Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (15 page)

“An’ ye saw ’is red eyes?” Moraga murmured, stopping just short of Griff’s reach. The woman had clearly been around wulvers.

“Yes.” Uldred shrugged his shoulder. “His eyes glowed red when he got angry.”

“Ohhhh so I need t’tease the animal, then.” Moraga chuckled. She turned and went to the corner of the tent, coming back with a long spear. Griff glanced into the corner, seeing his sword and belt were there. He watched her raise the spear, her eyes dancing with amusement. “Ye’ve been a vera bad doggie.”

Griff growled at her, lips drawn back in a snarl.

“So can we use his blood?” Uldred asked, taking a seat on a cot at the other side of the tent as he watched his mother wielding her weapon, stalking toward the cage.

“Yer men did’na intercept t’wulvers?” Moraga sighed. “Raife an’ t’rest of them rode in from t’coast—how’d ye manage t’miss ‘em?”

“They followed them on the road,” Uldred replied. “But then… they disappeared.”

The woman snorted. “They did’na disappear into thin air!”

“No, but… mayhaps they found their way into the temple.” Uldred glowered at Griff. “Mother, you said you could find it! You said your magic would be strong enough to open it!”

“Aye.” She sighed, looking over at her son, soothing him. “All will be well. Ye’ve found six o’the lost packs a’ready! And they’re all out there, followin’ ye. They all b’lieve ye’re t’red wulver of the prophecy, that ye’re destined t’be t’Dragon King, the one who’ll begin t’Blood Reign—”

“They only follow me because of your magic,” he reminded her, pouting.

Griff stared between the two of them, stunned by this news. This Uldred had found
six
of the lost packs already? They were all camped out there, right now, following
him
? It was news that made Griff tremble with anger, and he worked hard to keep his eyes from flashing red with bloody rage.

“Aye. An’ it will’na last fore’er!” she snapped. “I need t’wulver’s blood!”

“Well we have his.” Uldred pointed at Griff in the cage. “Isn’t that good enough?”

“Mayhaps.” She cocked her head, eyes narrowing at Griff as she took another step toward him. “He’s a descendent. And they do say he’s t’red wulver. Let’s find out.”

Moraga jabbed at Griff with the spear, moving quickly. Griff roared when the tip pierced his shoulder, blood pouring from the wound, and he grabbed the weapon, yanking it out of the woman’s hands.

“Uldred!” Moraga cried for her son to rescue her as Griff pulled the spear and the witch along with it—she was still hanging on. It would be her undoing.

Griff howled, and outside, another wulver howled in response. Then another. And another. Uldred scowled, rushing toward the cage to save his mother from Griff, but it was too late.

Griff dropped the spear and circled the woman’s throat with his big hand. He only needed one. He could snap her neck with the flick of a finger at this angle. She gasped and struggled as he lifted her feet up off the floor, growling at Uldred.

“Get t’keys! Let me outta this cage!”

“Mother!” Uldred cried, taking a step back as Griff’s other hand shot out to grab him.

Uldred just managed to sidestep.

Outside, the howling continued, and Uldred’s face clouded with frustration and anger.

And, Griff noted, fear. He could smell it on the man.

“Uldred!” Moraga croaked, her long, red fingernails raking at Griff’s hand, scratches that healed almost as fast as she made them. She was choking, her face turning blue.

“Help!” Uldred screamed. Literally screamed, something high pitched, like a woman. “Help! Help! Help!”

“Milord?” A wulver stuck his big head into the tent flap.

Griff howled, a sound that filled the tent, carrying far beyond, and the wulver at the door went wide-eyed at the sight. Then he threw back his head and howled too.

They’re joining me. They know I’m the one. I’m their leader. They know…

Griff’s brief moment of hope and the excitement that took flight in his chest was short-lived, as Moraga lifted her fist in front of her face. He actually laughed at the thought of this woman punching him, but something crunched between her fingers, something that sounded like bones and dry wings being powdered into dust.

The witch used her last bit of breath to blow the residue in his face.

It smelled like ancient death.

Griff coughed, suddenly, overwhelmingly nauseous.

Then everything went blurry, and he collapsed.

Bridget couldn’t understand why Alaric hadn’t come.

She hid high up in a tree, watching men and wulvers walking past, talking, laughing. She watched them set up tents and light fires. She watched, breath held, hand over her mouth to keep from crying out, as they untied Griff from the back of his horse, letting his big body slide, lifeless, to the ground.

She wouldn’t believe he was dead, refused to believe it. They set up a cage and chained him into it, so she knew he still breathed. Bridget almost cried with relief. The tent went up around the cage, so she couldn’t see him anymore. Two men guarded the front of the tent, but no one stood at the back. She could sneak underneath it, she decided. When it was full dark, when the camp slept.

So many wulvers, so many men! She’d never seen so many on little Skara Brae before.

But none of them were Alaric.

She left a clear trail for him to follow. He was an extraordinary tracker. If he’d come looking for her, he would have easily been able to follow. Why hadn’t he come? He’d left to meet Raife and the other wulvers, who had come after Griff. And then…

And then…

She didn’t want to think about it.

