Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (17 page)

The witch had chosen her weapon well, Bridget realized, finally remembering what Aleesa had told her about this particular poison, and its only remedy.

“The Isle of the Dragon.” She sighed. It might as well have been the moon. They were in a rowboat. Even with a wulver rowing, they wouldn’t reach it in time unless Griff could fly. “There’s a temple on t’Isle of the Dragon. It’s northwest of t’Isle of Man.”

“The Isle of the Dragon?” Griff blinked in surprise. “Tis where t’largest of t’lost packs is supposed to be—accordin’ to what Aleesa gave me...”

“Hmm...” She smiled, feeling her eyes beginning to close. She was so very tired. “But there’s no such thing as fate...”

“If there is, then yer mine, lass.” Griff pressed his lips to her forehead, holding her so close it was hard to breathe. Or mayhaps that, too, was the poison working its way through her. “If I b’lieved in true mates, ye’d be mine...”

“Ye do’na need t’b’lieve...” She felt his lips meet hers under the cover of the fog, and she kissed him back, using the last of her energy to wrap her arms around his thick neck and cling to him.

She whispered the truth against his mouth as they parted, “I a’ready know...”

And then she let the fog roll in and claim her completely.

When she woke in Griff’s arms, she thought she’d died and gone to heaven.

They rocked together in softness. There was no pain—well, only a little, when she moved her arm. She noticed it when she lifted her hand to touch his stubbly cheek in the morning light. Mayhaps they’d both died and gone to heaven, she thought, seeing the way his thick, sooty lashes touched his cheeks. But the big wulver lying beside her was breathing, soft and shallow. He was on guard, even in his sleep, she realized, tracing the line of his mouth, suddenly longing for the press of his lips.

When she lifted her gaze, she saw his eyes were open. They were clear, gold, and looking at her with so much concern it broke her heart. She took in her surroundings in an instant, realizing their slow rocking was the motion of a boat. Nay, a ship. They were in a small state room, and she could see the sun shining on the water through a porthole.

“Tis good t’see yer eyes, lass.” His voice was hoarse. “They’ve been closed fer two days.”

Two days gone. Two days wasted.

She glanced at her wound, seeing it had been rebandaged. Looking closer, she blinked at him in surprise.

“Did ye pack it wit’ seaweed?” she asked.

“Jus’ like ye tol’ me.” He smiled.

A knock sounded on the door. “Bryce!”

“Bryce?” She giggled. “Who’s Bryce?”

“I’m Bryce and yer Busby.” Griff grinned. “Oh an’—yer a boy.”

“A boy?” she squeaked, suddenly offended. “I’m not a—”

“Shh!” He pulled the covers up to her neck, gathering her hair in a knot at the back of her head. He took another frowning look, rolling her hip so she was pointing sideways. “Hide those damnable curves!”

She giggled at that, pulling the covers up so only her eyes appeared.

“Aye?” Griff pulled the door open.

“More seaweed fer t’lad,” the voice said. It was low and gruff.

“Thank ye, MacMoran,” Griff said.

“How’s he doin’?” the voice asked.

“A lil better. He woke up a few moments ago,” Griff replied. “We’ll need some food.”

“Aye, I’ll bring ye some.”

“Thank ye,” Griff called, closing the door again.

“Where’re we?” Bridget sat, looking down and seeing that, aside from the bandage on her arm, she was wearing nothing at all.

Griff noticed, too. His eyes moved over her body before she pulled the sheet back up to her chin.

“T’Sea Wolf,” he said, putting the seaweed pack aside on the bureau.

“Is that a ship?” she asked.

“Aye.” Griff’s hand fell to her hip, over the covers, tracing her curves through it. “Uldred would’ve expected us t’follow the coast southeast t’Wick... so I rowed southwest to Thurso an’ that’s where I found Cap’n Blackburn. He was headin’ to the Isle of Man.”

Her eyes widened. “Wit’ what cargo?”

“Do’na ask.” Griff chuckled. “Ye do’na wanna know.”

“Tis a pirate ship,” she whispered, his look confirming her suspicions.

“Aye.” He nodded gravely. “That’s why I disguised ye as a lad.”

