Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (6 page)

“There was a guardian ’ere?” Griff stared at him in surprise as he quietly snuck the chicken leg onto Bridget’s plate. The girl noticed and glanced at him, but she didn’t say anything.

“Aye, but no priestess.” Alaric patted his wife’s hand. “Aleesa knew… t’was ’er callin’.”

The dark-haired woman lifted her eyes to meet his and Griff saw tears there. It pained him. He knew the woman who was her daughter, who had been without her mother for years, who thought the woman was likely dead—and her father, as well.

“Ye know m’Kirstin?” Aleesa asked him softly. Her lower lip quivered. “She’s well?”

“Aye,” he replied, nodding. “Her son, Rory, is one of me truest friends.”

“She has a son...” Aleesa looked over at her husband and something passed between them. How long had it been, Griff wondered, since the parents had seen their daughter? Forty years, mayhaps? The older wulver woman turned back to Griff, asking, “She found ’er one true mate, then?”

“Aye, The MacFalon.” He had already told her he didn’t believe in magic—he wasn’t about to tell her he didn’t believe in “one true mates” either.

“The... who?” Bridget looked blindsided. She’d forgotten the fought-over chicken leg. She’d probably even forgotten her loss to Griff at the crossroads, from the confused, surprised look on her face.

“Donal MacFalon,” he explained. “Son of Lachlan. Brother of Alistair.”

“My Kirstin’s married t’The MacFalon?” Alaric’s voice was as hard as granite.

“He’s a fine man,” Griff countered, shaking his head at the old man’s alarm. He could understand it, of course. There was a time when The MacFalon—in fact, all of the MacFalon clan—had actively hunted and killed wulvers. But that wasn’t the case anymore, not since the wolf pact. King Henry VII, who had an encounter with Griff’s grandmother, from which his father, Raife, was born, had initiated the wolf pact. It had resulted in peaceable relations between the wulvers, Scots and English for years.

“He’s a good husband an’ father,” Griff told them. “An’ a trusted leader.”

“He’s still laird of the clan?” Aleesa asked, cocking her head in confusion.

“Aye. He was when I left.” Griff chuckled. “They live in Castle MacFalon.”

“How?” Aleesa frowned. “I know t’wolf pact was keepin’ the peace b’tween ’em, but... I can’na imagine t’MacFalons allowin’ wulvers t’live in t’castle.”

“Heh. You’d be surprised.” Griff grinned, remembering how often he was at Castle MacFalon, or Rory was visiting the den. They passed back and forth quite often with no incident. Just thinking about it made him a little homesick. “Besides, Kirstin’s not a wulver anymore.”

Alessa sat back, truly shocked, whispering, “What?”

“My mother, Sibyl—she’s a human woman, not a wulver—she’s a great healer,” Griff explained. He tried to think of the best way to present things to her, but decided there wasn’t really a good one. So he just told her. “She found a cure for t’wulver woman’s curse. They found an old text buried in the first den, and she deciphered its meanin’ enough to gather the herbs she needed to make a cure.”

“The Book of the Moon Midwives?” Aleesa asked, her already wide eyes growing wider.

“Aye, how’d ye know?” Griff wondered aloud.

“I know of it,” she breathed. Aleesa looked at her husband, then back at Griff, and finally, her gaze fell onto her daughter—the one who she had not borne, but raised. “No one knew where t’was. Tis where the prophecy’s told.”

“Aye, m’mother and the wulver women have been pouring over the thing for years.” Griff snorted, sitting back in his chair. “M’mother could only read English. But she got help from Moira and Beitrus.”

“Beitrus...” A smile flitted across Aleesa’s face. “She’s still alive, then?”

“Aye, old as t’hills, startin’ t’go blind.” Griff smiled back at her. “…and she’s no longer a wulver either.”

“What?” Aleesa exclaimed.

“She’s the one who tested t’cure,” Griff told her. “Insisted, as she was t’oldest, and had t’least t’lose, if it killed ’er.”

“They let ’er just take it?” Alaric cried.

Griff chuckled. “No, but if ye knew Beitrus—she’s stubborn.”

“Aye, that she is.” Aleesa laughed, patting her husband’s hand. “Always was.”

“Why’d ye never send word?” Griff asked, looking between the two older wulvers with a slow shake of his head. “At least tell us ye were ’ere?”

“I can’na leave.” Tears sprang to Aleesa’s eyes again and she blinked them quickly away when her daughter looked at her. “Once a priestess commits ’erself to this temple, she can’na go.”

“Yer daughter would’ve liked to know ye were alive,” Griff said softly. He saw his words hurt her, but he felt they had to be said. “Safe.”

“All is as it should be.” Alaric stood, leaning over to kiss the top of his wife’s bent head.

“Yer ’ere now.” Aleesa lifted her gaze to meet Griff’s, such hope in her eyes. “Ye can carry word back to m’Kirstin, can’t ye?”

Griff nodded. “Aye.”

The woman stood, too, helping her husband and daughter clear the table. Griff moved to help them, but Aleesa insisted, as their guest, that he sit.

“The Book of the Moon Midwives.” Aleesa shook her head in disbelief as she made them all more tea. “I’d like t’see it. Read it—what I could make out. Ye could read it t’me, Alaric.”

Bridget sat beside him, holding her own cup of tea. She was quiet now, far more subdued. Clearly he had brought new and mayhaps not welcome information into this little, isolated family. He worried about the way her brow wrinkled as she blew gently on the hot liquid, looking into it as if it might hold some answers.

“All t’wulvers in m’den can read’n’write both Gaelic’n’English,” Griff told Aleesa. “M’mother was English—but she learned Gaelic right alongside t’pups.”

“They read’n’write?” Alaric’s eyes widened.

“Aye. She’s big on education.” Griff laughed. “And had quite an influence over m’father.”

