Autumn Moon (11 page)

How had she let him talk her into this? Because he'd looked at her with those cerulean eyes and a mouth made for pleasure when asking—that's how.

Elen wore a dress she'd bought on a whim. It was sensual in a simple way; a date dress, for a woman who never dated. The material was soft, clingy and the perfect shade of purple, reminding her of lilac buds before they bloomed. It wrapped around her waist and fell to mid-thigh, and if she wasn't mistaken, Cormack had snuck more than once glance at her legs.

They traveled by car, but he drove the eight-mile stretch into town, just one more thing he'd learned to do well without her. They took the back road that led to John and Gwenfair's home, a Victorian farmhouse with gingerbread trimmings and a red barn set back from the house. A few cars lined the driveway, but many of the villagers had walked.

Forcing a smile, Elen refused to let anyone know how nerve-racking this was for her, especially Cormack—because he had wanted to come. Long tables were set up in rows inside the barn for people to sit and chat. Party lights strung from rafters added a soft glow. A modern sound system played music on a cleared section of the boarded floor where several couples danced.

It was lovely, and she felt like a fruit fly hovering over their pink punch: harmless—most of the time—but they still wanted to bat her away.

Cormack was the only shifter and guard present, because he was assigned to her, while the others kept their posts in the forest. Gwenfair approached with a welcoming smile. A petite woman compared to her husband, she had pinned her brown hair back. Flowers were entangled within the trailing curls.

“I'm glad to see you doing well, Elen.” Gwenfair made a gesture toward a table of drinks. “We're relaxed here, so help yourself.”

“Thank you.” Elen suspected her brother's interference and likely Cormack's as well. The hosts had been warned, as had their guests, who offered nods of greeting. “I'm only going to stay a short while.”

“Uncle Cormack!” Melissa, his niece, bolted from her father and jumped into his arms to be twisted in a wide giggling circle. She had red hair that curled around green eyes filled with mischief. Her father watched from a wary distance.

When Cormack set her down, she smiled at Elen. “I heard you were coming and brought something for you.”

“You did?” Elen bent forward, knowing it was a pebble to add to her collection. Children didn't know to be frightened of her, but she made sure to open her hand without touching for the adults watching. “You can just drop it,” she
said. “Oooo, it's beautiful. I will treasure it.” And she would, just as she did all the others.

The child flounced away as quickly as she had come, chasing after an older girl. There were eight children in Rhuddin Village. None of them could shift, but all were precious gifts.

“I'll get us something to drink.” Cormack gestured toward the table with the pink punch. Once separated, Lydia approached him, stocky like her mother, who ran the kitchens of Rhuddin Hall. His head shook in answer to whatever her question had been.

It didn't escape Elen's notice that every unmated female snuck appreciative glances in his direction, nor did she blame them. He wore a buttoned shirt for the occasion but rolled up on his arms. It accentuated a build honed for battle, leaving no doubt he knew how to wield the sword that rested against his thigh.

Her lips turned in a secret smile, because she knew what body those clothes covered. And it was far more glorious then she, or any of them, could have imagined.

“Feel free to dance,” Elen said when he returned, grateful only a small portion of discomfort leaked into her voice. The only invitations she received to dance came from a malevolent Guardian, but she refused to deny Cormack's enjoyment of the evening. “If that's what Lydia asked you.”

The music slowed and couples began to gather on the hay-strewn floor in swaying embraces. Sulwen approached with determined strides, tall and willowy, and obviously hoping to succeed where her sister had failed. She blinked in surprise when Cormack held out his hand to Elen. Abruptly, she turned back toward her sister and shrugged.

“I have no interest in small talk with women who had no desire to know me before now.” Cormack's hand didn't
waver. “I've never danced. But it looks like they're just moving in a circle. Are you willing to risk your feet?”

“You're asking me?” Her heart beat in a rhythm much faster than the music playing.

“Who else spent time with me before this summer? Lydia and Sulwen?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “They threw me scraps from the kitchens of Rhuddin Hall when you made me a place setting at your table. Yes, Elen, I'm asking you.” He lowered his hand. “But if you don't want to—”

“I want to.” It hurt to hear him speak of his past mistreatment, knowing it was his reality for many centuries. Not caring of the blatant stares, she curled her arm through his. It was like holding supple rock covered in cotton. “I haven't for a very long time,” she warned. Not in the real world anyway, and not with someone who made her feel dizzy and heavy all at the same time. “And the dances have changed.”

