Moon Burning (2 page)

That code of silence was rarely broken.

Stories of other shifter races were told around the camp-fire, or to the little ones before bed, but as most of the wolves had seen no shifters but themselves in generations, they began to believe the other races only a myth. A few knew the truth, but it was a truth they were determined to eradicate from shifter memory.

But myths did not take to the sky on black wings glinting an iridescent blue under the sun. Myths did not live as ghosts in the forest but breathed air just as any other man or animal. The Éan were no myth; they were ravens with abilities beyond that of merely changing their shape.

And they trusted the Faol of the Chrechte (the wolves) less than the wolves ever trusted humans.

Come, the croaking raven doth bellow for revenge.

—WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

T
he raven flew high above the earth, her keen vision spying five Donegal hunters in the forest below.

The red and black of their plaids peeked through the trees, leaving no doubt to the true number, but she could only
hear
three of them. Two were silent as they stalked their prey. Even her raven hearing, honed sharper than her talons, could not detect the sound of their movements.

They had masked their scents as well, showing they had better control of their Chrechte nature than the others. These two Faol of the Chrechte were dangerous.

No wolf could be trusted, but one who mastered his beast was one who must be watched most carefully. He would not be easily taken in by the tricks of the Éan. It was good her raven family had set her to this task. Another, less seasoned fighter could fail too easily with wolves such as these.

Sabrine had been protecting her people since her fifteenth summer, a long seven years past.

She circled lower, preparing for her landing. This had to look natural, but she did not relish taking human form merely to fall through a few tree branches. She was still a good distance from the men, though closer to the earth, when an agonizing pain pierced her left wing.

Her first instinct was to pull her wing to her body, but she forced herself to keep it extended so she could coast lower rather than spinning out of control. She would not die before saving her people from the wolves’ treachery.

As she neared the earth, she let her raven fall away, taking on her fully human form, just as she had planned to before the foul arrow had pierced her wing. Tree branches scratched at her body as she tumbled toward the ground.

She ignored the minor pain for the larger purpose. She would use the wolves’ thirst for blood against them. Their own actions would make way for her to find welcome in their clan.

As a helpless human female.

Dark amusement rolled through her with the pain of her landing. She grabbed the arrow, broke off the tip, gripped the other side, and yanked it from her arm.

As her world turned black around the edges, she threw the offending weapon as far from her as possible.

 

 

B
arr’s big body spun silently at the sound of an arrow leaving its bow. Rage rode him harder than an English-man’s seat on his horse. No visible sign of the wild boar, there was no damn excuse for using the weapon.

Muin’s attention was focused on the sky, not the forest where it was supposed to be, the youngest in their party standing with his bow still lifted as if prepared to shoot again.

It would be easier to train the English,
Barr thought with a snarl he made no attempt to suppress. He’d known Chrechte cubs with better hunting instincts.

“What the hell was that, boy?” Barr demanded in quiet tones meant to get his anger across but not to carry.

“I saw a raven,” Muin whispered fervently. “My gran-da says they’re bad luck and to kill them on sight.”

“Oh? And did your gran-da also teach you how to hunt?” Barr demanded with barely restrained wrath. “Did
he
teach you to warn our prey of our approach?”

“The boar would not have heard the arrow.” Muin’s attempt at defense carried no weight with Barr.

He moved so he towered over the beardless boy. “What happens when you kill a bird in the sky?”

Muin swallowed, his face twitching despite the fact he so obviously tried to hide his nerves. “It falls to the earth.”

“That is right. Do you suppose the bird will show us the courtesy of landing without sound?”

“Nay, laird.”

“Nay.”

Not for the first time since coming to the Donegal clan as acting laird and Chrechte pack leader, Barr wondered if he had the patience for the task. He’d liked his position as second-in-command for the Sinclair just fine, but the king had requested this favor. Barr wasn’t swayed. However, his former laird, Talorc, had seconded the request, adding to it his own that Barr train the Chrechte among the Donegal clan. Naturally, Barr had agreed.

He knew Talorc had developed a soft spot for Circin, the young warrior who had challenged him and ended up being trained in the way of their people for his trouble. Since Circin was to lead the Donegal clan one day, both by the king’s edict and the reality that he would one day be the strongest Chrechte amidst the Donegals, it was imperative he learn to control and utilize his wolf’s nature.

The task was not an easy one though, not with poorly taught Chrechte who seemed oblivious to their instincts and blind to their surroundings . . . on a good day.

Muin wasn’t usually one of the idiotic ones though. That was the only thing saving him from a hard knock to the ground.

The young clansman’s face took on a hue as ruddy as his plaid. “I, uh . . .”

“Acted without thought. I would agree.”

“I’m sorry, laird.” Muin ducked his head, the shame he felt a palpable taste in the air around them.

“Do it again and I’ll toss you like a caber.”

“Yes, laird.”

“And, Muin?”

The youth raised his face to meet Barr’s gaze. Barr had to respect the courage it took to do that. He didn’t usually frighten grown men like his twin brother, Niall, did, mostly because he knew how to smile and his brother didn’t. Not that Barr had had reason to do so lately. However, his size alone intimidated many among the Donegal clan, Chrechte and human alike.

“Yes, laird?” Muin asked.

“We are Chrechte. We respect all life. We hunt for food, not for sport.”

“But the birds, they’re bad luck.”

