by Jan Delima
Francine ignored her daughter as she rummaged through the bag, giving a ragged sigh when she pulled out a metal cigarette case. She removed one cigarette, put it to her lips with a shaking hand, and then frowned. “Lighter? Where are you? Oh, there you are, my sweet thing.” She lit the cigarette and took a long draw, exhaling with a smoke-filled sigh.
Sophie started to pace. “Mum . . .”
“No, no . . .” Francine shook her head. “Not yet. I haven’t had a cigarette in eighteen years. Don’t ruin this for me.”
“Are you unwell?” Dylan asked, quickly becoming concerned with her odd behavior. Perhaps he had misjudged her mental strength?
“My mother used to smoke,” Sophie explained. “She quit when my father was diagnosed with cancer.”
“I saved my last pack for a stressful situation,” Francine added on a breath of smoke. “I’d say this qualifies.”
“Indeed.” Dylan gave her a low nod, thankful that she seemed quite lucid.
However, once the initial shock wore off, Francine leveled him with a look of reproach. “Does this . . .” She waved her hand in the air, searching for an apt description. “Does this thing that you do also affect my grandson?”
“We believe so,” Dylan said.
“I see.” She turned to her daughter. “You should have told me.”
“How, Mum? How was I supposed to tell you something like this? I asked you once if you believed in any of the old legends, if maybe you thought there might be some truth behind the stories . . . and you accused me of doing drugs.”
“Did I?” Francine shrugged. “I don’t remember that, but if I did accuse you of doing drugs, it was only because you hung around all those hippie people with knots in their hair . . . who smelled like dirty socks.”
“Dreadlocks, Mum . . . The knots in the hair are called dreadlocks. And those people were educated professors, and scientists, and wildlife activists. And why are we talking about this?” Sophie threw up her hands. “That was a long time ago, before Joshua was even born.”
Francine huffed. “You’d think an educated person would know how to use a bar of soap.”
“They did use soap.”
“Then why did they have knots in their hair?”
Dylan pretended to cough only to hide his laughter; he was quite sure he had met a few of the people Francine referred to, just as he was sure this inane argument was an outlet for their anxiety.
“Sophie, I will take my leave now and give you and your mother some privacy to talk and to . . . adjust.” He ignored his wife’s indelicate snort and turned toward Joshua. “Luc has been detained this morning. Your sparring session will have to wait until later. I would very much like to give you a tour of my lands instead. How does that sound to you?”
“That sounds cool.” Joshua looked to his mother for consent.
Distracted from her argument, Sophie ran her hands over her face. “How long do you think you’ll be?”
“I’ll have him back before noon,” Dylan said.
“My grandson hasn’t eaten yet,” Francine added. “Let me pack some cinnamon rolls up before you go.”
“Thanks, Grandma.” Joshua leaned down and gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek.
Both Sophie and her mother did not look pleased, but they made a valid attempt to disguise their fear, a true testament to their love for his son. Not to mention the three pounds of frosted spiced bread that was shoved into Joshua’s hands, and a whispered warning from a tiny woman who, without question, had been a warrior in a past life.
* * *
SPRING HAD YET TO REACH THE HIGHER PEAKS OF Katahdin. Dylan guided Joshua along one of his favorite paths, covered by packed snow, troddeny by the steps of his wolves. “Your aunt Elen told me she informed you of our history.”
“Yeah, she talked a lot about scientific stuff, our anatomy and longevity, and the transformation process.” Joshua walked in rhythm with his father’s stride. “How long does this trail go for? Are you really going to help me shift tonight?”
“I am,” Dylan confirmed. “After nightfall.” He wondered if his son’s rapid change of focus was common among modern teenagers. He made a mental note to ask Sophie about it later. “This trail runs north for approximately forty miles. Do you have any questions about the transformation?”
“I don’t know. Not really. Aunt Elen was pretty descriptive.”
Knowing his sister well, Dylan felt confidant Joshua had been gently but thoroughly prepared. “Then is there anything else you would like to know? Perhaps about my family?”
