Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance (3 page)

“Are there more of us, then?” Griff prompted.

“We do’na know...” Beitrus shrugged one frail shoulder. “Mayhaps. The text is unclear.”

“Oh, I think it’s clear enough.” Moira snorted.

“Lost packs,” Griff mused. A sharp zing of excitement went through his body at the thought. He hadn’t put much stock in prophecies and ancient wulver texts, but the idea that there were, mayhaps, other wulvers out there—now, that was interesting.

“Do’na tell yer mother I said anythin’,” Beitrus hissed. “Sibyl’s still mad, twenty years later, that I stole t’cure and swallowed it, jus’ to test it.”

“Do’na worry. I’ll keep yer secrets.” Griff gave the old woman a wink as he headed toward the secret entrance to the spring that led to his parents’ quarters. It was a cool spring, but not nearly as cold as the creek up top.

His mother had been right about one thing—he did stink. Griff stripped off his clothes and jumped in, the shock of the water hitting him like a wall, but he reveled in it.

It would serve two purposes—cleaning his body and clearing his head. The former wasn’t all that important, except that he intended to find a little wolf tail later—but the latter was paramount. He needed a clear head to make the right decision. And he had a feeling that the decision he was contemplating would be the biggest decision he might ever make in his entire life.

Griff was up before first light. He had one candle lit to dress by. As the pack leader’s son, he had the privilege of having his own room, even though the den was growing ever more crowded. In his bed, a young wulver woman—her name was Colleen, a shapely little lass who had offered her bottom up to him more than once the night before—rolled over and sighed in her sleep. She’d be surprised when she woke and found him gone. They both would—the other girl, Eryn, was curled up at the foot of the bed, in wolf form. Her white paws twitched in her sleep, like she was dreaming about running.

Griff thought of his mother as he rolled up the map of a route to Skara Brae he’d pinched from his father’s room. Skara Brae was an island in the far north of Scotland, and it would be a long trip. Mayhaps even a treacherous one, given the number of reavers that roamed far beyond the borderlands now. But a necessary one. His decision had been made with a clear head. He would go to Skara Brae and find the lost packs. If there were other packs out there, mayhaps they were leaderless. Mayhaps he wouldn’t have to challenge his father’s position. Mayhaps that silly prophecy would serve a purpose after all.

Griff blew out the candle and slipped out of his room into the dark tunnel. His parents were likely still sleeping in the room beside his. The den was quiet, resting. Griff turned and headed toward the long staircase that would lead to the surface, where he would go to the barn and saddle his horse for travel. But before he reached the stairway, he stopped at the pack meeting hall, looking at the round table where his father always sat with the rest of the wulver council. His seat was to his father’s left, Darrow’s to his right. There was no head of the table, but everyone knew who was alpha.

Griff slipped his dirk out and stuck it into the wooden table in front of his seat. It was an old wulver way to mark your territory—it would let everyone know he’d be back, and that anyone who wanted his spot would be challenging him. Then he shouldered his pack and left the den of his childhood behind him.

“I’m goin’ t’win this time!” Bridget’s sword glinted in the sun, and she had a brief hope that, just for a moment, it had distracted Alaric enough for her to triumph and turn her bold statement into truth.

But Alaric wasn’t one to ever let her win, and while she was good—one of the best students he’d ever trained, as he often told her—she still had only bested him a few times.

His claymore was far bigger and heavier than her long sword, but he wielded it with frightening accuracy. Bridget went forward and back, her feminine form an advantage in the way she moved, with the grace of a dancer, but her footwork was wasted on a fighter like Alaric. He moved with the efficiency of a warrior, expending energy only when necessary, and despite his massive size, he was always ahead of her in some way. His claymore went left, and so did Bridget’s long sword, but at the last moment, the big man’s weapon changed direction, a feat which took a tremendous amount of strength.

She had always been vulnerable to fakes and feints, a fact Alaric used to his advantage.

“No!” Bridget brought her sword back just in time to block the blow. She panted with the effort it took to hold him at bay, but it didn’t last long. Alaric saw her weakness and exploited it, unending her smaller form and sprawling her in the dirt. He pointed his claymore at her throat, although the tip stayed several feet away.

“Ye’re dead.” Alaric shook his head regretfully, as if he was truly sorry he’d “killed” her. “Ye lemme fake y’out again. Will ye e’er learn?”

“I did’na fall fer it t’first two times!” she reminded him, berating herself internally for falling for it the last time, or at all. Why did she always trust that someone was going to do what they looked like they were going to do?

“Ye know I’ve ne’er trained or fought a better student.” He sheathed his claymore and held a hand out to help her up.