Bridget nearly fell asleep hugging the trunk of the tree, straddling a branch. She waited until the moon, still big and full, was high. She waited for most of the noise to die down. She waited until the man with the dirty-blonde hair and dark armor, the one she’d heard screaming, and the curvy blonde woman, left the tent, saying they were retiring for the night. The man gave orders to his men, told them to trade off a watch.

But there was still no one manning—or wulvering—the back of the tent.

Bridget had hoped her father would find them, but mayhaps he felt it too dangerous to approach with so many other wulvers and men around. She would have to rescue Griff herself, and take him back to the temple with her. She was grateful for the wulver ability to heal so quickly. If she could get him out of the cage—she had the pins in her hair, she might be able to pick the lock—he would be fine to travel.

The only thing she didn’t see was Uri—Griff’s horse. She would have liked to take him. And she hated the thought of leaving the animal there with the people—and wulvers—who treated Griff so badly. She didn’t know who they were, or why they wanted Griff, but she knew they were bad news.

Bridget climbed slowly, carefully, down from the tree. She heard someone laugh and hid behind the tree, in the shadows, but there were no other voices. No one moved toward her or the tent. Peeking around the trunk, she saw just the two men—one man, one wulver—sitting on stools near the entrance. They were awake, watchful, talking softly, but not looking her way.

She moved as quietly as she could, sneaking around the back of the tent. Shimmying underneath it, she stopped as she cleared the material, finding herself inside the tent. There was no light to see by, but she heard him breathing. He was breathing. She knew he must be, but her heart fluttered at the reassurance. She just prayed there was no one else in the tent as she rolled to hands and knees and got her bearings.

“There’s a lamp in t’corner, Bridget.” Griff spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Front, on t’left.”

Bridget startled, eyes wide when he spoke. But of course—he’d smelled her.

“Are ye a’righ’?” she whispered back, feeling her way in the dark. “Do I dare light t’lamp?”

“Keep it low.”

She found the lamp, using the striker to light the oil lamp’s wick. Then she quickly turned the flame low, not wanting anyone, especially the guards, to see it through the tent walls.

“Och, Bridget.” Griff held his arms out to her and she went to him, finding herself trembling in his embrace through the cage bars.

“Yer hurt.” She ran her hands over him, the wound in his shoulder. It was healing, but hadn’t been healed entirely. “Who did this? Who are they?”

“We do’na have time fer questions.” He kissed the top of her head, holding her closer, the bars digging into her flesh. She noticed they’d taken the muzzle off him at least, but his face was marked with long scratches. They were healing, too. “D’ye have t’key?”

She shook her head. “But we can break t’lock.”

“Twill alert t’guards,” Griff warned.

Tugging on the padlock, it held fast, but Bridget thought it wouldn’t be difficult to break with a weapon. She had drawn her sword before he could stop her, bringing it down hard, cleaving the lock.

Griff was right—the human guard came in first, sword drawn, and Bridget whirled to meet him. Steel clashed and she winced. So much for staying quiet. The wulver guard ducked into the tent, already shifted in wulver-warrior form, growling, crossbow raised—and aimed directly at Bridget. Griff shoved his way out of the cage, the door hanging on its hinges as he busted through, the padlock in his hand. His chain caught him up short, but he managed to knock the other wulver aside and bring the heavy cage lock down onto the human guard’s skull.

He groaned and dropped to the dirt.

Wulver faced wulver in the dim light, both growling low in their throats. Griff’s eyes flashed red in the dark, making Bridget gasp in surprise, even as used to it as she’d grown. The other wulver hesitated. He’d seen it, too.

Bridget stared, stunned, as the other wulver sank slowly to one knee, bowing his head.

“My king,” the other wulver growled. “How can I serve ye?”

Griff met her gaze, both of them so shocked it was hard to know exactly what to say or do.

“D’ye have t’keys?” Griff yanked on the chain attached to the collar around his neck.

“Aye.” The other wulver rose, pulling out a set of keys and unlocking the collar. The guard looked between the two of them as he took a step back while Griff pulled off the collar and threw it to the floor.

“Thank ye,” Griff said.

“Go, m’king,” the other wulver said, keeping his voice low, reaching down and handing Griff his belt, sword and sheath. “Before they discover ye gone and raise t’alarm.”

“I will’na forget this.” Griff strapped on his belt, clapping the other wulver on the shoulder before grabbing Bridget’s hand and ducking out of the tent. She followed him in the dark, both of them trying to be as quiet as they possibly could.

“Bridget,” he whispered, pulling her behind the big tree she’d scaled and hid in. “M’father and ’is men came ’ere t’Skara Brae—are they at t’temple?”

“Alaric went ridin’ out t’meet ’em,” she told him, her brow knitting with worry. “We saw ye set upon by a band’o’men at t’same time. I said I’d follow ye, track ye, and leave a trail. But…”

Griff finished her sentence, “Alaric hasn’t come after ye.”

She shook her head, feeling tears stinging her eyes. Something must have happened, and from the look on Griff’s face, he knew it, too.

