Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

“Joshua has your eyes,” she whispered. “Those are not the eyes of a Celt. Or a wolf.”

“Roman,” he supplied, taking a step back before he gave in to baser instincts. “My father was a legionary commander during the Roman occupation of Britain, his mother an Egyptian slave.”

She blinked twice and began to rub her temples. “Are your parents still alive?”

“Not my father. He wasn’t of our kind.”

“Neither am I,” she said softly, wrongly assuming that Dylan and Joshua would exceed her in life. And yet it was not with resentment but awe that she asked, “How long could Joshua live?”

“Thousands of years.”

Still, denial lingered. “But he’s aged normally.”

“Our children age at the normal human rate until adolescence. But then the aging process slows.” He waited for her to assimilate that information before moving on to something he knew would truly unsettle her. “The same way your aging has slowed since carrying my son.”

Her expression again turned wary. “You said your father’s no longer alive because he wasn’t of your kind.”

“It’s different for mothers,” he explained. “You carried my child, shared your blood with his for over nine months. Because of that biological bond, an incubation of our blood with yours, you’ll live much longer than you’ve assumed.”

He did not, however, inform her of the rarity of a female conception with a male of his kind.

Sophie had initiated their affair that fateful summer. He had accepted the pleasant distraction only because he’d thought nothing would come of it.

Obviously, he’d been wrong.

Just one of many misjudgments concerning this woman.

“Let me get this straight.” Her voice was thick with disbelief. “Are you saying I could live for over a thousand years?”

“That’s very possible.”

“As long as no vital organs are removed.”

“Yes.” He would kill anyone who dared try.

She slowly slid into a waiting chair, resting her face in her hands. He left her alone, a difficult stance when all his instincts itched to pull her into his arms.

Finally, she lifted her head. “You’re not messing with me, are you?”

“Why would I lie about something that will only be proven in time?” He sighed at her lowered glare. “It’s been sixteen years and you look the same. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Women in my family age very well,” she said defensively.

“Not that well.” And just to prove his point, or so he justified to himself, he stepped forward and ran a finger down the smooth perfection of her cheek. “The sooner you accept that you’re a part of my world, the easier it will be for you to accept your fate.”

She leaned away from his touch, visibly shaken. He let his hand drop to his side as an inner battle raged.

He’d underestimated the effect of one simple touch.

He’d been denied physical comfort for too long.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Sophie asked, oblivious of her precarious position. “I don’t believe in fate,” she huffed. “I believe in choice and free will.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “You’ll learn there are some things beyond our control, and that we are just pawns to a higher power.”

That annoyed her. “Fine. But how am I supposed to accept my fate , as you call it, if I don’t even know what you are.” She held her hands up, waiting for an explanation. “What are you? Werewolves? Shape shifters? How are you possible? How are the shifts possible? Are you even from this earth?”

“Shape shifter is an apt term.” He did his best not to smile at her naïve questions. “And yes, we are from this earth. But werewolves, as far as I know, are just a legend.”

“Then you’re not allergic to silver?” When he hesitated, she blurted, “I ask only for Joshua’s sake.”

“We are not allergic to silver.” He let his eyes drop to her waist, having noticed earlier she favored her right side. “That gun under your sweatshirt won’t protect you, whether it’s loaded with silver bullets or lead.” She remained silent. He suspected she had other weapons planted on her person or she would have shown more concern. “Nor are we compelled by the full moon. However, some of our elders still shift on the night of the dark moon to honor the Goddess Ceridwen. I would not be surprised if the werewolf legend began with an unknown witness to a ritual, thousands of years ago.”

“And how do you shift?”

He gave thoughtful consideration to his answer, knowing a woman born of modern times would only understand the scientific explanation. “The earth is a powerful instrument; creation is constant. The same element that makes a seed grow into a tree, and animals age, and winter turn into spring, can be used in different applications, if you know what to look for and how to draw from its energy.” He eluded the full explanation for another time. Better to let her adjust in increments. Sophie didn’t react well to surprises she didn’t like. “Now, I think it’s your turn to answer my questions, and I expect the same honesty I’ve given you.”

She crossed her arms in front of her chest. “I’m always honest. You’ve always just chosen not to listen.”

“How could you have done it?” He didn’t know who was more surprised by his first question, him or Sophie. “How could you have taken my son?” How could you have left me? “Did you even think of me, just once?”

“Of course.” She lifted her hand as if to touch his arm but then let it drop. “How could I not? I almost called you the night Joshua was born. He was so beautiful and I wanted to share that with you. I even dialed your number.”

He scowled. “Why would you tell me this other than to torment me?”

“I’ve given you no reason to believe me, I know . . . but I never wanted to hurt you.” Conflicting emotions bled from her pores in a murky spiral of scents: sorrow, bitterness, frustration, and beneath them all, the pungent trail of fear. “Did it ever occur to you that I may have had valid reasons for staying away?”

His nostrils flared; he inhaled slowly, savoring the evidence of her remorse on the back of his tongue like a perfectly aged Scottish whisky. “I can think of none worth what you’ve put me through.” He turned his back on her, feeling his wolf react in earnest. “Do you have any idea what it was like for me? Wondering if you were alive? Wondering about my child?”

He heard a whisper of movement before he felt a tentative hand on his shoulder. When he didn’t shove her off, she moved closer.

“And for that,” she whispered, “I am truly sorry. I was scared, Dylan. I was scared of losing my son.”

He had no argument against an assumption caused by his own words. “Did you teach Joshua to fear me?”

“No.” She released his arm and walked away. “I taught him not to trust the people around you.”

His chest tightened with her admission. “Why would you do such a thing?”

She faced him with a hardened expression, reminding him of a warrior after a first kill, of innocence lost. “Because the people you’re so eager to defend are not worthy of our trust.”

“What have they ever done to you to warrant such dislike?”

She tilted her head to one side. “You have no idea, do you?” She shrugged. “But then why would you? I made certain you wouldn’t.”

“Speak openly . . . because your evasive words grow tiresome.”

“Then I’ll save you the details.” A dead calm stole over her. “But there is something you should know . . . Siân found me in the woods the night I ran from you. I convinced her to let me go by telling her my child wasn’t yours. However, she threatened to kill us if we ever returned, and I have reason to believe she’ll try.”