Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (14 page)

Griff’s mother, Sibyl, spoke of returning to their mountain den often, but Raife wouldn’t allow it. Griff thought it was ridiculous to keep their growing pack confined to such small quarters, when a much bigger, ready-made home sat empty, but now he wondered if his father might have been right. Was this English knight really the issue of the bewitching Moraga and the devious wulver-hating Lord Eldred Lothienne?

Because, if he was a guessing sort of man, Griff definitely would have guessed that Uldred was their son.

“No guesses?” Uldred’s brows drew together in consternation. “What kind of fun is it, if you don’t guess?”

Griff managed not to pass out, but just barely, when the other man hit him upside the head with the hilt of his sword. The world went black for a moment, and he heard the man’s voice, but not the words he was saying. It took him a moment to tune back in.

“...as stupid as you look! My mother is the witch Moraga. Look at me!” Uldred grabbed Griff by the top of the head again, jerking his face up so Uldred could yell into it. “I have spent my entire life waiting for the time I could avenge my father’s death—but I intend to do far more than that.”

Griff knew his pack was in danger. He’d left them alone, undefended, with this madman on the loose. He couldn’t have known, but that didn’t matter. His mother, his aunts, his sisters—and the entire MacFalon clan. Because it had been Donal MacFalon who had slain Lord Lothienne, who had tied the half-dead man to his horse and dragged him behind until he was all the way dead. It’s what Lothienne and men like him had done to wulvers for centuries, a fitting end to a cruel, devious man’s life.

But Griff didn’t think his son would see it that way.

So what was the younger Lothienne doing here, on Skara Brae? Griff had clearly been followed. So they wanted him, mayhaps to draw the other wulvers out, mayhaps to use him to find the den.

If they didn’t already know where it was.

If his family wasn’t already dead.

Oh God, that couldn’t be true.
He wouldn’t let that be true.

“You see, my poor, sad, misguided, little puppy...” Uldred’s hand moved through Griff’s hair like he was petting him, a smile stretching the man’s thin lips even thinner. He moved close, and whispered in Griff’s still ringing ear, so that his men did not hear. “You’re not the red wulver... I am.” 

Griff jerked his head away from the man’s touch, hearing him laugh, a low, grating sound. If this man was a wulver, then he was a pig—and while Griff had a hearty appetite and occasionally found himself rolling in the mud, he definitely didn’t have a snout or say “oink.”

“Oh, I’m not yet.” Uldred tapped Griff’s cheek lightly a few times with a gloved hand. “But I will be. My mother... you’ve heard of my mother, the witch Moraga, have you not? She’s more powerful now than she was even then. And she wants me to take my rightful place, among men
and
wulvers.”

Rightful place? Griff sneered. Did this fool really believe he could lead a pack of men, let alone wulvers? No wulvers he knew would follow him. Which made Griff look both left and right at the wulvers on either side, who held his chains. Who were these dogs? Where had they come from? They weren’t part of his pack—and no wulver he’d ever known would serve a Lothienne, even for the promise of gold. Wulvers were loyal, honorable.

They’re being compelled. 

This thought flitted briefly across Griff’s mind and he wondered if it was true. That had been part of the story, hadn’t it? He tried to remember what he’d heard about the witch Moraga, and her plan to enslave the wulvers for her consort, Lord Eldred. At the time, it had seemed ridiculous, of course. The thought that some woman could compel an entire den of wulver warriors to fight for this man was insanity. 

The stories he’d heard as a pup, back in his den, were that Eldred Lothienne and the witch Moraga had planned to enslave all of the wulver warriors to use them to take the throne—and then have them turn on one another until there were no more wulvers left on Earth. The witch claimed all she needed was the wulver leader’s blood—Griff’s father, Raife, had been the wulver leader at the time—and she’d almost gotten it, too. Griff didn’t know if it was still Raife she needed. Mayhaps Raife’s son, Griff, would do?

Was that why he was being taken?

Uldred leaned in close enough that Griff felt the man’s hot breath on his cheek. “You see, I don’t need to actually
be
the red wulver—I just need them to believe that I am. Then I can reunite all of the lost packs, and use them all to take the throne. And with your blood, I can enslave them—forever.”

Griff’s stomach dropped. He knew about the lost packs. Uldred was using the prophecy, using it against the wulvers. But how could he have convinced these wulvers that he was the red wulver? The man couldn’t shift. His eyes did not glow red. Unless, some magic...?

Griff would have said he didn’t believe in magic before entering the Temple of Ardis and Asher, but after what he’d gone through with Bridget at the sacred pool, he wasn’t so sure. They’d only touched briefly on the idea of “dark magic,” but he wondered at it, because that was the kind of magic Uldred and his mother, Moraga, would be entertaining. Something foul, and unnatural.

Is that what they had planned?

“And if the prophecy is real?” Uldred was still speaking just to him, his tone gleeful. “Oh, I do so hope the prophecy is real, as my mother believes. You see, we share an ancestor, you and I, one that you can trace back to Asher and Ardis, as you wulvers call them—but we knew him as Arthur. The king who pulled the sword from the stone? Thanks to Merlin, who decided it was wise to teach his pupil by turning him into animals, we may not share a mother and father, but we are blood brothers, after a fashion. And I need yours.”

“For what?” Griff snarled. To turn his wulver brothers against him? To compel them to follow this man, whose ravings were just simply mad?

“If the prophecy is real, when I look into the pool at the Temple of Ardis and Asher during the eclipse,
I will become the red wulver
,” Uldred told him, his blue eyes dancing wildly. “And if it’s all nonsense—well, then, I’ll have your blood, and my mother can use it to compel the wulvers anyway.”

Griff’s blood ran cold at the thought.

