by Selena Kitt
Griff didn’t. His sword came down again, steel clashing. There had never been weapons at the sacred pool before. Bridget saw her mother sobbing, Alaric doing his best to comfort her, both of them in chains.
“Stop, dog, or I’ll kill them all!” Uldred snapped.
That stopped Griff. He faced the dark knight, both of them breathing hard, and saw that Uldred’s men had blades at the throats of the women chained across the way. Bridget saw they were all collared and muzzled—they’d been prepared, then, for the wulvers to shift, and had guarded against it.
“Chain them with the rest,” Uldred ordered, giving Griff a sly smile as the men disengaged their swords.
“Trust,” Bridget whispered to Griff as she passed by, glaring at Uldred.
Griff’s eyes were already glowing red, Bridget saw, as one of Uldred’s men dragged her around the pool to join the others. He howled as he saw her being chained to one of the high monoliths and Uldred laughed. The witch stood well out of the way of the wulvers, Bridget noted, but she was smiling, triumphant. She believed she and her son had already won.
Lifting her head to look up at the domed ceiling, Bridget wondered if mayhaps they had.
Trust.
That’s what she’d told Griff, but that’s what she had to do, as well.
Everything in her wanted to fight. But she had to watch, wait, and trust.
Above them the light was already changing. It was nearly full noon, but instead of a bright beam of light shining into the scrying pool, it was fading. The eclipse had already begun.
“Let them go!” Griff demanded. Uldred hadn’t forced the big wulver to give up his sword and Bridget wondered at that.
“You’re not in much of a position to make demands.” Uldred smiled across the pool, and he looked right at Bridget. She felt his gaze on her, almost as if his eyes raking her body was actually the touch of his hands, and it made her shudder with disgust. “I think I’m going to enjoy your little redheaded whore later myself. I’ll let my men have the other women. I prefer my cunts wetter than those old prunes.”
Griff growled, giving a shake of his head, and shifted. Bridget gasped, watching him leap forward as a wulver-warrior, sword swinging, but Uldred turned just in time to stop the blow with his own sword.
“You want a fight, is that it?” Uldred pushed hard at the big wulver, although he didn’t move Griff far. More of Uldred’s men—there were at least a dozen in the temple, all human, Bridget counted—moved in, swords drawn. “A duel? If you win, you get your woman and family as a reward? Is that what you want, dog?”
Griff just snarled, his eyes so red they glowed, even in the fading light. He had four men behind him, holding him back, and Bridget cried out when she felt one of Uldred’s men move in beside her, holding a knife to her throat. Griff heard, his gaze skipping across the pool to her.
“But what if I win?” Uldred actually smiled. “If I win… let’s say, I get to use your blood. And all those wulvers out there…”
The dark knight waved his hand toward the wall, beyond which were hundreds of wulvers from the lost packs.
“Then they will follow me. Oh wait, once I look into the pool during the eclipse, I’ll turn into the red wulver, and they’ll follow me anyway, won’t they?” Uldred gave a gleeful, mad laugh, and Bridget saw that the man was, in part, mad. He had to be. Given what Griff had told her about Uldred and Moraga’s plans—had the witch made her own son mad with power? Like his father before him, he was obsessed with the wulvers, but he didn’t want to kill them. No—Uldred wanted to become one of them. And his mother had convinced him it was possible. Had convinced him that they shared a bloodline.
Of course, that part was true. Raghnall had told her as much, while Griff was still sleeping off the poison, but she hadn’t wanted to reveal that to him. She knew he wouldn’t take it very well—and it didn’t seem to serve much of a purpose. The fact was, Uldred was not and would never be a wulver, no matter whose blood ran through his veins. While Eldred, his father before him, had been sure he was part of Arthur’s line, that the Tudors had stolen the throne and wrongly changed the bloodline of England’s kings forever, Uldred seemed far more interested in gaining the wulvers’ abilities and powers and using them to his advantage.
Eldred had wanted to use the wulvers and destroy them.
Uldred wanted to become a wulver—and enslave them.