“Sure.” Keeping his gaze forward, Joshua kicked a chunk of snow out of his path. “What’s your last name? Mom said it was Black but I searched your ancestry at the library. I couldn’t find a connection to the name Black.”
“Currently I use the surname Black. We keep our records as secure as possible, although that has become a challenge with the Internet open to the public. We have a woman in the village who manages false birth and death records, with your aunt’s assistance.”
Joshua nodded. “So then what was your last name when you were born? Aunt Elen told me it was around the Middle Ages. That was like . . . King Arthur’s time, wasn’t it? Was he real? Did you know him?”
“I knew of him,” Dylan replied, keeping his voice neutral. “Arthur was just a man. His accomplishments were highly exaggerated by a drunken bard and bored monks who wrote down the ramblings of a fool.”
He didn’t mention that Taliesin, aka Matthew, had been that drunken bard. Taliesin had spent much of the Middle Ages intoxicated, an impressive feat since, like Dylan, his metabolism was more active than a mere human and wolf combined. He’d had to consume a massive amount of alcohol. Unfortunately, too many stories of his antics were documented by humans during that tumultuous time.
“When I was born,” Dylan continued, purposely steering the conversation back to Joshua’s original question, “we did not use surnames. Humans were differentiated by their father’s name. Villagers called me Dylan ap Aemilius, as in Dylan of Aemilius. My father was human.”
“Did your kind call you something different?”
“Our kind,” Dylan emphasized, “uses the name of our more powerful parent, regardless of gender. In my case, my mother is more powerful. I am called Dylan ap Merin. Although I haven’t heard that reference in a very long time.”
“Powerful?” Joshua paused on the path, taking a pine bough in his hands and running it through his fingers. “As in able to shift into a wolf?”
“Yes.”
“Is your mother still alive?”
“She is, as far as I know,” Dylan said carefully. “Merin is not a kind person. Unlike your mother, she was very cruel to her children. We don’t speak of her.”
“Oh.” Joshua looked to the horizon with a contemplative stance, tactfully changing the subject. “So, I would be known as Joshua ap Dylan.”
His heart clenched with pride. “That’s correct.”
“Cool.” Joshua’s gaze focused on his feet.
Sensing a sudden shyness, a trait he had yet to witness from his son, he asked, “Is there anything else you would like to know?”
“Yeah. I was wondering . . . What do you want me to call you? I mean . . . Mr. Black seems kinda weird.”
“Don’t call me Mr. Black,” Dylan said, more harshly than intended and took a moment to calm his reaction. “What do other young men your age call their fathers?”
“Dad.”
“Then let’s go with Dad.”
“Okay . . . Dad.”
Swallowing past the thickness in his throat, Dylan reached out and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “I would like you to know something . . . I was unaware your mother was mistreated in my home. She will never be so again.”
Joshua’s posture stiffened. “Good to know, but since you’ve brought it up . . .” He looked up with dark eyes that didn’t waver. “What are your intentions toward my mom?”
Letting his hand drop, Dylan d
idn’t hesitate with the truth. “I want you and your mother to move back into Rhuddin Hall where you both belong. I want us to be a family. How do you feel about that?”
Joshua shrugged; the nonchalant gesture didn’t match his lowered tone. “I’m okay with it, I guess . . . as long as Mom’s happy here.”
“I will do everything in my power to make that happen.”
“And my grandma?” Joshua probed. “Can she stay with us too?”
Dylan nodded, refusing to repeat this past mistake. “Your grandmother is welcome as well.”
Tension eased from his son’s stance. “You’re going about it all the wrong way, you know.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Dylan said, unashamed to ask for advice. “Do you have any suggestions?”
“Give Mom the choice to leave,” he said as if it were the simplest thing in the world to do. “She’ll choose us, like my grandmother did . . . but she needs to know she has the choice.”
