Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (16 page)

Unless…

That’s when the alarm was raised. The high sound of a horn in the distance, coming from the camp. Bridget would have gasped out loud if Griff hadn’t put a hand over her mouth.

“Bloody hell!” They heard Uldred swear. “Mother, stay here. Don’t move! I’ll be right back.”

Mother?
Bridget’s wide eyes met Griff’s as he swept her back behind the tent, hand still covering her mouth. They stood there, right out in the open, hearing Uldred storming out of the tent and heading up the beach. He passed right by them in the darkness, swearing and stomping his boots over the rocks as he climbed the embankment toward camp.

She relaxed against Griff for just a moment, relieved they hadn’t been discovered.

Bridget would have screamed out loud—did scream, behind the press of Griff’s big hand over her mouth—when he dove toward the sand, taking them both down to the ground in an instant, covering her body with his. She didn’t feel it for a moment. Above, the moon was big, but hazy, far away. Stars appeared between dark, low-hanging clouds like glittering jewels. She took all of that in, hearing the sound of the waves crashing against the shoreline, the distant shouts of men, and something humming, singing, close by. All of that registered before the pain.

“Are ye cut?” Griff rolled slightly off her—his weight was crushing her, in spite of the care he’d taken—hands roaming her body and she saw one of them come up bloody, almost black in the moonlight. “Och, Bridget, yer bleedin’!”

“Where?” But she knew. She felt the sting of it on her upper arm, and a sudden, queasy feeling, a dizziness that left her mouth dry and her hands trembling.

She didn’t understand what had happened, not at first. But when she glanced over Griff’s shoulder, she saw the ripped bit of tent flapping in the rising wind, a straight line right through the back of the canvas, about two feet long. That, alone, wouldn’t have been enough to clue her in, but that humming sound drew her attention the other way, and she saw a big, half-moon blade sunk into an old, giant piece of driftwood on the embankment.

The blade was singing.

Enchanted.

She knew it immediately, and she knew something else too, as her blood flowed hot through her veins, the first wave of poison hitting her. Her heart skittered and jumped in her chest as she watched the blade try to pull itself from where it was buried in the driftwood. It gave an angry buzz, the hilt waving back and forth, like a fish trying to propel itself through the water.

The blade had been meant to kill her. And it was coming for her still. Bridget knew it, just as she knew the thing had been poisoned, and that poison was now in her bloodstream. Griff had saved her once again—she knew not how, because she hadn’t heard anything, hadn’t known the knife was coming—by throwing her to the ground.

“The blade’s enchanted,” she gasped, the pain in her arm finally, fully, hitting her. It burned, even as Griff put his hand over the wound, squeezing hard in an attempt to ebb the blood flow. “It’ll keep comin’ for me!”

“I’m more worried ’bout where’t came
from
,” he muttered, rolling again, taking them both to standing in an instant.

And of course, he was right to worry.

Bridget’s reaction time was fast, but nowhere near as fast as his. Griff half-turned, keeping his hand on her upper arm, but still protecting her as much as he could with his own body as he drew his sword and the full force of the witch came at them from inside the tent.

She came through the tear in the fabric, like some sick, wrong thing birthing itself from the seam of hell, clawing her way through with long, red nails, her face appearing at the opening, sneering at them with a twisted snarl.

They weren’t close enough for Griff to run her through—he’d initially rolled them far enough away from the tent in order to make their escape—but the witch saw his sword, his ready stance, and hesitated. Her gaze skipped from them to the blade that jerked and thrashed, trying to pry itself free from the piece of wood.

“She’s callin’ t’blade,” Bridget whispered to Griff, hearing the woman speaking words low in her throat. “Tis enchanted!”

“There’s n’such thing,” he snapped, glancing at the witch, whose attempts at widening the tear in the fabric were increasing, and then down at Bridget. “I hafta get ye to safety, lass. We hafta stop yer bleedin’...”