“They’re birds. Only old men who remember their yesterdays better than today and
cubs
believe a bird brings or takes luck. You are a warrior. Act like it.”

Muin straightened, pulling his shoulders back. “Aye, laird.”

Barr shook his head and turned to continue their pursuit of the wild boar, for all the good it would do them. If their hunting party returned with a kill, he’d revise his opinion of these young Donegal Chrechte.

Earc would still have the boar’s scent at least. The other Sinclair warrior who had come with Barr to train the Donegal soldiers and the Chrechte among them never gave up on a hunt.

And he had not on this one, but he looked puzzled by the path the boar took through the forest. “It’s running from us,” Earc said in a voice no human would have been able to hear.

“You think it smells our younger Chrechte?” They had not yet mastered the ability to mask their scents for long periods of time.

“I dinna
ken
. Something has it spooked. ’Tis running without thought for direction, I’m thinking.”

“Circin and I will get ahead of it and chase it back to the rest of you.”

Earc nodded.

Shifting into his wolf form, Barr followed the boar’s scent, determined to bring down their prey. Circin, the other Chrechte who had control of his change, followed suit. The others, who did not, followed at a faster run than most humans could manage.

The scent of something besides boar teased at Barr’s wolf’s senses, demanding his attention with subtle power. Something tantalizing and different. Something his wolf could not ignore. Even more imperative than prey, it insistently drew his wolf’s attention from the hunt.

The boar all but forgotten, the wolf strained to follow the new scent, causing his canine body to twist with preternatural grace. Never breaking the pace of his running, and not waiting for approval from his conscious mind for the change in course, the wolf followed where the inner beast demandingly led.

Barr’s human mind tried to decipher what his senses were telling him, but he had never encountered a scent quite like this one. Nor had he ever reacted to smell alone with this impossible-to-deny need.

A need so basic, it found acceptance in his beast, while his human mind remained mystified.

Was the smell that of a human? He raised his snout to sniff the air more fully. Pine. Loamy earth. Sunshine. A rabbit. A squirrel. Dead leaves and dried pine needles. And the scent. Undeniably human, undeniably
more
.

And female. Not in heat, but with the subtle fragrance of her sex. Though no wolf’s musk mixed with the other smells.

If not a wolf, she must be human. His sense of other had to come from her unique scent.

For, if not wolf, what else was there?

Mothers told their cubs tales of other shifter tribes, but those were just fairy stories told to entertain little ones. Wolves were the only Chrechte he or anyone in the Sinclair clan had ever known. If other shifter races existed, the wolves would be aware of them. They were too territorial not to be.

He broke through the trees and came skidding to a halt, his claws scrabbling at the ground for purchase.
He had been running too fast
. Not since he was a cub had he approached an unknown situation with such lack of restraint. More than troubling, if his brother or his former laird could see him now, they would fall on their asses laughing.

Even that assurance of humiliation barely found purchase in his mind; his attention was too focused on the source of the scent.

She lay on the ground, her raven black hair covering one breast, but the other one completely exposed to his gaze. Though not overly generous, it was perfectly formed and tipped with a rose pink nipple that begged for his lips and tongue to wake it. From the shape of her delicate feet, to the feminine slope of her hip, to the gentle curve of her shoulder, and all bits in between, she was perfectly formed to engender carnal hunger in Barr and his beast.

The black curls gracing the juncture of her thighs glinted with a blue sheen under the sunlight just like the long tresses covering her head. ’Twas truly like the ravens of the air. Carrion birds they might be, but they had an elegance of color and form not to be ignored.

Barr spared a quick but sincere hope Muin had missed with his ill-timed arrow. The thought of loveliness such as this, even in the mere form of a bird, destroyed for mere superstition sickened him.

Barr’s naked woman continued to lie unconscious on the forest floor. Her fragile beauty called to his protective instincts, touching a part of his wolf that had never before come to the surface. Though tall for a female, she would still be puny beside his human body. He wanted to put himself between her and any potential threat.

’Twas not a feeling he usually experienced for any but those he called clan, and never had he felt it to this depth.

Her current state only made the need to protect grow, until his wolf snarled with it. Her lovely, pale skin was marred by numerous small scratches, as if she’d been running through the bushes. Perhaps another wild boar had found her bathing and she had been forced to flee?

He loped forward, sniffing at her with his enhanced senses. Perplexed in both mind and instinctual memory, the elusive sense of
otherness
continued to tease at him. But something else was there, too. Blood. In greater amounts than the scratches would account for. He had not perceived it before because that
other
scent had so confused him. But blood it was.

Her blood.

A killing rage hazed the usually sharp gray and white images his wolf’s eyes saw. The wee one was wounded, her perfect, milk pale skin obscenely marred by a hole in her upper arm, still oozing sluggish rivulets of red.

He quickly examined the area around them, but saw no sign of what had made the injury. However, it did not appear to be from a stray tree branch. The wound did not have the jagged edges of an injury inflicted while running, by something as innocent as a tree branch in the wrong place. He nudged her arm with his snout so he could see the other side.

Whatever had pierced her had gone all the way through, leaving a matching tear in the skin opposite.

Had she fled from attack, not by a wild animal but something much more dangerous? A human.

There were no clans to the north of them from this side of the Donegal holding. It was all wilderness and Barr could not decide where she, much less her attacker, had come from.