Celtic Moon

by Jan Delima

  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.”

  “I know. I feel it too.” She sighed, as if the weight of their conversation was a tangible substance. “Luc showed me the banner. Our time of peace has ended. Forgive me if I’m not so eager.”

  “I’m not eager,” he argued. “But I will not bow down to Guardian threats.”

  “Like I would ever expect you to.” Elen gave him a sad smile. “Because of me you have become the leader of the unwanted. And you will defend our home at all costs.” She lowered her voice. “Even when your sacrifice is the greatest.”

  Dylan purposely ignored her last comment. The sacrifice she referred to was not a place he chose to dwell. “No one is unwanted here.”

  Over the years many had come for sanctuary, those in danger of Guardian judgment for either being too human or too wolf. Most stayed—for a price. Anyone who lived on his land, under his protection, must cut all ties to their old life.

  Full loyalty or else they must leave.

  No exceptions.

  Not even for the one woman who had deserved leniency. A human, no less. An innocent in his dangerous world.

  Sophie.

  Again, her name whispered through his mind, muddling his thoughts with poisonous emotions. Anger. Temptation. Betrayal. Hatred.

  Need.

  He got up and poured himself another glass of scotch.

  “You will find them,” Elen offered as solace. “She can’t hide forever.”

  Dylan turned and frowned at his sister, more annoyed than angry at her insight. “When have I become so easy to read?”

  “Only to me.” Her eyes fell to his glass. “I know what your loyalty to our people has cost you. Others don’t see. Or choose not to.” She shrugged. “Too many count on your protection.”

  He shook his head, uncomfortable with her words. “Our numbers only make us stronger.”

  Elen sighed, but allowed him to veer away from his painful memories, switching to hers instead. “That is not how the Guardians view me. Or others like me. To them, if we cannot shift then we are weak. Forsaken. To them, we will always be . . .” She whispered a word in the old tongue, “Drwgddyddwg.”

  Evil Bringer. A vile name created out of fear by ignorant leaders.

  Dylan growled. “Never use that name in my house.”

  Her profile did not conceal the mordant smile. “I’ve earned the right.”

  Annoyance made his tone harsh. “We will be hosting a small gathering of leaders who have fertile land. Potential allies against the Guardians, those without loyalties to the old ways.” He gave her a moment to process that information, knowing that the news would unsettle her. And with good reason. “In numbers, our strength would be unmatched.”

  She hissed, snapping to face him. “If word reaches Cymru that we’re even discussing this—”

  “You think I have not considered those consequences?”

  “Does Luc know of your idea?”

  “Yes.”

  Elen waited in reserved silence. Finally, with obvious hesitation, she asked, “Who are you thinking?”

  Dylan had considered territories first—the ones that had the most to lose under Guardian rule. “New York, Montana, Idaho, Virginia, Ontario, Alaska and Minnesota.”

  Elen counted off the leaders of each of the territories on her fingers. “Nia, Madoc, Ryder, Drystan, Daron, Kalem and Isabeau.” She held up her hands. “Seven. What about Llara? She will join us. I know it.”

  “Yes, I don’t doubt that Llara will stand with us, but she has her own battle at hand. Her territory is inconvenient.” The humans in Russia were too observant of their surroundings, or perhaps more open-minded about old superstitions. When the Soviets were in power they almost eradicated the wolf population—and not all of them just wolves.

  Elen frowned. “We should give her the choice. And the Himalayas? Both Mabon and Sioni will join our cause.”

  “Let’s start closer to home. If all goes well, we can proceed from there.”

  With a jerky nod, Elen picked up her glass, rolling it in her hands. Potential disasters raced behind keen blue eyes. “When are you planning to hold this meeting?”

  “Five days from now. Messages have already been sent. I will call tomorrow to confirm. I don’t want to give them too much time to think.”

  She let out a deep breath. “But enough time to respond.”

  Dylan studied her face. “There will be powerful wolves around us, some who’ll remember.”

  She met his eyes, unflinchingly direct. “I’m stronger than I once was.”

  “I know that. They don’t.”

  Her lips tilted upward, mocking. “Are you asking me to behave?”

  “Do I need to?”

  “No,” she clipped.

  “Good.”

  “And I don’t want you or Luc hovering around me either.”

  “You’re our healer. We need you safe.”

  She rolled her eyes. “That excuse has become tiresome. I can do more.”

  Dylan shrugged, unapologetic. “Then prepare the clinic for what will come if this gathering proves ineffective.”

  Her chin lifted. “I’m always prepared for the worst.”