“Aye...” She wasn’t going to disagree. She didn’t know if it was the poison she was sure had been on the blade, or the fact that she was losing so much lifeblood, but either way, she was growing faint. “Hurry...”

Griff was torn, she saw it on his face. He wanted to finish the witch, here and now, but he also needed to take Bridget to safety. He gave a low growl, lunging forward as the witch pushed her head through the opening, her chants louder, and Bridget saw the knife, the blade still dripping with Bridget’s blood, had pulled another two inches out of the wood. It was nearly free. And when it was free, it would come for her again.

Griff brought his sword up one-handed, raising it high with a low growl, and then brought it down at the witch’s neck. If it had been as fast and sharp as a scythe blade, it would have severed her head from her neck instantly. But the witch sensed it coming and pulled back, like a turtle into its shell.

“We need t’blade,” Bridget murmured, feeling herself slipping toward blackness, fighting it, hard.

“Bridget...” Griff frowned, looking between her and the knife.

“Trust me, Griff, please,” she pleaded. “We need that blade....”

He gave a frustrated growl, but he turned and brought his sword down at the knife. That just snapped the hilt, breaking it off, and they both heard a low cry come from inside the tent, as if the witch and the knife were one. But at least the blade stopped moving, stopped that incessant buzzing sound as it tried to free itself and fly again. The magic in it had been broken.

Griff swung his sword again, knocking the full curve of the blade free, and Bridget grabbed it before he could, using the edge of her plaid. Griff’s head came up and Bridget heard it too. The sound of mounted men approaching, coming from the encampment.

“Hurry,” she whispered, turning to hide her face against his chest as he lifted her in his arms, carrying her quickly away from the tent, heading down the rocky beach. The blade rested in her lap, its curved edge glinting in the moonlight. Looking back, she saw the men on the embankment, saw their horses heading down it toward the tent where they had just been. She saw the witch, too, her face appearing at the front of the tent flap as Griff made his way toward the shoreline, saw the blonde’s lips moving, chanting, mayhaps still talking to her blade, but it sang no more.

“Where’re we goin’?” Bridget leaned her head back against Griff’s shoulder, thinking,
There’s nowhere to go.
They were trapped, with a hundred armed horsemen and a witch at their back, and nothing but the endless sea in front of them.

Griff slid her into a boat, pushing it into the water as he did. He hopped in, already rowing, as Bridget struggled to sit up, looking behind them as the horseman reached the beach. There were boats, she saw, lining the shore, tied up together, attached to the ship with the dragon’s head on the prow anchored further out. Uldred’s ship, the one he’d clearly brought them all in on.

“Stem that bleedin’,” Griff growled, pulling harder on the oars. “Hurry!”

Bridget winced, not wanting to look at her wound, but she grabbed the edge of her plaid, setting the blade aside, seeing its wicked edge still stained with her blood, and tore the edge of the material. She wrapped her upper arm tight, as best she could, tying it using her mouth on one end of the strip and her hand on the other.

“I can’na outrow ’em, lass...” Griff pulled hard on the oars, his big muscles working, but Bridget saw the men in boats, some with four, five, six of them oaring in one vessel. That much manpower would win out, even over one wulver.

“I’ll help ye.” She grabbed a set of oars, wincing at the pain in her arm, but she knew it was useless. As she rowed, bright red blood bloomed, darkening the plaid wrapped around her upper arm. Bridget saw Griff’s wound now, a matching gash on his upper arm. It had broken open with his effort and was bleeding again.

“Griff, wait.” Bridget glanced back, seeing two of the boats had gained much ground. They were only a boat-length away, maybe two, and gaining, although due to the fog coming in, she couldn’t see the shore anymore. “Give me yer hands.”

“I need t’row wit’ m’hands!” he snapped.

“Trust me!” she urged, pulling her oars into the boat and reaching for him.

“More magic?” Griff glanced at the gaining rowboats, and then at her. He sighed, pulling the oars in, his big hands swallowing hers as he clasped them.

Bridget took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and began to incant the words she hoped, prayed, would work.

