Summer Moon

by Jan Delima

  A smile spread across Luc’s face, one he practiced for enemies. Most knew to run. “I’m Rosa’s husband and your new leader. Show disrespect one more time and you’ll lose your head.”

  Ten

  Rosa refused to cower under the full weight of Gareth’s accusing glare. His one eye held the heat of two, daring her to confirm or deny Luc’s claim. What he read in her stance distorted an already maimed face.

  “Tell me he lies,” Gareth demanded with an underlying plea.

  “I cannot,” she confirmed softly. Gareth may not have been her lover—but he’d made a few dangerous flirtations over the years, all of which she had ignored, hoping he would desist without the inevitable anger. “As of yesterday Luc Black is my husband.”

  “Was it consummated?” Though Gareth’s posture exuded only casual curiosity, anguish leaked into his voice.

  Rosa hesitated, sparing one final glance in Luc’s direction. “I don’t wish to discuss the—”

  “Thoroughly,” Luc interrupted, putting the final verbal seal on their arrangement. He also earned several chuckles from the guards who’d begun to gather behind them.

  His arrogance should anger her, but it was difficult to hold such an emotion when something eased from her chest. An unseen weight had lifted. Her seed of hope, the one she dared not wish for, had sprouted within her darkness of doubt. Comparable to root vegetables in a dank cellar, it had made do without sun. Perhaps it had happened when Luc confirmed his intentions to keep his word—or sooner, when he’d given her a sword.

  Now it spread its first leaf.

  “This marriage—” Her voice dropped off when Luc had the gall to wink at her, but she recovered by turning her back. “This arrangement is the most sensible solution to our needs,” she explained to Gareth. “I’ve returned with three armies to help us maintain Avon.”

  Gareth had gone quiet, watchful of their exchange. A distorted growl broke the air—from Briog, not her friend. With more impudence than intellect, Briog lunged toward her with his fist raised. Luc reacted in a blur of motion, of leather and steel, and the bite of his beast’s power. He had his sword unsheathed and poised before the blow landed, removing Briog’s arm in the process.

  Rosa reacted as well—but not in time to counter the attack. Her new sword, though lovely, was longer than her mother’s and caught on its sheath, a slight hesitation but an unacceptable one. “My speed needs work,” she admitted with self-censure over Briog’s outraged screams. “I’ll practice more . . . now that I can.”

  “You will die for this, Beast!” Panting in outrage, Briog cradled his bloodied stump against his chest.

  “Shut your vile mouth, Briog.” Gareth found a target for his frustration and released it without restraint. He, too, had unsheathed his sword. As Avon’s porter, he was one of the few allowed to carry one. “Or I’ll remove what can’t be healed with a shift.”

  Briog stilled. Deadened eyes landed on his supposed comrade with disgust. “You knew about this,” he accused. “You will be named traitor along with them. I will make sure of it.”

  With steady purpose, Rosa approached Briog, allowing him to witness what she’d kept hidden all those years under his torment and unwanted flirtations. His eyes widened at her aggressive posture, at the power she pulled from a frail forest.

  The weapon she raised this time was an invisible one, but just as formidable as forged metal, and far more comfortable in her grasp. Trees groaned with their sacrifice as weakened branches cracked, a sound much like gunshots and breaking bones. Such an eerie resonance and a sad reminder of her cause, cries of nature carried on the wind.

  But the power felt good, too good. She took more than needed. Her inner wolf paced, impatient and ready to run. Rosa coaxed her other half back with a thought. Soon, but not yet. This is for proof of our authority . . . This is for our right to be free.

  Elements flooded her senses, wind kissed by circles of raindrops from the mountains. Her river was her balm, her equalizer and her defense, as pure and resolute as melting snow.

  “What are you doing?” Gareth took a protective stance beside her, a show of faith despite his unease.

  “If you’re my friend, I’ll ask you to trust me now.”

  “You know I am,” he said. “And I do.”