“I’ve really been out fer two whole days?” she lamented, capturing his hand in hers and lacing their fingers. She brought his hand to her mouth, kissing his knuckles. She didn’t like to think of him being alone, worried about her, that whole time. She licked one of his fingers, meeting his glowing gaze. Then she sucked his fingertip into her mouth.

“Two and a half, aye,” he agreed, groaning as he watched her. “But yer awake now.”

“I jus’ hafta keep pretendin’ t’be a boy.” She was rather offended by this predicament, spitting his finger out and half-sitting. She struggled, though. Her arm burned. She winced, knowing they’d have to keep the bandages changed. If they could make it to the island, if they could get the antidote…

“T’was t’bes’ way t’keep ye safe on this ship,” Griff said, helping steady her with a hand at her elbow as she sat. “Pirates aren’t known fer their morals, lass.”

“Neither are wulvers.” She felt dizzy, just sitting up, but she put her arms around his neck anyway, pressing herself fully against him. She heard him moan a little through their kiss, and she found, when she let her hand wander under his plaid, just how much he’d missed her while she was passed out.

“Besides, this way, we get t’share a cabin,” he murmured, nuzzling her hair. “Och, yer hair, m’love… I shoulda cut it, but I could’na bear to…”

“What’d ye promise ’em t’get ’em t’take ye t’the Isle o’t’Dragon?” she wondered aloud, squeezing his shaft, making him shift and groan. “Mos’ men think tis haunted”

“M’firs’ born,” he said, laughing when she jerked back to stare at him. “I’m kiddin’, lass. I would ne’er promise our bairns to anyone…”

“Our bairns.” Tears stung Bridget’s eyes. The thought of having children with this man delighted her. And at the same time, she knew, could feel the poison coursing through her blood. Mayhaps it would never happen, after all.

“Shh, m’love,” he whispered, stroking her hair. She rested her cheek on his chest, and then saw it—a thick, dark line along his bicep. Frowning she traced it with her finger. “What’s this? Griff? Were ye cut too? Wit’ the witch’s knife?”

“Aye.” He looked down at it. “Tis numb. I do’na think the poison got into me.”

“Och, you insufferable wulver!” Bridget grabbed for the seaweed. “It’s in yer blood, trust me! It may take longer, but it’ll kill ye, just like it’s gonna kill me!”

“It’s not gonna kill ye.” Griff grabbed her by the shoulders. Her wound ached when he did that, and he saw the pain on her face and let go a little. “We’re goin’ t’the isle—we’ll find this mage. And he’s goin t’cure ye. And then we’ll get back in time for t’eclipse, like Alaric said we had to, before… whatever magical thing happens then. And I’ll kill Uldred and that witch meself wit’ m’bare hands.”

“Before t’eclipse?” Bridget raised her eyebrows in surprise. Alaric had told Griff to come back before the eclipse? But why? “Did Alaric tell ye? That’s when I’m supposed t’take m’vows as a priestess. Although now…”

She swallowed, looking down at her burning wound—there was something dark seeping through the bandage.

“We a’ready threw that plan out t’window.” Griff smiled. “Yer mine, Bridget. I told ye I’d come back fer ya…”

“Instead, I came t’find ye…” She smiled. Then she looked at her wound, lamenting the way things had gone. “If we’d just gone straight t’the beach. If only that stupid knife hadn’t…”

“Listen!” He shook her again. “We’re gonna find a cure fer this. I do’na care, whate’er it is, whate’er works! Ye hear me, Bridgit? I will’na lose ye.”

“Aye.” A little smile played on her lips. “I hear ye. D’ye hear yerself?”

Griff stopped, then gave a little, sheepish smile. “T’isn’t necessarily magic. Mayhaps it’s some herbal cure. M’own mother knows herbs, and she—”

“B’lieve what ye want.” Bridget pressed the seaweed against his upper arm. “But tis magic.”

“No more than that is.” Griff reached for a clean bandage, letting her tie it around his upper arm.

“It’s all magic, ye silly wulver.” Bridget slowly climbed into his lap.

She was still dizzy, feeling feverish, but she didn’t care. She prayed that her mother had been right—that there was a mage named Raghnall on the Isle of the Dragon, and that he had some sort of antidote, or could at least concoct one, for the Witch’s Kiss. She could do nothing but hope, as the poison made its way through her body, and trust, that what should be, would be.

