Jan Delima: Celtic Moon

Her heart pounded as she stared down at the phone. Questions flooded her thoughts, weakening her resolve. What if Dylan wasn’t there? What if the number had been changed? What if he refused to accept the call, deciding instead to contact her on his terms? To hunt her down and trap her.

Calm down, she coached herself, taking a deep breath. And just push the little green button.

For Joshua.

The transient paused in his sermon, adjusting a rainbow-colored beret over matted brown and gray hair. A cool breeze carried his stench: mildew, unwashed skin, and alcohol. Sophie thought he had paused for dramatic effect, but then large brown eyes met hers.

“Are you okay, child?”

Child? For the love of God, she was thirty-six years old. And pathetic, if a drunken homeless man was asking her if she needed help.

“I’m fine,” she answered back with a tight smile, simply because her mother had taught her never to be rude. Her mother had also taught her not to be a coward. The man didn’t look too convinced. No surprise there; neither was she.

Sophie turned her back on him and walked a short distance down the sidewalk. The streetlights flickered on, mingling with headlights from passing traffic. Either she was going to make the call or brave Providence traffic during rush hour.

She pushed the button and held the receiver to her ear.

Six rings, then a terse, “Hello.”

Male, but not Dylan.

Her breath whooshed out. But the rush of relief lasted only moments until reality forced her to form coherent words. “Is Dylan available?”

“No.” The tone was dismissive. “Are you wanting to leave a message?”

Porter, she guessed. One of Dylan’s guard dogs —a tattooed skinhead on steroids. The prick had locked her in Dylan’s room once. She had escaped under his watch. That thought gave her some satisfaction. She cleared her throat, gaining courage. “This is Sophie.”

Silence.

Is it a sin to gain pleasure at someone else’s discomfort? Probably. A small part of her enjoyed it anyway. “I will be at this number for another hour. If Dylan wants to talk to me, have him return my call.” Three heartbeats later she added, “It concerns his son.”

No answer.

“Are you still there?” she asked.

“Yes.” The single clipped word screamed, Bitch.

She gave Porter the number and hung up, tucking the phone into her coat pocket. To keep busy, she grabbed her purse, found twenty dollars, and walked over to the homeless man.

He reached out a gloved hand but paused when a passerby snapped, “He’ll only drink it away.”

Sophie turned to the middle-aged woman, dressed in a casual coat and jeans. “Maybe that’s what he needs to survive this world.”

The woman shrugged and kept walking.

“God bless you, child.” The transient snatched the money. “I’ll pray for you.”

“Thank you, sir.” Sophie fingered the phone in her pocket. “I need all the prayers I can get.”

She searched the area for a secluded place to wait and headed toward a vacant park across the street. There was no grass in this section of the city, just brick and pavement, marble-colored benches, and tall slabs of granite.

As she dashed across the busy street, her left thigh began to ache, a tingling numbness rather than true pain, where nerve endings had been severed in a long slash from hip to calf by a red wolf with golden eyes. A female wolf.

The scars bothered Sophie most when it rained, an annoying reminder of the night she ran away from her son’s father, the night she learned that the monsters in legends did indeed exist.

DYLAN ESCAPED TO HIS SECOND-FLOOR STUDY TO CLEAR his head. He poured himself a glass of scotch, leaned back in his perfectly worn leather recliner, and took a large gulp, savoring the smooth heat as it spread down his throat. Logs and paper had been stacked neatly in the fireplace, ready to be lit when necessary. Porter’s work, no doubt, even though he’d been told on countless occasions not to do menial tasks.

Loud voices and laughter filtered up from the main floor. Rhuddin Hall had always been open to the people of his territory. On most nights he enjoyed the sound of their contentment. On this night, however, he was on edge for many reasons.

Only a select few had been told of recent events, guards and defenders, all of them powerful, most of them shifters. The rest remained uninformed for one more night. A village meeting had been scheduled for the morning.

But, unfortunately , thoughts of his people were not his main cause for distraction. Oh, no—he took another sip of scotch—his restless conscience was all due to her . Always her. For reasons he was unaware of and could not control, Sophie was heavy on his mind this night.

Like poison that refused to be purged, anger and fear churned in his gut. Worst of all was the fear. And the not knowing. Where were they? Was his child well? Were they hungry? Were they safe? Cold? Scared?

Alive?

A soft knock jarred Dylan away from his self-destructive thoughts. Elen leaned into the doorjamb, with her Birks in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. She wore black slacks and a plain white shirt, simple as always in a world that cherished the extravagant.

She took a sip from her glass. “Luc said you wanted to see me.”

“Come.” He waved her in with a purpose.

Elen set her glass on the butler’s table, settled into the sofa, and loosened the tie in her hair. She groaned as golden waves fell around her shoulders. Very few saw his sister like this. Relaxed. Unguarded. Most only knew the doctor. Although some, he was well aware, remembered the child who had been tortured by their mother in an effort to force transformation.

At one time, the Guardians wrongly believed that survival instincts might call the wolf.

Not so for Elen, no matter how brutal the sessions. And since a shift never occurred, two thin scars remained on either side of her lower spine. The torture had been administered under the surface to produce the maximum amount of pain with the least damage. Their mother, if anything, was prudent. Merin would not have threatened her daughter’s beauty. Beauty had value. Sanity, not so much.

Elen looked up, and then frowned. “You think of Merin.”

Dylan forced a smile. “Do you read minds now too?”

“No need.” Sadness settled into her soft blue eyes. “You always get that distant look on your face when you think of our mother.”

“I’ll always regret leaving you with her.” Very rarely did either of them speak of that time. Why, he wondered, did he choose this moment to breach such a forbidden subject? Weariness, perhaps.

Her eyes widened.

Had he never apologized?

No, he supposed not. Apologies were for the weak.

Elen swallowed hard and then took a deep breath, gathering courage to voice difficult memories. “Please don’t regret what cannot be changed. Everything happens for a reason. You were only thirteen, and Luc needed you more. Merin would have killed our brother but not me.” Her voice softened to a whisper. “Besides, you came back for me.”

Her words didn’t lessen the guilt. Dylan suspected they never would. Over sixteen hundred years had passed and he still remembered the night of his brother’s birth with regret.

It had been close to dawn when Aunt Cady barged into his roundhouse, covered in blood. Wild-eyed and hysterical, she handed him a wolf cub and said, “Run. Run or watch your brother die.”