“I hope yer magic can make us disappear,” he grumbled, distracting her. “They’re still gainin’ on us...”

“Shhh!” Bridget cocked an eye open. “Concentrate with me...”

“What am I concentratin’ on?”

“Us.” She squeezed his hands in hers. “Concentrate on us, Griff...”

When she said that, she instantly felt the energy shift. The tides rocking the boat shifted underneath them. And when Bridget opened her eyes a moment later, she saw the fog that had been slowly gathering had thickened. She could barely see Griff, just a foot from her in the boat. And they had a tail wind, pushing them further out to sea.

“Did ye do that?” Griff frowned, his hands tightening over hers.

“We did that.” She gave a relieved sigh. She could hear the men in the boats calling to one another. They sounded far away, but that could have been a trick of the fog. “But you’d better keep rowin’...”

“Aye.” He let go of her hands, grabbing the oars again.

In the rush of trying to escape, Bridget hadn’t had a moment to think, but now that they were floating out on the water, sailing away from an island she’d never left in her life, it hit her. Alaric and Aleesa were on that island, and she had no idea if they were safe. Griff’s father, Raife, and his men were there, too. And his friend, Rory MacFalon. They would have to go back, they would have to make their way to the temple, find a way to...

Bridget remembered the blade and realized her wound had stopped aching. It had gone numb.

The poison.

“Griff...” Her heart lurched in her chest when she realized what Moraga had done. But she had to be sure.

“What is’t, lass?” Griff pulled hard on the oars, his breath coming in short pants. He was rowing as fast as he could. The fog was so thick, there was no way to tell which way they were going—but given the wind she’d called up, she hoped it was due south.

Bridget found the blade, holding it up in the darkness. There was little light there in the fog. It even dampened the bright light of the moon from above. But she didn’t need to see it to know. She just needed to taste.

Bridget brought the tip of the blade to the end of her tongue. There was blood, coppery and bitter. The metallic taste of the blade itself. And a tinny sort of heat, something that burned the tip of her tongue before she spit it out.

Griff had stopped rowing, watching her with interest.

“What is’t?” he asked again, this time his voice sounding much softer, concerned.

“Poison.” Even as she said it, she felt it. She’d suspected it when the blade had cut her, but now she knew for sure. Aleesa had trained her in the ways of dark magic—not so she could ever use it, but so that she knew how to recognize it. And combat it, if need be. There were those who would come to the Temple of Asher and Ardis for healing, and much of that healing had to do with undoing the black magic attempted by others.

“Poison?” Griff’s voice was barely a whisper. She’d never heard him scared before, but there was a hint of fear in his voice. “What can be done?”

“T’Witch’s Kiss,” she said bitterly. “Tis poison an’ curse. If’t penetrates, deep into t’body, it’ll kill quickly, almos’ instantly.”

“But t’blade jus’ scratched us.”

Well, it had just scratched him, Bridget realized. Her wound was deeper. And, she wasn’t a wulver, with the ability to heal herself so quickly. The poison would work faster in her.

“Aye,” she agreed, trying to remember everything Aleesa had taught her about this particular poison and curse. “If it does’na penetrate righ’ away, it’ll kill slowly. Painfully.”

“How slowly?”

“A week.” She swallowed. She didn’t know if it was real or her imagination, but she was beginning to feel faint. “Mayhaps a lil more’o’less...”

“Can Aleesa heal ye?” Griff reached for her and Bridget went to him, letting him fold her into his arms. His heart was beating hard and fast in his chest and she pressed her ear against the steady sound. “Bridget! Can Aleesa undo this?”

“Nay...” she whispered, shaking her head. There were some things she could do—pack the wound with seaweed, mayhaps, when they got to shore, to draw some of the poison. But it wouldn’t stop the progression. She told him this as she trembled against him. She could almost feel the witch’s poison working its way through her blood.

“Bridget!” Griff lifted her face so he could search her eyes. His were blood red, blazing. “There has t’be somethin’ to stop’t! Wha’ can I do?”