  “Of course.”

  “We may need to add more beds in the future,” she conceded.

  “I will defer to your judgment. Order anything you think necessary.”

  A muffled ring came from her pocket. She smiled an apology, leaning to the side to retrieve her cell.

  The unnatural sound was like acid on his nerves. “I wish you wouldn’t carry that thing.”

  “You’re so paranoid,” she teased. “Porter keeps me protected. And this thing has freed me from living at the clinic.
The convenience far outweighs the risk.” She looked down at the incoming number and raised her eyebrows. “Porter.”

  Dylan stilled, his instincts on alert. Porter never wasted words—or his time. If he called, there was a valid reason.

  “Hello. Yes. He’s here with me.” Elen met Dylan’s stare, her eyes intense. “Okay. We’re upstairs in the study. Do you want to talk to him?” She blinked, staring down at the phone, then back to Dylan. “Porter just hung up on me.”

  Three

  PORTER BARGED INTO THE STUDY, HIS BREATHING UNEVEN. His raven-dark brows narrowed over fierce blue eyes as he glared at Dylan with obvious annoyance. A tattoo of a Celtic cross covered his bare cranium. He always kept his head shaved bald, flaunting his Irish mother’s symbol. The personal insult the Christian emblem represented to the Guardians was just an added perk.

  He marched over, brandishing a cell phone. “If you will not carry your damn phone”—he took in a large gulp of air, his nostrils flaring—“I’m wondering why you bother having it.”

  Dylan accepted the phone and placed it on the mantel. “What’s wrong?”

  “You had a call on the main line.” Porter crossed thick arms, his chin raised. He wasn’t an overly tall man, barely six feet, if that. But what he lacked in height was more than compensated for by width. He was vicious in battle, fearless—his inability to shift irrelevant.

  “And—”

  “It was that woman.”

  A fist wrapped around Dylan’s gut and squeezed. There was only one person Porter called that woman. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me.”

  Elen inhaled sharply, edging to the side of the sofa. “Sophie? Are you sure?”

  Porter shot her a disgusted glare before handing Dylan a piece of paper with a number. “She gave you an hour to call.” He checked his watch. “And I wasted fifteen minutes trying to find you.” The censure in his voice eased into respect. “She was wanting me to tell you that it concerns your son.”

  “A son,” Elen whispered.

  Dylan stared down at the number, immobile. All thoughts of the Guardians, Cymru, his people, the gathering—gone. Until that moment he hadn’t known the sex of his child. He turned his back to the room, facing the fireplace, not wanting his weakness observed.

  “Watch yourself,” Porter warned. “That woman has more cunning than a mother fox.”

  Dylan hadn’t needed the warning. He’d underestimated Sophie once, on the night she ran. Four months pregnant and he still hadn’t been able to track her. Then she erased her life. Completely. Everything except her father’s grave. Desecration, it seemed, was where her line of betrayal ended.

  Porter cleared his throat, giving his form of consolation. “You almost had her in California.”

  “Four years ago,” Dylan snapped, unappeased. “And she cleared out just before we got there.”

  Five times he’d almost caught Sophie, but not once had he gotten a glimpse of his child. Every time she had eluded him as if an unseen force had warned her. A ridiculous notion, he knew . . . because Sophie was only human.

  Dylan felt a delicate hand on his shoulder and shrugged it off. “I want to be alone for this call.”

  Elen’s footsteps retreated to Porter’s side of the room. “We’ll wait for you outside then.”

  “Use the house phone,” Porter added. “I’ll be tracing the call.”

  * * *

  SOPHIE SAT ON A GRANITE BENCH AS MOISTURE SEEPED into her jeans. She almost stood, but slumped back instead, figuring a wet ass was the least of her worries.

  The waiting was brutal.

  She checked her watch for the hundredth time, almost convinced Dylan wasn’t going to call, when the phone lit up, its unfamiliar ring causing every muscle in her body to tense.

  With shaking hands, she brought the receiver to her ear. “Hello.”

  “Sophie?” Deep and calm, but with an underlying edge of controlled anger.

  She had rehearsed this conversation a thousand times, but the reality of hearing his voice erased all rational thought. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This was a bad idea—”

  “Don’t you dare hang up on me, or—”

  “Or what?” The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. His arrogant tone flooded her with unpleasant memories. “You’ll hunt me down like a rabid animal? Been there. Done that.”

  “You’ve held on to your anger well, Sophie, yet I’m the one who’s never seen my son’s face.”

  She swallowed hard, clutching the phone with both hands. “You gave me no other choice.”