“Let’s fight, brother, as men!” Uldred laughed, swinging his sword around, and Griff managed to lift his to block the blow, even though four of Uldred’s men held him back, and Uldred knocked his sword from his hands. Griff growled and went for it, but the men held him back. “And when I spill your blood into this pool, I will become the most powerful wulver—the most powerful king and leader—this world has ever known!”
Griff shifted back as Uldred reached down to grab Griff’s sword, tossing it back to him, and when he did, Bridget saw it happen. She wasn’t sure, not at first, but she saw a flash of silver in the dimming light coming in from the dome above. A blade? Griff gave a little howl and Uldred stepped back with a shrug, as if to ask, ‘What did I do?’
But then the men were fighting, and there was no time to think.
Or even breathe.
Bridget covered her mouth with her hands, feeling an arm go around her. It was her mother, standing beside her, comforting her. Bridget let her arms slide around her mother’s neck as she watched the two men fighting. Griff’s eyes flashed red as their swords swung, chipping away at the stone walls when they missed, clashing angrily when they didn’t.
Griff’s eyes glowed a deep red but he stayed in human form, not shifting to his stronger, wulver one. Bridget saw Uldred’s smile, the way he danced back and forth, avoiding Griff’s heavy blows. And she saw his eyes glow red, too. A trick of the light, mayhaps? She was sure of it. A reflection of Griff’s eyes in his own.
Griff was growing tired. She expected him to shift to wulver form, to take the man out in one mighty blow, but he didn’t. He stumbled once, nearly falling into Uldred, and the other man pushed him back. Bridget clung to her mother, watching Griff losing the fight, sinking to her knees in horror as Griff reeled and swung, almost blindly.
They swung their way around the pool, drawing closer to the chained pack of wulvers—and humans—adorning the rock, Bridget among them. She sobbed into her mother’s robes as Griff howled, the sound echoing through the whole chamber, shaking it to its foundation, while Uldred just laughed and danced away.
Bridget knew it was close. It was almost time. Moraga knew it too. The witch was on the other side of the pool, staring up at the hole in the ceiling and chanting something. Griff was fighting Uldred off now—bleeding from several wounds, deep gashes that would take a little time to heal. Uldred backed him up, swinging again and again, then took a step forward, swords sliding together, down to their hilts as they stood, face to face. Bridget was so close to them, she could have reached out and touched the wound bleeding on Griff’s calf.
Then Uldred pushed Griff away, and the big man fell.
He fell to his knees, right in front of Bridget, and she reached out for him, unable to bear seeing him in so much pain. It made no sense, no sense at all. He was ten times the man, twenty times the warrior, of this man, and yet, Griff was flagging, failing.
“Trust…” Griff lifted his head to look into her eyes and Bridget saw how dilated his were.
“Ye monster!” she gasped, staring at Uldred. “Ye poisoned ’im!”
Just the flash of a blade, a small cut on his calf. Uldred had poisoned him, making sure he’d win this fight. Griff struggled to stand, but whatever it was Uldred had knicked him with was strong.
“Just a little help from Natura Mater, eh, Mother?” Uldred laughed, glancing across the pool at the witch.
“He’s right.” Bridget looked at Griff. “Mother Nature decides. That’s ’er magic. We need t’trust ’er.”
“Uldred!” Moraga snapped. “Stop playin’ around! Tis time!”
Uldred practically skipped past them as the eclipse began to reach its peak. It wouldn’t be long. Griff growled, turning to rise, to go after Uldred, but Bridget slipped her hand into his.
Trust.
“Trust,” she whispered to him, squeezing. Holding him back, holding him to her.
“No!” Griff croaked, still on his knees.
Uldred was on his too, but he was on hands and knees, peering over the edge into the pool, as if waiting for something. Uldred’s men murmured, uneasy. The light in the pool was strange, unlike anything Bridget had ever seen before.
“Noooo!” Griff cried again as the dragon’s head began to rise.
Bridget cried out, grabbing his shoulders as Griff started forward. His body shook, wracked with the poison. Aleesa went to her knees, too, grabbing his arm, keeping him from confronting Uldred.
Uldred’s men began to pray under their breath, some of them crossing themselves as the dragon’s head filled the space above the pool. And turned its red eyes to Uldred.