She had hugged him while in Indigo Falls, and while nude, but placing her arms over his unsettled her just as much, if not more. Mimicking the less-affectionate couples, his hands rested gently on her waist, while he kept a respectful distance, not pressing into her. Still, heat rose from his body and she wanted to melt into him like chocolate in the sun. Surely he heard the rapid beating of her heart as they swayed around other couples.

He did, she discovered, when he leaned down and whispered, “Their fear will leave once they know you're learning to control your power.”

Oh yes . . . He'd heard her racing response, and mistook it yet again. Unfortunately, she began to realize his true purpose for this outing, and it was both endearing and disappointing. Learning back, she asked, “You're doing this to show them I'm not dangerous, aren't you?”

His hands tightened around her waist, played with the
string that tied her dress. For an instant she sensed his frustration, wasn't sure of its source, only that he cleared his expression under her searching gaze. “It's working,” he said. “They're not even looking at us anymore.”

He was right. She was so consumed with him, she hadn't noticed. But people carried on their own conversations without paying any attention to her, almost like she belonged. One couple even bumped into her and didn't flinch.

The music suddenly changed, as did his expression as he watched couples break apart and start to gyrate. “I'm not even going to try that.”

A laugh spilled out. “Neither am I.”

They returned to her cottage shortly after, making polite excuses. The villagers were gracious enough to hide their relief, but it lingered, just not as much. Cormack parked her car in the gravel driveway that led to the front walkway, handing her the keys after he walked around to open her door.

If this had been a date, it would have been the best of her life. But it hadn't been. She reminded herself of that fact several times later that night as she tried to sleep in an empty bed. She'd grown accustomed to it over the summer, but with him back, she missed the company.

No, she amended, she missed
him
.

*   *   *

He didn't belong in the bloody guest room staring up at the ceiling. Cormack belonged with Elen; it was where he'd slept for almost three hundred years, but with an inconvenient appendage that refused to go down, he had no other choice.

When the hell had she bought that dress? Over the summer? It was her favorite color, so he knew she'd purchased it for herself—and that made it all the more beautiful.
Fisting his hands in the sheets, he tried to think of something else, something other than that silky material that hugged her curves, leaving little between his hands at her waist. With her face upturned mere inches under his, swaying to music, he yearned to untie the belt and unwrap her like his own personal present.

If she'd only known how badly he'd wanted to rub against her as he'd seen some other couples do, like a randy wolf in heat. He ran his hand down his stomach—because he
hurt
. He needed relief, stroking once down his hard length, but it was empty and dissatisfying.

Kicking off the sheets, he went to the bathroom, pausing outside Elen's door. It was closed, and even that grated under his skin. He knocked softly.

“Come in.” She rose on her elbows.

“I'm going for a run,” he told her, leaning through the door. “I'll circle the cottage and be back in a few.”

“Okay.” Was that disappointment in her voice? “You can stay in here afterward, if you want.” His blood pounded a vicious path to his temples and other extremities. A beat passed, and then another. “As you used to.”

As a wolf
, she meant.

Not
the invitation he wanted. “Maybe,” he clipped as his beast rose in unison with his ire. But he didn't shut the door, leaving it open a crack, just in case he weakened and returned to her as the companion she wanted.

A slow drizzle cooled his blood as he passed the miniature stone cottage. A yellow glow came for the turret window, flickering like a candle. The pixie was awake, probably reading, as she'd been the last two times he'd checked on her. She was planning another lesson for Elen in the morning, or so he'd been informed. He didn't approach because he was in no mood for company or sharp voices.

He barely made it past the orchard when his beast raged for freedom. Buckling to his knees, he reached out his senses to the forest, feeding its energy to spark the shift. It hurt, but he welcomed the pain. As bones snapped like gunshots in his ears, one torture eased another.

Soon the scents sharpened, and the sounds of creatures filled the night as they scurried for their burrows, sensing a predator in their midst. He circled the cottage twice, nodding to Sarah, who guarded the entrance of Emerald Moss Trail. She gestured that all was quiet.

He didn't shift back when he returned, caving to better judgment. He needed sleep to be alert, and he wasn't going to unless he was with her. He entered through the side door he had left open, crowding back with his body until it closed. Padding up the stairs, memories flooded his thoughts. He was still home, he realized. Man or wolf, he was still home.