In the meantime, she was going to make love to this man. While she was conscious, as long as she was breathing, she wanted him inside her and nowhere else. Griff kissed her back, his hands roaming over her hot, feverish flesh, and she felt how much he wanted her through his plaid and longed to feel him, skin to skin.

A knock on the door interrupted them again.

Griff groaned, shaking his head in denial.

“I’m starvin’!” she confessed, nibbling on his ear.

“Well, that mus’ be a good sign.” He slid her reluctantly off his lap.

“I’m goin’ to eat e’erythin’,” she told him, sliding the sheet ever so slowly up her thighs. She watched his gaze follow it. “Then Busby’s gonna come back to bed and show Bryce the whole world.”

Bridget parted her thighs and Griff gave a low growl, grabbing her knees and shoving his face between them. She had to bite her own lip to keep from screaming as he devoured her, front to back, up and down, like a starving man.

The knock came again, insistent.

“Ye better get that,” she gasped as he lifted his face, covered with her juices, and wiped it with the back of his hand.

“A’righ’, lass,” he croaked. “I’ll let ye eat somethin’—but then I’m gonna eat ye!”

Bridget pulled the covers up again, all the way up, as Griff went to get the door.

No matter what happened, they were going to make the most out of whatever time they had left.

Griff held a sleeping Bridget against him as he rode his borrowed horse the last half mile or so. She was weakening day by day, and he couldn’t bear to watch it.

He’d never wanted to believe in magic more than when he stood at the door of the temple on the Isle of the Dragon, calling out, seeking entrance. He hoped there wasn’t a guardian—someone he would have to fight—although considering the mood he was in, letting off a little steam chopping of someone’s limbs wasn’t exactly a bad idea.

He just didn’t want to have to waste the time.

“Please! We seek entrance! She needs healin’!” Griff boomed, his voice carrying over the rolling, green hills of the island—and, he hoped, deep into the temple, where a healer waited.

The island itself was bigger than Skara Brae—it had only taken him twenty minutes to ride into the island, using Bridget’s instructions to find the temple. At least this one wasn’t hidden. He’d seen it a mile away, marked by an open-air stone circle out front that towered up toward the sky. The temple itself had tall, Greek-style columns and a giant door, but it was all in serious disrepair. The door was twice the size of Griff himself.

The door opened and an old man peered out through the smallest of cracks. Bridget had prepared him for this mage—a man, Aleesa had told her daughter, who was said to be a direct descendent of Merlin himself. He was the head of all of the temples of Asher and Ardis located around Scotland, England, Ireland and Wales, but as the wulvers had begun to be hunted and die out, the old man had become reclusive. Bridget said her mother and father had met him only once and that no one had seen him in over twenty years.

Griff was about to change that.

“You!” The heavy door creaked open a little further, revealing a face lined with age, a thick, bushy white beard, which was odd, considering the old man had almost no hair on his head at all. “Both of you! Oh this won’t do at all. What are you doing here? You can’t be here!”

The old man turned, mumbling to himself, leaving the door slightly ajar. Griff blinked, staring after him.

“Well come on then!” the old man called. “And mind you close and lock the door behind you!”

Griff was too surprised to do anything else. He pushed the door open and closed it behind him, stooping to turn the lock. In his arms, Bridget stirred. He leaned in, pressing his lips to her throat, taking her pulse and temperature at once. She was still warm. And her pulse was far too fast. She’d told him this would happen, the closer the poison got to her heart.

“Come, come, come!” The old man shuffled through the temple and Griff followed. They rounded a circle, marked by more Greek columns, and he saw an arena down below, lined with hundreds of seats. What happened down there? Griff wondered, as the old man took a turn and pushed his way through another door.

“She’s been poisoned,” Griff told the old man as they entered a room so filled with artifacts, scrolls, and books, Griff literally had to shuffle through them on the floor. “We need yer help.”

“You can’t be here.” The old man sighed, pointing upward, and Griff looked, surprised to find a model of the solar system spinning above their heads. Griff had seen them in books his mother shared with him when he was a small boy, except in those books, all of the planets and the sun had moved around the little blue marble called Earth. In this model, the sun was its center.

