mortal found out about––”
“I’ve already got faefolk lined up to run security for the resort. If anything got out of hand, a glamour would be thrown over the mortal’s memory.”
Tara sipped tea. And thought. And missed her grandfather and the ancient Thomas farmhouse, and summer on Wolf Crag. The place was always trying to pull you back if you let it. Maybe it was seeing Alistair again that was putting a travel plan into her head.
“I don’t see how you can attract tourists, Fang, when the ferry only makes the trip once a week, and only holds two cars,” she pointed out.
“We’re adding an airline service,” he answered proudly. “Three trips a week via Phoenix Air.”
“The Phoenix brothers have an airplane?” She was horrified. They weren’t exactly phoenixes, and their name was actually McCabe.
“And pilots’ licences. And thousands of hours of flying in the air force. They aren’t the reckless kids you remember. None of us are reckless kids anymore, Tara.”
She heard his sincerity, and the meaning behind what he said. Maybe it would be best if she went back to Wolf Crag for a while, now that she’d finally encountered her old nemesis here in Glasgow. He is not the love of my life, she thought resolutely, and stood up. She thrust the half-full mug into his hands when he rose from his seat.
“Lovely seeing you,” she said. “Thanks for saving my life. Where’re my clothes? Never mind.” She saw neatly folded clothing, along with her shoes and purse, resting on the kitchen counter. She snatched everything up.
“I put out a T-shirt for you,” he said. “There was no saving the blouse.”
At least he didn’t try to stop her. He didn’t offer to give her a lift home. She couldn’t help but be a bit miffed at his easy dismissal of her as hurried out to flag down a cab in the light of dawn.
The ferry ride was a long nine hours north from the Isle of Skye, and the sea wasn’t exactly calm and cooperative along the way. Tara didn’t mind the rough sea, and relished being the only passenger. It gave her time and privacy to adjust to the change from the normal world to the strange place where she was returning.
She didn’t mind that no one met her on the dock. She checked her watch and decided it was long enough before sunset to safely make the three-mile walk home. And after sunset? Well, she wore silver bracelets, there was a small amount of cold iron in her backpack, and her walking stick was made of hawthorne. That would be enough to keep the fae folk away, and she had pepper spray for anything else.
She heard some siren singing along the way, and a ghost or two lingered in shadows. They beckoned, but listlessly, not really trying to draw her into shadowland. She had to stop to chat with a lonely dryad that wanted to complain about land taxes and dogs pissing on her tree, but none of Tara’s magical protections proved necessary. The walk in the fresh air was invigorating, even if the rocky terrain was more rugged than she remembered. The path she took was officially a road, but it was a courtesy term rather than the truth. Legend said it was a fair folk road, and one was careful to never insult anything to do with them.
The path on to the Thomas property was marked by an ancient stone arch that was said to be Roman, though no Romans had ever made it to the Crag as far as history was aware. Family legend had it otherwise, though it was a sordid and tragic tale spoken of in whispers around the children. The actual story didn’t seem so sordid to modern sensibilities, so all the anticipation of finding out about the founding of the clan had been anticlimactic when Tara finally did.
The path up to the huge house was lined with low drystone walls, through fields dotted with sheep. Sheepdogs kept watch over them, and ignored her as she made her way to the house.
Tara found a large goat munching on a rose bush near the back door and they exchanged a nod as she opened the heavy old door. The goat followed her inside.
“Hello, Theo,” she said.
Air swirled and dimmed around the goat and it turned into a paunchy old satyr. Tara looked away to give him a moment of privacy to cover his huge genitalia with a tea towel.
“Where’s Granda?” she asked once Theo was presentable.
“Here,” Granda said, coming into the kitchen.
There were still a few ginger strands in his thick silver hair and beard. But perhaps there were a few more wrinkles, and a bit of a droop to his broad shoulders she hadn’t noticed during their latest webcam chat.
He held out his arms.
Tara dropped her stick and bag and rushed into his embrace. His hold was strong and tight and she leaned into it with gratitude. “I was worried about you,” she whispered as she hugged him back hard.
He gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Can’t think why. I always worry about you,” he added. “That’s my job.”
Her parents had fled the Crag with her younger siblings for a quiet life in New Zealand when she was in her late teens. She’d had no intention of leaving home, her textile apprenticeship with her grandmother – or Alistair – back then. Granda had convinced her parents to let him finish raising her. Maybe if she’d gone with them Alistair wouldn’t have broken her heart, but other than that she was glad she’d stayed then, and glad for the life she had now. Except, now that she was back on Wolf Crag where the air was clear and the natives were strange, she was happier than she’d been in years.
“I don’t
know why I didn’t come back to the Crag sooner,” she said.
“Good thing you came back while it’s still here,” Theo said darkly. “I’ve got rose bushes to trim before they’re swallowed by mist.”
She turned to the satyr, but he morphed back to his goat form and wandered out to the garden before she could ask what he meant. “Uh – Granda?”
The old man gave a satisfied, evil cackle – which told her that whatever followed involved bad news for dear old Gran Douglas. The two of them were never going to forgive each other for as long as they lived. Maybe Thomas and Douglas blood was never meant to mix, no matter what legends, prophecies and curses said about their undying true love through the generations. As far as Tara knew, no Douglas and Thomas had ever made a successful love match, no matter how often passion burned between them. Of course she’d thought she and Alistair would be different – before he decided to sleep with every woman he met when he left the island.
In Gran and Granda’s case, the Second World War had got in the way. He’d been reported dead when, in fact, he was a POW, and Gran had married one of her Douglas cousins for the sake of keeping the werewolf bloodline strong. When Granda came home to find his love married and a mother, he’d never forgiven her. She’d taken the attitude that he should never have left her or the Crag in the first place. Their war continued to this day.
“A landslide took away half of the old bitch’s property last week,” Granda said. “Serves her right for living so close to the sea now that the ice caps are melting.” He sounded as if Gran Douglas was personally responsible for global warming.
“The Crag’s a small island,” Tara said. “All of it’s close to the sea.”
“Small, and getting smaller all the time.” He picked up her backpack. “Your old room’s ready for you. And your packages arrived yesterday.”
Tara had brought her work with her. “I’m dying to set up Grandma’s workroom. Thanks for letting me use her looms.”