  Briog began to squirm, expecting her to shift at any moment and attack. The longer she resisted the urge, the wider his eyes became. “You are an alpha,” he whispered with disbelief.

  Only an alpha could hold this much power without succumbing to the change. It singed like lightning under her skin, burning her blood and oozing from her pores—but she held it, promising her inner wolf a grand feast this evening for her cooperation.

  Briog hedged backward, stinking of fear and prey. Even Teyrnon and Isabeau sent wary glances her way. A growl pierced the air—a war cry—from Cormack.

  “Yes, I am alpha, but more important, I am your queen.” She delivered her proclamation with the authority of one, as if Briog were a flea sucking blood off a fat rat, and that rat was three—no, make that four—days dead.

  “Rosa . . . ?” Luc gave a warning growl by her side. Like in the truck, his voice held questions, so many questions. He would receive his answers, after.

  She turned to her new husband, who stood with his legs braced and chin lowered, ready to charge. “I warned you I wouldn’t be a submissive wife.” And I gave you your chance to renege . . . You chose not to accept my offer.

  After a long pause, Luc said, “So you did.” His silver gaze sparked blue, heated by dancing flames. His wolf was pleased and wanted to play, but the human in control held it back.

  Rosa circled Briog. “It’s within my rights to take any man or husband I choose. Luc Black is an unmated shifter. His family has proven their power. We are a good match and I have full faith the Council will come to terms with my new arrangement.” She made an impatient motion with her free hand. “Go tend to your wounds while I show my husband our home.”

  Luc offered her his arm. A slow, predatory grin tugged at his mouth as he gave her a brief, if not teasing, bow. “Shall we, my queen.”

  She grinned despite herself, too drunk on power to resist his antics. “It was a bit much, I think.”

  “No.” He spoke low, only for her ears. “It was necessary. The Guardians only respect power.”

  Briog’s eyes darted to the crowd, then the woods, hedging backward for several paces before turning to bolt on shaken limbs.

  “We should kill him,” Gareth said as he watched the man scuttle from view. “He’ll find the guards searching for you and they will return.”

  “I want him to carry my message to the Guardians.” In the past, Rosa would have posed her order as a request, but her docile days were over. She was a queen, by birth, alpha blood and her first marriage. Math had ruled over kingdoms in both human and Guardian realms. It was high time she claimed her proper role. “No deaths unless we have to. Let us play their game for a while and perhaps avoid casualties of our own in the process.”

  “You’ve thought this through, it seems.” Gareth’s voice held more surprise than anger. “Without us.”

  She sighed. “No, I’ve thought this through for you, and for Cadan, and Mae, and Avon, and everyone else who has protected me all these years. I’ve much to explain, Gareth, and I will, but first we must reclaim our home. Where’s Neira?”

  “In the great hall,” he finally answered. His stance remained guarded but she had confidence he would adjust. “With William. They have been questioning Mae since last evening when you didn’t return.”

  “And Gweir?” she asked.

  “He flew Math’s body back to Wales this morning as scheduled.”

  “That’s good,” she said. “Only two Guardians remain.”

  “Neira and William are to follow when they find you.” His single-eyed gaze fell to Luc. “You’ve no
idea what you’ve done.”

  “Oh, I have a good idea.” Luc’s voice was full of carnal knowledge—and dominance. To prove his claim on her? Or a suggestive promise of spousal privileges?

  Either possibility confused her. Besides, now was not the time for such things and she reminded him of that fact. “Luc, have you ever met my aunt?”

  * * *

  With Rosa by his side, Luc marched across an elaborate bridge made of stone and wood, leading the procession of wary guards. Boot heels echoed in a scattered rhythm on wide planks. Death clung to the air like rotting vegetation and coated his nostrils, worsening as they neared the shallow island. Stranger yet, the bridge didn’t meet land; it ended on stone parapets so water flowed freely around the shore, leaving Castell Avon eerily disconnected from the mainland.

  “What is this?” Luc asked Rosa with mounting unease.

  “It’s just a small jump.” She descended off the bridge in a smooth leap to prove her point.