Nuzzling open Elen's bedroom door—
his
door—he jumped on their bed and was rewarded with a soft sigh.

Her hands curled into his fur and she rested her face in his neck as he settled next to her. The only appendage that rose was his heart, but that was nothing new. She'd owned that organ for centuries.

“I missed you,” Elen whispered, her voice catching. Within minutes her breaths evened, and lulled him to follow.

H
OCHMEAD
M
ANOR

G
W
YNEDD
, W
ALES

The dank air of the dungeon sent a chill over Pendaran's feverish skin. The price of his last incantation had been great, but so too had been the knowledge he'd gained, and the blessed gift that grew once again in his forest. By week's end his strength would return in full, and he would have the answers he sought. Without doubt, the dissenters expected him to mount a campaign, but what would that achieve other than tedium in a delayed timeframe? Moreover, the mechanical eyes of this new world posed excessive challenges; the feeble battles they must fight were an insult to his kind.

In truth, he'd grown bored in this century—until Merin's daughter had breathed power into his soul and tangled his
earthbound body with vines. He was intrigued—and how long had it been since someone produced that sentiment? Far too long. He lacked both the patience and time for an open attack. Naturally, he had a more efficient plan in mind that Elen would never expect, and the anticipation almost made him smile.

Using a plastic bin with wheels, he dragged a freshly slaughtered lamb down the winding passageway. A newspaper concealed the offering. Six flights below ground he traveled, each level separated by metal doors that blocked light and sound from his household above. He trusted no one, not even his trained
Hen Was
. The servants whispered among themselves of a dragon in this pit, but that was Maelor's bane, not his. Rumors muddled truths, so he allowed their speculations.

Not a single soul knew the Bleidd still lived, not even its mother—but she would soon enough.

Releasing the outer locks on the final door, he leaned into the battered wood, using weight more than strength for entry. Due to his weakened condition, the stench that greeted him curdled his stomach, a meld of rotting carcasses from uneaten offerings, wet dog and fetid breath. Buckling like a boy at his first battle, Pendaran retched on a decomposing pig at his feet. When the heaving ceased, he lit a single taper and placed it on a protruding stone by the door. Drippings of many candles gone by cast a hardened waterfall of wax down the wall.

“Hello, Saran,” he greeted the Bleidd who huddled in the far corner, more from cold than cowardice. Gaunt from starvation, the bitch's hind legs curled under a distended belly. The wolf suffered by choice, her latest scheme for freedom—as if he would ever let her go without good cause. Her black fur clumped like a mutt with mange, yet golden eyes lifted
to his, arrogant and unbroken, even after two hundred years in his keeping, the last fifty in this room. A feisty woman was trapped under all that fur. A shame, that, but he was not the wielder of this horrid curse, just the corrector.

He would have killed her long ago if not for her parents. Born of an enchantress and a powerful Guardian, Saran had been their only weakness. The Guardian was long dead, but the enchantress still lived. No greater adversary had he yet to meet. For her daughter, she would submit to his demands.

“Eat,” he ordered, rolling the bin toward her. “Nourish yourself and I will let you run in the forest and swim in the stream.” Saran looked away as if she hadn't heard, but a spark lit within those golden eyes, and he knew she would obey if it meant a taste of freedom. “The time has come for you to be of use to me.”

Grabbing the newspaper off the disjointed lamb, he threw it on the floor by the black wolf. It heralded a picture of the human prince on the front page with his wife and yet another heir. If this county only knew their original king stood in a dank dungeon offering slaughters to wretched beasts. He pulled a smartphone from his pocket and snapped a photo. Saran growled at the flash. Some things of the modern century were useful, he admitted with bitter disdain, tucking the device back into his pocket.

Later that afternoon, he dipped his quill and penned three lines. Setting the ink with his breath, he folded the letter around a printed photograph of an emaciated Bleidd. Old ink on parchment and new ink on printable paper—was that not a symbolic mockery of what this century had wrought? He was not ready to relinquish the old but was forced to learn the new.

Even in his weakened state, he held enough power to conjure a cloud. Modern forms of delivery left a trail and
were susceptible to technical error, or worse, human incompetence. His way was always more efficient.

A week perhaps, or less, and Elen would be with him in flesh to provide the answers he deserved. Saran's pit would need a thorough cleaning before she arrived.