“The eclipse is coming. The prophecy is at hand.” Uldred tilted Griff’s head up toward the sky, searching his face. He knew the man was looking for a flash of red, some sign that he’d grabbed the right wulver. His voice rang out louder. The men were listening. “The red wulver will unite the lost packs and become far greater than any king of England. The red wulver will become the Dragon King of the Blood Reign. And I am that wulver!”

Did the man really believe the wulvers would think he was one of them? Griff couldn’t believe it, but the three wulvers around him howled, and then took a knee, as if Uldred was their rightful king. He could smell this fakery from a mile away. Why could they not?

Before Griff could think more on it, Uldred leaned back in to tell him something only for his ears.

“I may still need Raife’s blood, but your father’s on his way right now to bring his pup home. Then I will be able to control all the wulvers. Even you, pet.”

“Over m’dead body.” Griff growled, throwing himself forward toward the man, yanking the chain taut as Uldred stood, laughing at Griff’s impotent display.

“That’s a possibility.” Uldred shrugged, glancing to his men. “Any wulvers who do not follow me will certainly die. I’m getting to the end of my patience with this one.”

Griff howled when Uldred nodded at his men and they brought forth a wulver whose face had been beaten bloody, almost beyond recognition. Not that Griff needed eyesight to know his friend, Rory MacFalon, also in chains.

“Let ’im go,” Griff croaked. How had they captured Rory? What had they done to him? Of course they would capture The MacFalon’s son.

And now Griff’s father, Raife, and, he imagined, Darrow and the rest of the wulver warriors, were on their way to Skara Brae, and were about to walk right into Uldred’s trap. Griff felt his rage rising, felt the heat in his eyes, and knew they were turning red. He couldn’t stop it.

“They’ll ne’er follow ye!” Griff snapped at Uldred as Rory lifted his head, giving a low moan.

Griff shook his head, his snout filling the muzzle they’d put on him as he howled, his eyes burning as he looked around at the wulvers. Not just the ones who held his chains, or the ones who held Rory’s, but there were more, still, wulvers who had joined this man’s ranks. Were these part of the lost packs? Had they believed Uldred when he told them he was the red wulver?

“They’ll only e’er follow t’red wulver, t’one true king!” Griff roared, yanking to the ends of his chains, snapping at the dark knight, in spite of the muzzle, frothing at the mouth. His voice rose into a long, keening wail, and to his surprise, several other wulvers responded in kind, throwing their heads back and howling.

For one brief moment, Griff had hope. Did they recognize his voice? Did they see him as the red wulver? One of the wulver guards who held his chains saw Griff’s eyes flash red. Griff saw some sort of reaction—surprise? Recognition? He wasn’t sure.

“Shut up, dog!” Uldred roared, bringing the hilt of his sword back around again at Griff’s head. “
I am the one true king!
”

That was the last thing Griff heard before he hit the ground and sank into darkness.

Griff woke in a cage. A wulver’s worst nightmare.

His sword was gone. He’d been stripped down to tunic and plaid, and not only was the cage made of thick, iron bars, but he was chained to it, too. His first memory was seeing Rory MacFalon, bloody and beaten almost unrecognizable, and he looked around, hoping to find his friend. Mayhaps, together, they could form some sort of plan to escape.

But he was alone. Chained inside a cage, inside a tent. They’d had time to put up a tent? Mayhaps, then, they hadn’t found the temple yet. He could only hope. He had to get back and warn them. The thought of Bridget in danger made him crazy with anger and he moved to the front of the cage, testing the bars. Solid. There was a padlock keeping the cage door closed. He saw this by the light of a small lamp lit in the corner on a low table.

Griff shook his head, changing to half-man, half-wolf form, and then cocked his head, listening. He could hear far more like this. There were wulvers and men, and not just a few. Dozens. Maybe even a hundred or more. His tent wasn’t the only one that had been set up. One conversation was close. A human and a wulver, standing outside the tent. Guards. They were talking about a dice game, amiably arguing over winnings. Distractible. That was good.

He knew it was likely useless but he had to try. Griff grabbed a hold of the bars and pulled. They didn’t budge. Uldred knew enough about wulvers to know how to contain them. Griff knew he would likely be able to snap the chain, but the cage, that was going to be a problem. He’d have to work on the lock.

“Stand in the presence of your once and future king!” Uldred’s voice carried in to him, even though the flap of the tent was closed.

Griff felt a growl growing in his throat, unbidden. He worked hard to control it, holding onto the bars and leaning in to listen. The wulver and the man mumbled apologies. Anyone else would have heard nothing but contrition, but Griff knew wulvers. This one was acting contrite, but mayhaps wasn’t feeling that way. He heard a resistance in the wulver’s tone, and that was heartening.

“Ye heard ’im!” A woman’s voice snapped, clearly Scottish. “Take a knee before yer king!”

His spine straightened at the sound. Moraga. He didn’t know, not for sure, but who else?

“Don’t tease the animals, Mother.” Uldred chuckled as he opened the tent flap and stepped inside. Griff snarled at him, and at the woman who followed him into the tent.

“So this is t’red wulver.” The blonde who approached the cage surprised him. He’d expected a witch—an old woman, wrinkled and bent. This woman was tall, voluptuous, her blonde hair thick and long down her back. She spoke like a Scotswoman but she dressed like a shasennach.

“Not so loud, Mother,” Uldred hissed, glancing toward the tent entrance. “Don’t tempt fate. The other wulvers are already doubting and restless.”

“They won’t be fer long.” Moraga swung her hips, moving toward the cage. “I’ve ne’er seen one wit’ red fur…”

“Guess that’s why they call him the red wulver.” Uldred crossed his arms, glowering at Griff. “Fools.”