“I need yer help, old man,” Griff snapped, clearing off a table of books and scrolls and putting Bridget on it. “She’s been poisoned and we need the antidote. I know ye have it!”

“You both need to be here, and soon!” The old man pointed at the model, shaking his nearly-bald head. “On Skara Brae. Not here, in my temple! You need to be there for the solar eclipse. You’re entirely too far south—and west! The Dragon and the Lady will be there, not here. Oh, well, they will be here, too, because they are everywhere, but they won’t be here, if you take my meaning. This won’t do at all!”

Griff sighed in frustration. The old man was babbling in some strange accent—it was hard to place. Definitely not Scottish, but not exactly English either.

“Raghnall!” Griff called the old man’s name—Bridget had shared it with him—and he startled, looking at him over a pair of rimless spectacles.

“Griff?” Bridget spoke his name, faint, from where he’d placed her on the wooden table. “Did ye say... are we here?”

She struggled to sit and he helped her. The old man frowned between the two of them, shaking his bald head.

“I’m a servant of t’sun an’ t’moon.” Bridget’s voice was low, almost too soft to be heard, as she spoke to Raghnall. “I await t’blade an’ chalice.”

“Yes, yes, I know who you are! Both of you.” Raghnall waved her formality away, lifting his nose and sniffing the air. He frowned, taking a step closer to Bridget, reaching out to lift the bandage on her arm. Griff didn’t like to look at it. It had gone black, ugly, thick threads of darkness reaching up toward her shoulder, across her collarbone, toward her heart. “The Witch’s Kiss! You’re going to die soon! Oh, that won’t do at all! Why didn’t you say something, son?”

“I tol’ ye before y’even answered t’door!” Griff roared, holding onto Bridget as she leaned against him, eyes closing once more. She was barely hanging on.

“Wise and skilled use of this Seatwist poultice,” the old man mused, studying the wound. “It’s saved your life, but it won’t keep the Witch’s Kiss from reaching your heart.”

“That’s why we’re ’ere.” Griff managed this through gritted teeth. He also managed to keep from putting the old man, head first, into his enormous shelves of books, but only because he hadn’t yet produced the antidote they needed. “She’s dyin’, and as ye say,
that can’na happen.
She told me t’bring ’er ’ere because ye’ve a cure fer this dark magic!”

“I do?” Raghnall looked at Griff, tilting his head in surprise. Then his face brightened. “Oh, yes, you know, I probably do! Come!”

Griff groaned in frustration as the old man pushed his way through yet another door. Griff picked Bridget up again, carrying her through the entryway, following the little man into another room, this one more laboratory than library. There were hundreds of bottles lining the shelves on the walls, all various colors and sizes. Griff looked for a place to set Bridget down, seeing a long table in the corner, but it was occupied. A red blanket covered what had to be a giant body underneath, at least twelve feet tall. As he watched, Griff thought he saw one end of the blanket flutter. The end near the head.

Griff found a chair instead, knocking several books to the floor, and sat in it, Bridget tucked into his lap, as the old man assembled things on a table in front of him. The little man hummed to himself as he worked while Griff watched, impatient. Bridget stirred again in his arms and he looked down at her. She opened her eyes, smiling up at him, dazed, but still there. Still his Bridget. She looked over at the table where Raghnall worked, watching.

“Could he move any slower?” Griff complained.

“Shhh.” Bridget shook her head. “Let t’man work.”

Raghnall made an owl sound and, out of seemingly nowhere, an owl swooped down from a higher shelf, landing beside Raghnall on the table. The old man leaned in to whisper something into the bird’s ear, an action so ridiculous, Griff laughed out loud.

“You have to speak quietly to owls,” the old man explained. “Their ears are very sensitive, you know.”

Griff looked at Bridget and she shrugged, smiling. “Tis true.”

“I’m goin’ mad.” Griff snorted, blinking as the old man made a rasping noise on the table and the biggest, blackest snake Griff had ever seen slithered out from underneath. His hand went for his sword, but Bridget stopped him.

“Don’t ye dare!” she gasped. She had no strength left in her limbs, but her tone stopped him anyway.