“You don’t understand this yet,” Dylan tried to explain. “And a part of me hopes one day you will—and another part of me wants to spare you the anguish. As I’m sure you’re somewhat aware, our kind is compelled by the instincts of our wolves. When you were conceived, your mother became my mate. It goes against everything I am to let her go.”
“See . . . that’s what I’m talking about.” Joshua rolled his eyes. “Saying stuff like that will only freak Mom out.”
“I’ve noticed.” The dialect of a modern teenager made a grin tug at Dylan’s lips, a brief moment of joy that quickly turned to concern.
Having been protected all his life, Joshua’s personality was carefree and unsullied by cruelty. Was he ready for this world? Would he have been better left to his mother’s care, ignorant and safe, away from the Guardians?
Maybe, for a while, but time had a way of hardening the innocent. And may the Goddess help them all, Dylan vowed silently, if keeping his family here, if this one selfish decision, resulted in their harm. Because he would spend the rest of eternity punishing those responsible, and anyone who got in his way.
“Okay,” Joshua said, “if you really want this to work . . . you’re gonna have to listen to me.”
Taken aback by the offered assistance, Dylan couldn’t help but respond, “What do you have in mind?”
Eighteen
IF SOPHIE COULD HAVE PREDICTED THE COURSE OF THE day, watching her son carry their suitcases back out of the lake house and down the porch to her car would not have been one of her choices. Neither would she have predicted her mother’s easy acceptance of Dylan’s little demonstration.
“If you don’t stop frowning, you’re going to get ugly lines on your forehead.” Francine leaned against their car and dug through her purse, pulling out a compact. “It runs in our family, you know.”
“Somehow I’m not worried,” Sophie said, wishing Dylan was there to take her frustration out on instead of her gullible family—who had, in less than a day, fallen for his charm. “I can’t believe you’re siding with him.”
“Grandma’s siding with me, Mom.” Joshua strode by with a cooler over his head. “I want to go live with Dad. It was my idea. And I want you to come with me, but I understand if you don’t want to.”
Dad? Sophie crossed her arms and studied her child. “You’re up to something. I can feel it. Did your father put you up to this?”
“Leave the boy alone,” Francine said. “From what I’ve seen, Dylan’s been very gracious under the circumstances. It’s not an unreasonable request to have us stay where he can get to know his son better. You should be thankful he included us in the invitation. If I were in his position, I wouldn’t have.”
“You’re not helping.” Sophie watched with growing disbelief as her mother casually applied another coat of lipstick. “You’re primping like we’re going on some grand vacation. Believe me, we’re not.”
“Why would I want to go on a vacation?” Francine closed her compact, her rose-colored lips turning in a smooth, well-cultured smile. “Sweetheart, have you seen the men in this place? I’m fifty-eight, not dead.”
“Oh. My. God.” Sophie ran her hands over her face. “This is ridiculous. They’re wolves, Mum. That doesn’t frighten you? Not even a little?”
“Of course it does.” Her mother gave a nonchalant wave. “But living alone and without my family frightens me more. And I’m not that egotistical . . . I realize there’s more to this world than I alone will ever know.” Her direct gaze never wavered in her conviction. “But I would rather live life to the fullest, with my eyes open, around the people I love, than fear the unknown alone.”
“It’s not the unknown I fear.” Sophie pointed toward the lake house. “At least here, if things get bad, we have a chance to escape. We won’t inside Rhuddin Hall.”
“You’ve made this bed, Sophie Marie.” Her mother sent her a narrowed glare, full of reproach. “Dylan is the father of your son. And the man you chose to marry. It’s time to stop running and deal with the consequences of your choices.”
Joshua threw the last suitcase in the trunk and slammed it shut. “Dad said you could stay at the lake house if you wanted to, Mom. I can bring your bags back in if . . .”
“I don’t think so.” Without the support of her family, Sophie felt a bit lost, especially as she realized her adorable and conniving child may have counseled his “Dad” on how to manage her. “I’m not letting you go there alone and you know it.”
His lips turned into a devilish smile as he threw her the keys. “Thanks, Mom.”