“Look at his eyes!” one of Uldred’s men cried. “Look!”
Uldred’s eyes were blood red as he stared, transfixed, at the dragon. Across the pool, Moraga laughed, a high, delighted cackle. Bridget heard sobs, and glanced at the wulvers and women still chained to the rock. A dark-haired woman sobbed into the shoulder of a man. The redheaded woman Bridget assumed was Griff’s mother, Sibyl, was looking, not at Uldred and the dragon, but at Griff and Bridget on their knees by the pool. She had tears in her eyes.
“It’s happening!” Uldred called. “Oh, Mother, it’s happening! I can feel it! I’m turning into the red wulver!”
Griff howled, the sound reverberating against the stone walls, and Bridget shivered at the sound, holding his hand so tight it hurt her own. She couldn’t keep her eyes off Uldred, the way his eyes glowed red. Was it really true, then? The prophecy… could it be that either of these men could be the red wulver, able to bring together the lost packs, and heal the rift between man and wulver forever?
But it couldn’t be—Raghnall had been so sure. Uldred couldn’t be the one. His magic was dark, his purpose less than honorable. But if he was a descendent of Arthur—or Asher—then mayhaps it was possible for him to usurp that role. To become the once and future king of… everything.
“Look!” Sibyl gasped, pointing at Uldred. “He’s on fire!”
Bridget stared as the red of the man’s eyes spread. They were on fire, glowing, hot, and Uldred laughed, holding his arms out to the dragon as if in welcome. Didn’t he feel it? It wasn’t just his eyes—his whole body was outlined in flame!
Moraga screamed. “Uldred! Uldred! Noooo!”
“Mother!” The man screamed as he went to his knees, his body beginning to burn.
They all stared in horror as the witch threw herself at her son, sobbing, calling his name over and over—but that didn’t last long.
Once the fire had begun, it burned hot and fast, consuming everything around it. Even one of Uldred’s men, who tried to pull the two apart, was burned up in the flame. It was over in moments. The screaming stopped, and then the fire did, too. There was simply nothing left of either Uldred or Moraga.
But the dragon was still there, head raised.
And then, slowly, it turned to look at them.
“Unchain them,” Bridget croaked to Uldred’s man standing closest to her. She pulled her dirk from her boot and pointed it at him. “Do it now, and ye might live through this.”
The man, white as a sheet and still staring as the dragon turned its red eyes in their direction, did as she bid him.
“Quickly.” Aleesa bent to assist her daughter, once she was free. Bridget helped Griff toward the pool. He moved slowly, groggy. Whatever poison Uldred had used was very bad for wulvers, and Bridget worried that even the sacred pool wouldn’t be able to heal him.
“Bridget,” he murmured, on his knees, wavering.
“I’m ’ere.” She slipped her hand into his, feeling tears sliding down her cheeks, realizing that this might be the last time they were ever together.
“I love ye,” he whispered, and she felt him lean against her for support. He was fading fast. “Yer… m’one… true… mate…”
Bridget sobbed, clinging to him, feeling hands on her, holding her up, too, otherwise she would have collapsed as well. They were all around them, wulvers and humans, hands on their shoulders, under their elbows, holding them both, supporting them, and Bridget looked up, gasping at what faced her in the pool.
It wasn’t just the dragon.
There was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen, full figured and smiling, her eyes shining silver, staring straight at Bridget. She heard a collective gasp, heard one of Uldred’s men moan, “Her eyes! Her eyes, too!” but she knew. She felt her own eyes flash silver in response, a cool, calm feeling of peace coming over her as the lady approached.
The woman carried a sword, blade high as she walked across the pool.
Beside her, the dragon, eyes glowing red, like blood though, not fire, opened its mouth.
For a moment, Bridget thought they were all going to burn.
But then the dragon’s tongue uncoiled, and at the end of it was a chalice. It dipped first into the sacred pool, and then it was placed in Griff’s hands. The big wulver was shaking so badly he could barely grasp it, but his mother and aunts were there, helping him drink.