  “Not true.” His tone dropped dangerously low. “You could have stayed.”

  “As a prisoner.”

  “No,” he growled. “As my wife.”

  “Is there a difference?”

  Silence filled their tenuous connection, thick and vile, poisoned by mutual betrayals.

  A muffled sound followed, as if Dylan had pressed the receiver into something soft to hide his reaction.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t call you for this.”

  “What’s my son’s name?”

  Her breath caught in her throat. Such a simple question . . . and yet it held agonizing impact. “Joshua.”

  “Joshua,” he repeated in a low tone. “A good name. Is he well?”

  “He’s beautiful,” she said with a heavy heart. “He’s the reason I called. I need to ask you something.”

  A slight hesitation. “What’s wrong?”

  “Josh has been,” Sophie chose her words carefully, “acting odd lately. And not the normal teenager odd.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m suggesting that he may have inherited more of his father than I had hoped.”

  A long pause. “Are you talking from a cell line?”

  She understood his concern. “I can call you from another phone.”

  “No,” he snapped, and then softened his tone. “You need to bring my son home. If what you’re suggesting is true, it’s a dangerous time for him.”

  She felt dizzy, nauseated, panic edging to the surface. “How dangerous?”

  “He could die.”

  Her heart clenched with the worst kind of pain. It was what she had feared most. “What can I do?”

  “Come home,” Dylan coaxed. “I can help him . . . before it’s too late.”

  An overwhelming apprehension drove her to make an unplanned offer. “We can meet you somewhere.”

  He didn’t answer immediately, the predator having sensed her fear—using it well to sway her decision. “He needs to be around his own kind now. Are you willing to risk his life because of your hatred for me?”

  “You’re so clueless,” she snapped, letting all her painful memories fill those few words.

  “Then enlighten me.”

  “It’s irrelevant now.” She closed her eyes, weighing her options. Her son’s welfare, as always, influenced her decisions. However, Sophie had a distinct advantage over the last time she’d been in Rhuddin Village; she was not the same naïve woman that Dylan once knew. She was older now, wiser, and had learned how to defend herself and those she loved.

  Quite well, in fact. “Is the lake house still available?”

  “It can be.”

  “I need a few days to clear things up.”

  “You must come now,” he said, his voice firm. “A few days may be too late.”

  “I’ll be there tomorrow,” she conceded, not liking the fact that it revealed a hint to her proximity. She had others to protect. “We’ll be there in the evening.” She calculated the travel time in her head and added six hours. “Probably around eight. I’ll call you on this phone when we reach Maine.”

  “Hold on . . .” His voice trailed off and then returned. “Let me give you my cell number.”

  An unexpected laugh erupted from her, or more like an involuntary release of pent-up nerves. “You have a cell?”

  “You find that amusing?”

  “
Maybe a little,” she admitted.

  “The world’s changing. Sometimes we’re forced to adapt.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Sometimes we are.”

  The easy banter opened a door of mutual awareness. “If I asked you where my son is now, would you tell me?”

  She sighed. “We’re coming to you. Let that be enough.”

  “And if something happened to you, how would he know where to find me?”

  Sophie wasn’t offended by the question because she had prepared for that possibility. “Your son has always known where you are.”

  There was a muffled sound, as if, again, Dylan pulled the phone away to hide his reaction. When the line cleared, he spoke low, his voice strained. “How much does he know about me?”

  “Everything I know,” she answered honestly, then ended the call before Dylan asked more questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.

  * * *

  THEN HE KNOWS NOTHING.

  Dylan shoved the phone away and ran his hands over his face. He hadn’t been prepared for the sound of her voice. He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to lock her in a room and destroy the damn key.

  He wanted . . .

  Dylan stood abruptly, scraping back his chair and making his way down to the media room. As he walked past the kitchen, Elen hurried after him, her face expectant. He held up his hand, a silent message to wait. She pursed her lips, unhappy but compliant.

  Porter sat at his desk, focused on his equipment, his shiny head bobbing to the heavy metal sounds of “Crazy Train.” For a former Jacobite, born late sixteen hundreds, he had an unnatural obsession with modern technology. Several computer monitors lined the far wall. Two flat-screen TVs broadcasted national and local news.

  Porter looked up, acknowledged Dylan with a sharp nod, and lowered the stereo volume via universal remote. “I’m having a hard time identifying the source. That woman used a disposable phone, recently registered under a suspicious account.” Respect mingled with frustration as his fingers danced across a keyboard. “That’s all I’ve got so far.”