* * *
UNCERTAINTY WAS NOT A STATE OF MIND DYLAN particularly cared for, or wished to repeat anytime soon. He had taken to the outdoors an hour ago, the walls of his home an annoyance as he waited, wondering if he had given Joshua an impossible task. The sound of a vehicle arriving lightened his mood considerably.
“Bloody hell, it took that woman long enough,” Porter muttered as he opened the gate, pointing for Sophie to park by the side of the main house. “As if we don’t have enough to do with preparations for the gathering.”
“Sophie has no knowledge of the gathering,” Dylan warned. “So be sure to keep your comments to yourself.”
“I’m thinking you might want to tell her before Friday,” Porter muttered under his breath, shrugging off Dylan’s glare.
Sophie stepped out of the car, her displeased gaze landing on Porter and then Dylan. “I see your pit bull is still here doing your bidding.”
With exaggerated motions, Porter cocked his head to one side. “Am I hearing a harpy screeching . . . or is that just the wind?”
Holding his tongue, Dylan ignored the exchange, shoving two suitcases at Porter to keep the man occupied. The mere fact that he had reacted to Sophie’s comment gave an indication of . . . well, not fondness, but perhaps respect, as in the kind reserved for a worthy opponent, one who had eluded a very aggressive chase. Otherwise, he would have just ignored her.
“Your rooms have been prepared,” Dylan told his son and mother-in-law as they crowded around Sophie. “Follow me and I’ll send someone to get the rest of your bags.”
Francine looked around with widened eyes. “This is a fortress.” At the sound of the closing gate, her lips thinned with displeasure. “Whenever it’s convenient for you, Dylan, I’d like to have a word in private.”
“Find me after you get settled.”
She gave a brisk nod. “I’ll do that.”
As they made their way through the courtyard, Sophie remained sullen, ignoring his presence until they passed several rows of mounded roots and broken earth. She paused, her head turning toward the side garden located just below the master bedroom. “What happened here?” Her hand lifted above her eyes to screen the afternoon sun. “Is that George? Why is he digging up his roses?”
“Because I ordered him to pull them up,” Dylan said without remorse.
“But why?” she asked, obviously confused. “They were so beautiful.”
“Because George infor
med me this morning that he chastised you once for cutting a rose.” Dylan inclined his head toward the ground. “This is his punishment.”
Unfortunately, George hadn’t been the only one offering a confession. Several others had come to Dylan throughout the morning, prompted by Enid’s move to the village, to confess their past transgressions against his wife. To George’s misfortune, his admission had annoyed Dylan most, simply for its sheer pettiness—a denial of a flower from a plant that only thrived from being cut.
Sophie blinked, taken aback, and her frosty attitude thawed with disbelief. “You did this for me? Because I was denied a rose?”
“I did this because you were treated unkindly in my home. And their unkindness resulted in your unhappiness.” Very aware of their audience, he closed the few steps that separated them, and whispered next to her ear, “And I was denied you because of it.”
A charming blush crept across her cheeks as she swept a nervous glance toward their son. Hugging a leather satchel to her chest, she stepped away. “I enjoyed the rose garden when I lived here. Does it have to be destroyed?”
“Not if you don’t wish it to be,” he said.
“I don’t.”
He bit back a grin at her suddenly formal tone. “Then I will have it put back.”
“Please do.”
The gardener had paused in his digging, leaning against his shovel, unabashedly eavesdropping.
“You heard my wife, George,” Dylan called over. “You may put your precious roses back in the ground.”
“They may well still die,” he called over, but with obvious relief. “Ground’s not fully thawed. Not good,” he grumbled, “not good at all.” Some of his roses were original strains, cultivated and perfected throughout centuries.
The fact that he had shown more concern for his plants than the possible arrival of the Guardians was, in Dylan’s mind, a greater concern. George, like many others, relied on his protection. Moreover, they expected it.
Don’t choose our safety over your own happiness. I’ll not allow that a second time.