The snake, its eyes almost as gold as Griff’s, started making its way up one of the shelves behind the old man, while the owl, who had a bottle clutched in its talons, dropped it in front of him. Griff thought it would shatter and spill its contents everywhere, but Raghnall’s reflexes were eerily fast, and he caught it in one hand without even looking up from the book he was consulting. Then the snake had returned, too, a box twisted in its coils that it deposited on the table for the old man.

“Could ye hurry’t up?” Griff called as Bridget’s head drooped again. He could see her bandaged arm, a thick, dark liquid beginning to seep from underneath. The smell of it was nauseating. Then he glanced at his own arm. His wound was still there—astounding, given his wulver healing abilities. It was a thick, dark line under his skin. He’d been poisoned too, but the effects were taking longer. He might have another week beyond Bridget. Not that it mattered. If she died, he would die too. He couldn’t live without this woman, he knew that now.

The old man ignored Griff’s protest and pleas to move faster. He mixed and hummed, hummed and mixed. The owl flew back up to its perch, tucking its head under a wing. The snake slithered back under the table, where Griff could see nothing but one yellow eye. Raghnall went to the fireplace to fetch a teapot.

“Do you have the blade that cut you?” Raghnall glanced up at Griff, looking at him over his glasses.

“Oh, aye.” Griff reached into the pack over his shoulder, drawing out the curved, half-moon blade, now missing its hilt.

“Moraga.” Raghnall shook his bald head, taking the blade from Griff’s hands. “You’re both lucky to be alive, son.”

“Aye.” Griff knew it was true. The witch had nearly killed them both. If he hadn’t heard, a split second before the knife had ripped through the tent fabric, the witch’s whispered incantation, it would have found its way through both of them, right into their hearts. They would have died together there on that beach. And, he’d thought, several times on this insane trip toward the Isle of the Dragon, that mayhaps that would have been preferable to watching Bridget fade slowly away from him. He couldn’t bear to see her in pain—and knowing he had to do this, to save her, while his kin’s fate on Skara Brae was completely unknown to him, was anathema. For a man whose patience was thin, it was pure torture.

The only comfort was, if this worked, if Raghnall could do what Bridget claimed, the largest of the lost packs was here on the Isle of the Dragon. Somewhere. He just had to find them.

“Come along!” Raghnall called, glancing over his shoulder at Griff as he went out the door once again. “Oh, and bring the teapot!”

“We do’na have time fer tea, ol’ man,” Griff growled, rising, with Bridget in his arms.

But he picked up the teapot and carried it anyway, following the old man down the hall, around the circle, into another room.

This place, he recognized. It was like the spring in his den at home. Or the scrying pool on Skara Brae. Except this room was far bigger, and definitely more architectually complex.

“Come, come!” Raghnall waved him over. He took the teapot from Griff—it was quite hot—and put it aside on a rock. He had the knife on another, flat rock. The old man gathered water from the pool in his cupped hands, letting it fall over the blade.

Griff stared as the knife hissed, making a high-pitched noise, almost as if it were crying. Then it began to melt. It turned into a liquid metal, like quicksilver, that glistened and pooled in droplets on the rock’s surface.

“Excellent.” The old man nodded, producing a spoon from somewhere in his robe, scooping up some of the liquid and putting it into the teapot. Bandages appeared from somewhere in the old man’s robes, too, and he poured some of the liquid from the teapot onto them. Then he poured the liquid into a clay chalice.

“Bring her here.” Raghnall pointed to a large, flat rock, about waist-high.

Griff carried Bridget over to it, stretching her out on the rock. The hair he’d carefully hidden and tied back, tucking it under her cap before they left the ship so no one would know she was a woman, had come undone and spilled over the dark slab like fire. Her eyes remained closed, her face flushed with fever. He pulled her tunic down on one shoulder, revealing her wound, the fabric stained with darkness. Blood and pus and God only knew what else. Dark magic.

But I don’t believe in magic.

He wasn’t so sure anymore, as he watched the old man remove Bridget’s dressing, tossing the pungent bandage aside. He applied the new bandage. It was thin, wet, hardly enough to soak up the awful liquid seeping from her arm, and Griff frowned at it, doubting as the old man plastered it over the wound. It stuck, as if magic, adhering to the gash.