  “I understand the concept,” Luc clipped. “Just not the reason behind it.”

  Frowning, she sent an absent wave toward the river. “Ice can build on the shore in winter.”

  The weak explanation didn’t fool him. “Even more reason to build a steady foundation on both sides of land above water.”

  Her tongue reached out to moisten her lips. Her eyes fell to Isabeau and the line of guards listening behind him. “I will answer all your questions, I promise, but can they not wait until after?”

  “A brief explanation is all I need for now.” He kept his feet rooted to the bridge. “I’m not moving until I have one.”

  She cast a nervous glance in a direction he assumed led to Castell Avon. “Fine,” she said on a defeated breath, her voice washed away with the sound of rushing water. “The river is the one element we’ve found that effectively contains the Beddestyr.”

  “Excuse me?” Luc asked, hoping the rushing waters had skewed her words.

  “We came to this island because it’s surrounded by moving water.” She nodded toward the river. “It nulls their powers.”

  Teyrnon hissed beside him. “Did she just say the Walkers are here?”

  Luc held up his hand as more voices rose behind him. “I thought Math was sent here by the Council to watch us?”

  “Please,” Rosa scoffed. “Why would you think the Guardians care about this place, or you? They care only about themselves. And Cymru. They protect our homeland because it’s where our kind began.”

  “I always knew there had to be more to it,” Isabeau said, unable to stay quiet by Luc’s side. “What happened with the Walkers to bring them here? And how many are there?”

  “There are four of them left now.” Once she revealed a secret, Rosa was generous with her answers. “You must know about Fairbryn.”

  “Of course.” Luc had lived in the area once, when it was inhabited only by outcasts of his kind in camps away from Guardian rule, long before humans had formed a town and named it Fairbryn.

  “Then you know what happened there,” Rosa said in a way that suggested they should.

  “I was born a little over three hundred years after the modern calendar lists the birth of Christ,” Luc reminded her, calling for patience. “Much happened on that land over the last two thousand years. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  She prompted, “In the late 1700s.”

  “Are you referring to the typhoid outbreak?” Isabeau asked, earning a nod from Rosa. “Most humans died from it, if I remember. But that was a while ago, around—”

  “Around the time we settled here,” Rosa finished. “The fact that the Americans wanted independence at the same time was just a coincidence.”

  “It wasn’t typhoid that killed the humans in Fairbryn,” Luc guessed.

  “It was the Walkers,” Rosa confirmed. “Or that’s what the Council assumes. The Walkers were in Fairbryn at the time. Not surprising, Taliesin was there as well.” Wherever that man traveled, bad things happened—and the Walkers had never been far behind to fix his misdeeds. Many of their kind believed that the Walkers had once been messengers to the Otherworld and that they had acted on Ceridwen’s orders to guard her son. “An outbreak of a rampant disease was a convenient way for the Council to cover the human deaths, and keep others away. They chose to move the Walkers to an isolated area far away from our homeland.”

  “We’re a dumping ground for their problems.” Luc ran a hand through his hair. “With Math sent to keep watch and be rewarded for doing so.”

  “Essentially, yes.” After a pause, Rosa added, “The Council doesn’t want the Walkers harmed. We can use their problems, as you call them, against them.”

  “You say that as if they’re incapable of defending themselves,” Isabeau pointed out. “And yet they drained a village and its inhabitants of life, not to mention this island.”

  “Not consciously.” Rosa lifted her hands up only to let them fall back to her sides. “The Walkers are in a coma-like state, like shells without souls. The Council believes their spirits are trapped in the Otherworld, the Land of Faery, and that they are trying to come back to their earthly forms.”

  “Is that what you believe?” Luc asked.

  “I’m not sure what I believe . . .” She let her voice trail off for lack of an appropriate answer. “It’s better for you to see and decide for yourself than try to explain.”

  Teyrnon made another suggestion. “Wouldn’t it be easier if we just killed the poor bastards and let their spirits rest where they are?”