Bridget looked up just in time to accept the sword. The lady held it aloft, hilt resting on one palm, blade the other. An offering. Bridget looked up into her face, into those strange, silver eyes, and saw her own. For one, brief moment, as she reached out to accept the sword, they merged.
Bridget gave a cry, her whole body shaking, the sword clattering to the stone where she knelt, and then, they were gone. The dragon and the lady disappeared. The peak of the eclipse had passed. The marriage of Asher and Ardis was over.
She lifted her eyes to the sun, to the strange light overhead. It was the middle of the day, but it felt as if the moon were shining down, and it filled her with an overwhelming urge. Bridget threw back her head and howled.
It was only then that she realized, she was a wolf. She had no hands to hold a sword. Only big, russet colored paws. Stunned, she turned to look at Griff, and saw he, too, had shifted. Not into a wulver warrior, but into full wolf form. Their eyes met—flashing red and silver for just a moment—before they rubbed noses together, and then Bridget tucked her head under his, a sign of surrender.
She was his, and always would be.
They were one, true mates, just as Ardis and Asher had been. In this form, she knew it in a way she’d never known it before. If she had been a wolf the moment they met, she wouldn’t have ever questioned it. She was his. She belonged to this man.
Griff shook his head, giving a long, sustained howl, and she watched him change. Thick, red fur became long, dark hair. His eyes went from red to gold again. He stood there, naked, surrounded by his kin, holding a hand out to her. He saw her, he recognized her. He loved her. They gave him his plaid, and he wrapped it around himself, looking at her expectantly, smiling.
Bridget did what came naturally. She gave her big, russet colored wolf’s head a shake, and transformed. Her mother was there, putting a robe around her shoulders, and she threw her shaking arms around Griff’s neck, unable to fully comprehend what was happening. Had she really just changed into a wolf—and back again? What did it mean?
“M’love,” Griff whispered against her ear, holding her close. He was so solid, so strong. Nothing about him wavered now. The sacred pool had healed him. And it had, somehow, changed her. “M’one true mate.”
“Aye,” she breathed, clinging to him. “Took ye long enough to b’lieve it, wulver.”
He chuckled. “Look who’s talkin’—wulver.”
That’s when she heard it.
Whispered, murmured words, all around them.
She looked at Griff, disbelieving at first, and then, Griff took her hand, turning toward his
subjects, turning her with him, to face them all. Even Uldred’s own men. Mayhaps, sometimes seeing was believing, Bridget thought with her own sense of amazement.
“Righ.”
“Banrighinn.”
King.
Queen.
Bridget stared as, one by one, wulver and human took a knee and bowed their heads to the once and future king and queen.
Epilogue
Bridget had always thought of Skara Brae as home, but it wouldn’t be for much longer.
Still, this room, the place where she’d first made love with her one true mate, would always hold great meaning for her. She crouched by the fireplace, warming her hands around the cup of milk she held. It had done a great deal lately to settle her stomach at night, especially nights like these, when she dreamed of the lady and couldn’t sleep.
“Bridget.” Griff called out, his hand searching her side of the bed for her and she smiled.
“I’m ’ere,” she called softly.
“Come t’bed, lass.”
She finished the last of her milk, leaving the cup on the table, before climbing in beside him.
“Up dreamin’ of weddin’ plans?” He chuckled, sliding his arm around her waist and pulling her near. She gave a happy sigh, snugging back against his warmth.
“Oh, I do’na need t’plan a thin’.” She smiled. “Yer mother and m’mother are takin’ care of’t. All I need t’do is put on t’dress.”
“And then I get t’take it off ye.” His hand moved slowly over her hip, under the covers.
“Mmm, aye,” she agreed, feeling him growing hard against her bottom. “Will it be a long trip back to Scotland?”
“Not overlong.” His hand stroked her hip, a soothing motion. “Are y’afeared t’leave this place?”
“A lil,” she admitted softly.
“If it’s any consolation, t’mountain den’ll be new t’me, too, lass.” His lips brushed her temple. “But we’ve got s’many wulvers now that the lost packs have joined us, we need the room. And the witch who kept us from it is…”
“Aye.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked into the fire. “Gone.”