Bridget took it with a sigh, letting him pull her easily off the ground, even wearing mostly English armor, at least on her upper body. She brushed off her plaid. Her tailbone ached where she’d landed on it, but her pride was far more hurt. It wasn’t losing that bothered her—losing was part of learning—it was making the same mistakes over and over that irked her.

“Yer doin’ well, lass.” Alaric’s hand fell to her shoulder, as big as a ham, squeezing gently. “A fine guardian-in-trainin’. An’ I know yer mother agrees wit’ me, a fine handmaiden-in-training as well.”

“Thank ye.” She gave him an encouraged smile. Praise from Alaric wasn’t earned easily, nor did she take it lightly.

“Jus’ watch yer hips’n’torso. They ne’er lie.” His left hand moved quickly, fingers snapping beside her ear, and her head turned left, instinctive. That’s when he slapped her cheek lightly with his right. “D’ye see where me body was turned?”

He pointed to his chest and then left, dropping her a wink. “It gave me away, aye?”

“I’m too distractible.” She sighed, sheathing her long sword, both cheeks burning, even though he’d only slapped one.

“Go t’yer mother by da pool, Miss Distractible.” Alaric smiled. “It’s time fer t’purification.”

Bridget took off running—as fast as she could run with a sword sheathed at her side. Before she entered the temple proper, the sword came off, and she switched roles as quickly as she shed her armor. Alaric would yell at her for leaving it near the entrance, but she was already running late and her mother would be waiting.

She wore two temple hats, as both guardian-in-training and priestess-in-training, and learning both roles took most of her day. She didn’t have a lot of free time, which seemed strange, given there were no other people in the temple, aside from Alaric and Aleesa. But it had always been that way, since she’d been abandoned at the temple entrance as an infant and the couple she knew as mother and father had taken her in. She really didn’t know anything else. 

Bridget stopped to quickly change from her plaid to her temple robe just outside the cave, taking the headpiece with the three-goddesses on it and placing it in the midst of her still-sweaty red hair.

“N’runnin’, Bridget,” her mother called with a sigh.

Aleesa was already kneeling at the pool when Bridget rushed in. She slowed almost immediately, still breathing hard. The pool was in the middle of a large cave with a tall, domed ceiling that had a central opening. It shone down into the pool below, and even at night, in the darkness, with almost no light in the sky, a beam of sun or moon focused in the pond. Alaric said it was due to some sort of reflective metal that had been embedded into the stone high above.

Bridget’s heartbeat returned to some semblance of normal as she knelt opposite her mother, meeting Aleesa’s soft, knowing eyes over the surface of the pool. Bridget’s face flushed and she knew her mother understood exactly where she’d been, and why she was late. Could she help it that she liked training to be a guardian a little more than she liked training to be a temple priestess?

Not that she didn’t love the sacred feel of the pool, how it calmed her soul. Just being amidst the stone monoliths that surrounded the little body of water in the cave helped ground and still her. Feeling the earth under her bare feet, looking at the beam of light shining into the center of the pool, gave her a sense of peace she didn’t find anywhere else. She knew that the way the light fell, in relation to the stones, could be used to find and make many time and season calculations. She was in the process of learning the many ways these were related to both astronomy and astrology, starting to calculate these things as Aleesa taught her more and more.

But even if she hadn’t been a priestess-in-training, she knew this place would feel like home to her. 

“Are ye ready?” Aleesa cocked her head in question and Bridget took a deep breath, giving her a slow nod. 

There was already a bowl in front of her filled with water and fragrant herbs and Bridget leaned over it, seeing a brief glimpse of her reflection—big eyes, mussed hair—as she picked the bowl up in both hands, breathing in the scent. The women worked together, perfectly in sync—they’d done this hundreds of times, since Bridget was very young—Alessa calling out the ancient words, Bridget responding in kind, as they dipped their fingers into the water, tracing patterns. Then, they took fingers full of the herbs, whispering the words in sync as they tossed them into the pool, kissing the side of the bowl before each pass. The whole cave smelled like silvermoon and heather. It was heady and made Bridget smile.

The bowls were then set aside, and each woman raised a ritual sword, incanting words together, the energy between them rising like a tide, their swords held out over the water. The ritual swords were far lighter than Bridget’s practice one and were the only weapons allowed in the temple proper. Their voices melded together, almost a song, the rhythmic chant they spoke together, ancient Gaelic words, filling the cavern.

The prayer they spoke together was filled with power. Both women knew it, felt it. Bridget felt the hilt of the sword grow warm, as it always did, before the sword flared with flame. The first time it had happened, she’d nearly dropped it into the pool, even though Aleesa had warned her it would happen. She hadn’t quite believed it, even though she’d lived in the temple her whole life and had seen the ritual performed.

