Jan Delima: Celtic Moon

Her heart pounded so hard she felt physically ill.

The truck, no doubt, belonged to Dylan.

Sophie forced herself to get out of the car; the scent of pine and forest assaulted her senses and her memories. She tried to calm her emotions, tried to keep those memories at bay, but in the end, her pitiful attempt to shut out the past crumbled under the weight of a simple sound. The soft rush of Wajo Stream could be heard in the distance, the water high from melting snow, bubbling over rocks and fallen trees, taking her back to the last time she’d been in these woods . . .

THE STENCH OF SKUNK SURROUNDED HER, MAKING HER EYES water and her lungs burn. Sophie pressed her cheek against the rotting walls of her narrow shelter. How long had it been? Minutes? Hours? It was quiet, too quiet, as if someone, or something , had silenced the forest.

She dared not move, dared not breathe.

The soft padded steps of a four-legged beast soon closed in, circled around her—and then paused.

Sophie was trapped, unable to move; her hiding place became her prison. She tried to scramble out but her position was awkward, and the wolf had anticipated her move; the log crumpled just before a sharp pain ran down her side.

Her breath lodged in her throat, stunned as nerve endings screamed. Her vision blurred as she plunged forward onto the wet forest floor. Pine needles and leaves stuck to her face, the cold earth keeping her lucid, reminding her to fight and not give up. She rolled onto her uninjured side, using her good leg to scoot backward against a tree, holding her belly and sucking in deep breaths of air as she lifted her eyes to her attacker.

And a red wolf stared back, eye level to Sophie’s sitting position, smaller than Dylan, with softer lines and golden eyes filled with hatred, too much hatred for mercy.

Sophie recognized her death in those golden eyes, and in a moment of calm clarity, her brain adjusted to her predicament. These were wolves. They did not show compassion. They did not respect fear; prey showed fear.

They understood dominance.

Sophie lowered her chin and leveled a glare at the female wolf. “If you harm me . . . you harm Dylan’s child.”

In response, the wolf lifted her head to the sky. Sophie sensed the air thickening, as if the earth stilled to give its breath, its very life force, to another. And again, in a surreal show of melted fur and broken bone, a being changed its form, this time from a wolf into a woman.

Sophie, unfortunately, recognized that woman.

Siân unfolded into a standing position, naked and unashamed, tall and lithe like an athlete. Wet strands of dark red hair trailed over pale skin as she glared down at Sophie.

“Look at you,” Siân sneered. “So weak. So . . . human .” Full lips peeled back over small white teeth, wolf’s behavior despite the human form. “I don’t believe that child you carry was fathered by Dylan.”

Sophie was about to dispute the vile accusation, but something in Siân’s voice stopped her, something desperate and a little . . . unstable.

Sophie stood, slowly; her wounded leg threatened to crumple but eventually held her weight. She stole a quick glance at her shredded jeans covered in blood. Just a flesh wound, she prayed, because she needed the ability to run.

She wanted freedom, not death; she wanted her baby to live, and a lie was such an easy price to pay for what Sophie wanted.

“You’re right.” Somehow she sensed those words were her key to freedom. “My baby isn’t Dylan’s.”

A triumphant smile touched Siân’s lips. “Then you don’t belong here.”

“No, I don’t.” Sophie almost laughed at how much she agreed with those words.

“You’re not worthy of Dylan. You’re not strong enough to lead by his side. You’re not strong enough to protect us.”

Sensing victory, she kept her voice calm. “Let me leave and someone more deserving can have him.”

A predatory light entered Siân’s golden eyes. A different plan danced within those eerie depths that the wolf within found more appealing.

“Dylan believes my child is his,” Sophie reminded her. “Even now, he may smell my blood on your hands. What would your punishment be, I wonder, if he thought you had harmed his child?”

Doubt filled Siân’s expression, and then fear as she dumbly stared down at her hands, where blood remained even after changing forms, damning streaks of burgundy against pale skin. “So fragile . . .” Her voice was breathless, almost in awe. “Like a newborn lamb.”

“If you let me leave,” Sophie continued, weaving threats and planting ideas, knowing her only defense was ingenuity and not physical strength, “you’ll have time to clean up, to go home. He’ll never know . . .”

Siân frowned then, as if weighing her options. “Yes,” she whispered finally, “that would be for the best. Your only chance is to keep to the water. You don’t have much time. The guards have separated but they’ll circle back soon. Go south along the stream. Stay in the water. It will hide your stench.”

“I know the way.” Adrenaline rushed over her, fueling her resolve. She headed straight for the stream, refusing to look back, the pain of her wounded leg dulled by the promise of freedom.

Laughter whispered through the trees.

“Run, human. Run far away and never return . . . because if you do, I’ll kill you and that bastard child you carry in your womb.”

Sophie didn’t run, couldn’t run—her injured leg barely supported weight—but she managed to hobble over fallen limbs and narrow trails until the sound of rushing water reached her ears. She waded in shallow water for hours, staying close to the shore and off the more slippery rocks with deeper currents, hoping she’d gone far enough to obscure her trail. The burning in her leg had disappeared long ago, numbed by the frigid water.

Fearing hypothermia, she crawled onto the bank of the stream and listened for footsteps, or voices, or the warning of a too silent forest, but instead heard chickadees in the trees and moving cars in the distance.

The interstate was just up ahead.

It was then, with the sound of freedom within her reach, that Sophie paused and her heart cried out. Because her heart, despite everything, belonged to Dylan. No matter what he was, no matter what he’d done, she loved him.

She would always love him.

And for a moment, just a moment, she wondered if she could conform to his will, to this magical world that hated her humanity. To live in a mansion of stone. To sleep in Dylan’s bed.

Was such a prison so bad?

She wrapped her arms around her belly and cried, hating the emotional weakness that Dylan, or perhaps pregnancy, brought on. Hot trails streamed down her frozen cheeks and her heart felt the loss to her very core. But in the end, no man was worth her soul.

No man was worth living in fear for her child.

Her decision made, she wiped away her wretched tears and crawled toward the sound of freedom . . .

A CAR DOOR SLAMMED SHUT, SNAPPING SOPHIE BACK TO the present, and the sound of rushing water faded in the distance.

The lake house loomed above her, rectangular like a colonial, constructed with fieldstone and mortar and large pine beams. It still had its original movable shutters, painted black to match the front paneled door. Ivy branches snaked their way up the front porch, dormant still, even though the calendar had already proclaimed spring.