“Listen, Bridget.” He took her by the upper arms, talking low, close, looking into her face in the moonlight. “This man who took me, Uldred Lothienne—”

“Uldred Lothienne?
Lothienne
?” Her eyes widened. She knew the story of Eldred and Moraga—Griff had told her that story too. Had it been only last night that they were in each other’s arms, talking and laughing? “Is it…? It can’t be…”

“Aye, tis.” His eyes flashed red in the dark. “Eldred and Moraga’s son. He’s mad—insane. He thinks he’s t’red wulver—thinks he’s t’one who’ll bring together t’lost packs. These men—t’wulvers—they’re all part of t’lost packs.”

“But how…” Bridget had wondered at it, all of these wulvers out of their den, camped with an English leader, but now she knew, with a low, sinking feeling in her belly, not even waiting for Griff to answer. “Dark magic.”

“Aye.” Griff’s eyes were blood red. “Moraga, his mother, is a witch. She’s worked some magic on t’lost packs, but she needs m’blood—or m’father’s—to enchant ’em further. T’compel ’em.”

“Compel ’em t’do what?”

“T’go to war,” Griff said flatly. “T’claim t’English throne from King Henry VIII. I imagine that’s where Uldred’ll start. Where ’is father left off.”

“We hafta get back t’the temple.” She swallowed, hoping, praying, that Alaric had met Raife and his men. That they were, even now, safe in the temple, thinking it too dangerous to travel with so many men and wulvers on the island.

But if they knew there were strange men and wulvers on the island—she couldn’t imagine Alaric would let her stay out alone. Not this long. He would have come for her.

“Aye, but I need t’find Rory.” Griff glanced around at the light of dying fires, tents set up all along the grass.

“Who?”

“Uldred has captured Rory MacFalon.” Griff’s voice was like steel. “More unfinished business, I imagine. Donal MacFalon killed Eldred Lothienne.”

“Oh no…”

“We need t’find Rory and bring ’im to the temple. He’s…” Griff sighed. “He’s been tortured. Wulvers heal fast, and he looked… I can’na e’ven tell ye. Bad. Vera bad.”

“Where would they keep ’im?” she whispered, knowing Rory was one of Griff’s greatest friends.

“I do’na know.” Griff looked around, swearing under his breath in at least two languages.

“We’ll find ’im.” Bridget took his hand, leading him this time in the darkness. “I was hidin’ in this tree all day, watchin’ them set up camp. I think I may know where he is…”

“Yer an angel,” he breathed, stopping just for a moment to kiss her.

It was a hard, fast, breathless kiss and they were on their way again in an instant, but Bridget felt like she was flying. She was so relieved to have him with her, safe. No longer trapped, muzzled, chained in a cage.

“There’s a tent near t’edge of their camp,” she whispered as they crept closer to the rocky beach and the sea. “Isolated. I’d wager that’s where they’d keep ’im…”

“Smart lass.” Griff smiled at her when she looked back at him. The moon was still high, shining off the water, but the weather was changing, quickly. There was a low fog rolling in, hanging thick in the air.

“There.” She pointed down at the beach, where a tent had been pitched, far away from anyone or anything else. She’d seen them setting it up from her vantage point in the tree and hadn’t understood its purpose, but mayhaps now she knew.

“Ye stay ’ere,” Griff whispered, wagging a finger at her.

“I do’na think so.” She caught his finger in her hand, leaning in and gently biting the tip. “But I’ll let ye go firs’…”

“Ye’re impossible.” He sighed, but cautioned her to be quiet as she followed him toward the tent.

There was very little cover out here in the open, but she was glad for the fog coming in. Besides, there seemed to be no one around. Except whoever was in the tent, of course. She hoped it would be lightly guarded, and they could free Rory and hurry back to the temple. Even without horses, they could make it back in under an hour.

Bridget stopped, hearing a low moan. She pulled on Griff’s hand and he stopped, too. The walls of the tent were thin. Another moan, this one louder, carried toward them on the wind. Her belly clenched, wondering how badly hurt the wulver was. She hoped whatever horrible experiences he’d had were now at an end. The scrying pool had great healing properties. Even for wulvers.

She couldn’t imagine how badly he had to have been tortured to be making the noises coming from the tent. Her eyes widened as she looked at Griff in the moonlight, and then saw his face change in an instant, the moment the sounds changed.

That wasn’t a man moaning in pain, Bridget realized. It was a woman, moaning with pleasure. Bridget opened her mouth to say something, but Griff pulled her close, shaking his head and pressing his finger to his lips.

“Oh yes, yes, that’s m’good boy, yesss!” A woman cried out, so loudly it made Bridget blush and she was glad for both the darkness and the fog, because she knew her face must match her hair. “Ohhh harder, harder!”

The feel of Griff’s body against hers, arms encircling her waist, holding her close, made her want to melt against him. The sound of the two people making love in the tent brought thoughts and ideas into her head that she knew she shouldn’t be thinking. But she was.

“Yes! Uldred! Yes! Ahhhhh!” The woman’s voice rose to almost a scream, and Bridget realized now why the tent was pitched so far away from anyone else.

Obviously the wulver they were looking for wasn’t here.