  “I’ve often wondered if they would welcome that, but it feels—”

  “Cowardly,” Isabeau supplied.

  “No.” Rosa shook her head. “Wrong. I feel like they want to return. Also,” she warned, “we did have one guard who entered a Walker’s tomb with malicious intent. Later he rigged himself up to a guillotine in Math’s dungeon and cut off his own head.”

  “We’ll discuss this more later,” Luc said and jumped from the bridge. “Once we control Avon.”

  The others followed. One by one, Isabeau, Teyrnon, and the rest landed on dry ground covered with rust-colored needles. One day this river will be lined with moss and grass, and wildflowers in spring. A silent vow as Luc made a motion for Rosa to walk ahead and guide the way. They followed her through a well-traveled path colored in sepia and muted browns—not the lush emeralds, blues and golds of Rhuddin Village.

  No saplings lined the forest edge, too malnourished to survive tender beginnings. Only the elder trees provided minimal shelter, with roots exposed by years of erosion. Many grew around rocks and boulders and stretched their gnarled feet into a barren forest floor—survivors, like Rosa, he realized, refusing to die under the rule of a greedy king.

  Castell Avon soon came into view, with several stories of stone, stained glass and classic turrets. Another gift from the Council, he expected, for guarding their mistakes. “The yard is empty.” He stopped Rosa before she crossed under a stone archway that led to the outer bailey. “Could the Guardians not have spared even a few watchmen? And where are your Hen Was?”

  “How many guards do you think Avon has to spare? Many of them died in your woods a week ago.” She nodded toward Gareth, who followed at the end of their procession. “Our best one is with me. My aunt will have her personal protectors close to her. And my friends will have gone to the woods as soon as trouble began.” Her gaze lifted to his, still red from what she held within, the only indication of her wolf. “It’s the Guardians who will come after that we need to prepare for, when Neira and William inform them of what I’ve done.”

  A possessive instinct gripped his gut when he looked at her like this, discussing the defense of her territory with power bleeding from her pores. Admiration too. And pride.

  His wolf added another thought. Mine.

  “We’ll be prepared for whatever counterattack the Guar
dians bring upon us,” he promised. Still, he wondered where her people had gone. “These woods cannot provide enough shelter to hide.” If they did, he couldn’t imagine where.

  “We have another place,” she said vaguely. “Across the river.”

  “I see.” More secrets. Having learned of the Walkers, this one could wait.

  They crossed the courtyard in silence, as if tromping over the grave of a powerful witch, expecting a curse to attach and follow them out. Despite their foreboding, Teyrnon and a few other guards gave reminiscent sighs as they entered the inner bailey. Unlike Luc, many of his warriors had spent their youths in places such as this, learning to fight and play in stone-enclosed yards.

  In spite of Rosa’s claim and because it was beyond comprehension, Luc expected at least a few Avon guards to greet them. But no, even the front doors stood ajar over wide steps made of stone, thick oak panels framed by wrought iron hinges. Once inside the castle, caged gas lanterns lined the walls, drawing them down a long hallway toward an assembly of hushed voices.

  With whispered movements and soundless signals they approached. The throughway opened to a great hall two stories high, with a circular balcony that led to upper rooms. From above, stained glass windows cast colorful beams that met at a central point on a stone floor. A small crowd gathered in the disjointed light. The Guardians’ numbers were few, a dozen—if not less, and only if he included their guards in the tally.

  Pitiful, Luc thought, that these were the leaders whom many of their kind feared—whom he had once feared. At the moment, these Guardians were too enthralled by perverted amusements to notice an invasion.

  In the center of the gathering sat an older woman tied to a chair, her head bowed forward, unconscious. Hen Was, he assumed, given that healed scars mapped a trail down her neck, not quite hidden under fresh-cut flesh. A younger man was tied with her, or rather, to her. He remained untouched, at least visibly, since blood caked the woman’s shirt but not his. Regardless, he drew attention with his long red hair and eyes that burned with hatred.