“I guess so.” Alaric laughed too, shaking his head.

“I don’t see much point in knowin’ how t’read’n’write.” Griff shrugged. “If wulvers were meant t’be men, we wouldn’t be half-wolf, eh?”

“So you’ve seen t’prophecy written?” Aleesa asked, looking at him in wonder.

“No, I’ve heard it told,” Griff replied. He’d heard so much about it, his whole life, he really didn’t care to actually read the words. “M’mother, m’aunts, all t’healers’ve poured over that book backwards’n’forwards, since t’day I was born.”

“What’s this prophecy?” Bridget spoke up, frowning between Griff and her parents.

“I thought, mayhaps, t’was just legend,” Aleesa told her daughter. “But if they’ve found t’book... if The Book of the Moon Midwives exists...”

“Oh, aye, it exists,” Griff assured her. “That’s how I found out ’bout t’lost packs.”

“There’s a prophecy ’bout a red wulver who’ll bring together t’lost packs,” Aleesa explained to her daughter. “I did’na know it would e’er come to pass in m’lifetime…”

Bridget sighed, looking at Griff, narrowing her gaze at him. “Yer this red wulver?”

“So they say.” He shrugged. If it served him to be the red wulver here, in this temple, then he would be that red wulver. If it got him what he wanted—the location of the lost, leaderless packs—then so be it.

“If he’s t’red wulver this prophecy speaks of...” Bridget put her mug on the table, leaning in to look at the other priestess. “Mother, only t’dragon can tell us fer sure.”

“Dragon?” Griff’s hand went to his empty sheath. He hated being unarmed. It was like walking around naked.

“Come.” Aleesa nodded, holding a hand out to Griff.

“Where’re we goin’?” he asked as they all rose. He didn’t like the sound of this.

“To t’sacred pool,” Bridget told him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Mayhaps t’find t’very thing ye seek.”

Griff hesitated at the edge of the so-called sacred pool, watching Alaric take up as guardian across from him, arms folded. The men stood, simply a witness as the women busied themselves with bowls of herbs and ceremonial swords.

He had sought this place out in hopes of finding information about the lost packs, but now that he was here, he wasn’t quite so sure that he wanted to know, after all. He’d dismissed the idea of the prophecy his whole life. In part, because his mother had been doubtful of it herself. She didn’t come from the wulver world, even if she now lived in it, and she’d never quite believed that it was her son’s destiny to fulfill some wulver prophecy.

Mayhaps that was only because she had wished it wasn’t so, he thought, watching as the two women faced each other across the pool, chanting softly. The light in the sky overhead had changed, and the slant that came in from above hinted that it was past supper time. They had talked long at the table as they feasted, he realized now.

Aleesa had been overcurious about her daughter, not that he could blame her. But he had little understanding of the woman. How could she leave her husband and infant daughter and set out for this place, when she hadn’t even known it existed?

Aleesa said she had been called here to the Temple of Ardis and Asher. By what? By whom? Griff glanced around, his senses keen, sniffing the air, getting the scent of herbs, the heather and the silvermoon, a heady combination. He felt no other presence here, heard no voices. The dark-haired woman didn’t seem consumed by madness or melancholy, aside from a natural longing in missing her offspring.

Mayhaps a temporary madness, then, when she made her way here to Skara Brae?

But what had kept her? He wondered. After Alaric found his wife, why had he not brought her home? They had a small child they’d both abandoned back at their den, and for what? To guard an empty temple, to chant over some quiet pool? Ridiculous.

It saddened him, watching the two women as they stood, facing each other, ceremonial swords held aloft. So many years wasted, the two of them alone—and now this young woman they were training to take their place. He watched her, the way her auburn hair brushed her cheek as she bent her head, how her eyelashes trembled when she closed them over those bright green eyes, and felt a longing he didn’t quite understand.

Mayhaps it was just that the girl was trying very hard to live up to someone else’s image of her. That much was clear—and he could definitely relate.

That’s when the swords caught flame.

Griff reached for his own sword, then realized, again, that it was no longer at his side. Across the pool, Alaric stood watching, unalarmed. Another trick then? The light overhead, cast in a certain way? Griff cocked his head, this way and that, frowning as the women chanted, louder and louder, in a language that sounded familiar, and yet he couldn’t quite make out full words. Then they began to repeat one word in Gaelic, over and over, one he did know—dragon.

Arach. Arach. Arach.

Something changed in the room. A shift, movement, mayhaps just the flutter of a breeze, but Griff felt it tickle his skin, like a coming storm. Something was rising. It hung there, like impending doom, expectant, waiting. He found himself holding his breath, his senses heightened. The hair stood up on his arms and the back of his neck. The red-haired woman, Bridget, stared into the pool, her sword still appearing to glow, but the fire had gone from a normal orange to something blueish silver.

Griff’s gaze followed hers and, deep in the pool, he saw a face. Leaning closer, for a moment, he thought it was just his own reflection—
it must be
—but then it began to rise, higher and higher, as if it was diving up from the depths. His heart thumped hard in his ears, the way it always did before a good battle was about to begin, and again, his hand went for his sword, finding only an empty scabbard.

Then, the dragon appeared.

It was there—and not there. A dragon’s head, all long neck and wide, flaring nostrils, its eyes looking straight at Griff. He saw the image of the dragon, and yet, he saw through it, too, could look right into and past it to see Alaric standing on the opposite side of the pool, Aleesa to his left, Bridget to his right. They were all there, staring at the image of the dragon, transfixed.

Griff shook his head, doing everything in his power to keep from going full-on wolf and attacking the image in front of him. He knew it wasn’t real—
couldn’t
be real. He would simply embarrass himself and jump straight into the water, and then have to drag himself out and shake off like a wet dog.