As the prayer came to an end, the fire changed from a normal orange glow to silver. That was the time they slowly lowered their swords into the pool, extinguishing the flames with a low hissing sound. Steam rose up from the pool toward the domed roof of the cave. Bridget was always a little sad at the end of the ritual, but when she looked up and saw her mother’s frown, her gaze fell immediately to the water.

“A single warrior approaches.” Aleesa’s eyes focused on the image reflected in the pool, widening in surprise. The pool served many purposes, and sometimes divination was one of them. “Ye mus’ go out t’meet ’im, Bridget.”

Bridget felt her mouth go dry. She’d only ever gone out to the crossroads once before to meet someone seeking entrance to the Temple of Asher and Ardis, and in that case, the man had not been worthy. Just someone seeking the riches of the temple—which were the stuff of legend, but not real. The only value within the temple was the magic it contained within its sacred walls, nothing payable in gold or silver, which is what most people seemed to want. Bridget hadn’t even gotten to the point of challenging the old man—she’d simply sent him on his way. The entrance to the temple was hidden, and she was quite safe during the inquiry.

“Hurry! Go!” Aleesa urged her daughter, waving her away, and that got Bridget moving.

Her plaid was waiting, and she put that on instead of her temple robe, which she left on the floor as she rushed out to retrieve her armor. Aleesa would cluck and frown about her messiness, but under the circumstances, she knew she wouldn’t be in too much trouble for not cleaning up after herself.

Alaric was standing at the temple entrance as she approached and she glanced guiltily down at her armor on the dirt floor. He frowned at it, then looked up at her, disappointment on his face, but that changed when their eyes met.

“Someone approaches?” he asked, eyes wide in surprise.

“Aye, a warrior.” She nodded, wondering if her fear showed. She hoped not. “Mother said I mus’ go out and meet ’im.”

Alaric gave a nod, already picking up her gear and helping her dress. Getting out of the stuff by herself was possible, but getting it on was much more difficult. They approached the secret entrance together. Alaric had been the one to do this before her, but he’d been training her over the years, and had deemed her ready. And if he thought she was ready, then it had to be so. Even if she was, at times, still susceptible to feints. Her challenger wouldn’t know that, would he? Alaric was one of the best fighters in the world, and he’d trained her—so if she could keep up with Alaric…

She’d have to trust that all would be as it should be.

That’s what she told herself as Alaric opened the underground passage that would lead her to the rock outcropping at the crossroads. She felt his hand on her shoulder, a sudden weight, and glanced back.

“Yer a fine guardian, lass,” he assured her. “It’ll all be as it should.”

Funny that she’d just spoken those words to herself. She gave him a nod, stepping out into the light of day. It was a glorious summer day and it made her wonder what normal maidens her age were doing. Picking flowers and making daisy chains, mayhaps? But not Bridget. She was walking out in full armor to meet a challenging warrior. Alaric and Alessa often said those words, “All will be as it should,” but sometimes, she wondered. Had she been meant to be abandoned at the temple? Meant to be trained as the priestess and guardian of the Temple of Ardis and Asher? It seemed a strange charge for a human girl who lived with and had been parented by wulvers, especially given that the legend of Ardis and Asher was a wulver legend and not a human one.

But she was doing it, standing behind the remote outcropping where she could disappear to safety inside the temple again, if she needed to. If the warrior sought healing and knew of the temple, the guardian had to yield and bring him inside. She had only glimpsed his image briefly in the pool, a big man on horseback wearing a Scots plaid and gear but no armor, not even chainmail or a helmet. Mayhaps he sought healing only?

Her armor was more English than Scottish, to be honest, made for a knight, with a breastplate and a full helmet and faceplate, although she had the freedom of her legs being bare—a Scot couldn’t be tied down, that’s what Alaric always said.

She was glad of the helmet, though, because it hid her face. She had learned, long ago, to disguise her voice, and had practiced throwing it beyond the outcropping into the crossroads, a booming reply to the inquiry of a seeker. There was a small, reflective piece of metal positioned so she could see the warrior’s approach, although he could not see her or discern her position.

Bridget had a moment to just study him as he slowed his horse. She lifted her faceplate so she could do so more clearly. The war horse turned in easy, slow circles as the big man looked around, taking in his barren surroundings. The rocks were the only thing of interest, of course, as it was meant to be. The dark-haired warrior squinted at the rocks, brow lowered, mouth drawn down into a frown.

“Uri, this is ridiculous,” the man muttered, patting his horse’s neck. “’Ere goes nothin’.”

The man sat back up, running a hand through his thick, dark hair. He was young, but not a boy. Mayhaps her age, she thought, cocking her head and staring at him. A considerable opponent to be sure. She really hoped he was here for healing, because she didn’t want to have to fight him. She would, if she had to—but if she could just bid him enter, that would be better.