Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

He nodded without argument. Elen entered the cottage. Her concern, Dylan noticed, went to Cormack, as she knelt beside the wolf and buried her face in the thick fur at his nape.

“I’m going for a run,” Dylan said, taking off toward the woods. His people had wronged Sophie. He was convinced of that now. And still she had come home to him, of her own free will—for their son.

His wolf clawed at his spine for release. Its fury, its need, its desire for the woman who’d had the courage to return for their child was no longer controllable.

The wolf wanted out.

Having her near and within reach was akin to pain.

Perhaps it was a good thing Sophie hadn’t invited him to stay, Dylan thought as he entered the forest, ripping off clothes as he walked. For if she had, he wasn’t sure if he could have controlled his hunger.

It had been too long.

MATTHEW’S GIFT WAS A LARGE ROUNDED GOLDEN BOX. The metal was worn, like a statue Sophie had once seen in a church, caressed by thousands of hands over time. And there was a rendering of a man with antlers inscribed along the lid, holding a horned snake, flanked on either side by two hounds. Or were they wolves?

A foreboding chill crept up her spine.

The box was Celtic in origin.

She had studied the religion of ancient cultures in college. In the Celtic religion, there was a horned god named Cernunnos, worshiped by ancient Celts as the lord of animals, the hunter and the balancer. His image appeared on several artifacts from Celtic gravesites.

Sophie slid the lid off the box and gently set it on the polished surface of the bureau.

A thick metallic rope lay coiled within, gold and silver combined in the shape of a horned snake. Tentatively, with her heart pounding in her chest, she grasped the tail of the snake and let it uncurl to the ground, about eight feet in length and an inch in diameter.

She studied the details of the ornament with morbid curiosity. The eyes of the snake resembled opaque jewels, cloudy white and set an inch apart, the fangs attached to holes along its tail. A belt of some sort? An odd yearning had her circling the metal around her waist; it looped three times until the clasp enclosed around the tail, hanging low on her hips.

She ran her hand across the delicate scales, then back against the grain—and felt the sharp bite of metal into skin. She drew back with a hiss, turning her hand to assess the damage. Blood pooled across her palm. The scales of the snake, she discovered too late, formed hundreds of thin razor edges.

With surreal clarity, she understood Matthew had given her a weapon—a whip with knives, with the tail as its grip, and the serpent’s head a fanged barb.

Holding her palm up, she walked to the kitchen and held it under the faucet, watching the water turn from pink to clear. The wound wasn’t deep, more like a nasty scrape, but with pressure and momentum true damage would have occurred.

Not a pleasant image. Her hands shook as she tried to unfasten the belt. The clasp wouldn’t release. She tried again, only to receive more nicks in the process. As she searched for her phone, she pulled the hem of her sweatshirt down to cover the sharp metal scales. The purse hung on the coat hook by the door, her phone still in the side pocket. Checking the battery, she quietly stepped outside, hoping for better reception, and dialed Matthew’s number.

He didn’t answer. And his message recording had been changed to a generic automated system. She left a message. And just to be sure, she redialed his number. And left another message.

This isn’t happening, she thought, certain then that Matthew had lied to her from the beginning; he knew why she had returned to her son’s father. Why else would he have given her a weapon of Celtic origin—a weapon of Dylan’s origin?

She paced across the cedar planks of the porch. The night was crisp, just above freezing, but the fresh air soothed her racing thoughts. A rustling sound drew her attention to the woods. She froze, not moving her eyes from the edge of trees where the forest ended and the driveway began.

A wolf stepped into the clearing, making his presence known. Moonlight danced across the gold tones of his fur, caressing him like a mother would a child, proud of her creation, loving his existence.

“Dylan?” she whispered, grasping the porch railing. Relief washed over her when she should have been more afraid, as if her heart recognized what her brain refused to acknowledge.

Intent dark eyes leveled on her as he prowled closer and into the light. Strands of gold and green bled into the darkness of his gaze. Wolf eyes. She hadn’t noticed that change before.

He bowed slightly in answer to her question.

He was large in wolf form, too large for a normal wolf, well over two hundred pounds—equal to his human weight. Why that scientific observation came to her now, she had no idea. Perhaps her mind was grasping at senseless facts to ward off insanity.

Or perhaps she no longer cared. Why else would she have made her next offer? “If you have clothes nearby, you’re welcome to change and sleep on the couch.” She almost laughed at the double meaning of those words. God, it had been a long day. “Or I’ll sleep on the couch. But I’d rather you come inside than watch us from the woods.”

Then she turned and entered the house, not wanting to witness the transformation. She closed the door behind her but left it unlocked. Dylan would accept her offer. She had no doubt he would accept her offer, if only to be near his son.

She made another attempt to remove the snake, or belt, or whatever the hell it was, but without success. Not willing to take a knife to it just yet, she decided to call Matthew again later on, one last chance to explain his intentions. If he still didn’t answer, then the belt was coming off, even if she had to use pliers to pry its mouth open, antique artifact be damned.

She pulled her sweatshirt down to cover the snake and turned her energy toward an activity that didn’t make her head pound with unanswered questions. She had promised her son cinnamon rolls. The cabin was cool, and morning wasn’t too far away, so the rise time should work out well.

It was an awkward process due to a rearranged kitchen and the limited use of one hand. Still, cooking had always been soothing for her, a productive distraction when anxiety tangled her thoughts. No more than a half hour later, just after she cleaned her mess and covered the dough with a floured towel to rise, she heard the soft click of the door as it opened and closed.

Dylan entered the kitchen, wearing jeans and a torn T-shirt that only served to accentuate the hard curves of his chest and arms. His feet were bare. He stared across the short distance that separated them, greeting her with a sharp nod.

Green and gold streaks remained in the black depths of his gaze.

She took a step back. He stood before her as a man but she sensed his wolf. She felt it , almost as if the animal had been forced to withdraw unwillingly and lingered just below the surface of humanity, ready to attack at the slightest provocation.

“Your eyes, Dylan . . .” She had invited him to stay for the simple reason that it had felt wrong to deny him access to his son, especially here, in a place that belonged to Dylan. But she hadn’t expected this. “They’re different,” she said softly. “Why did I never notice them before?”

“Because I never showed you before.” His voice was raw, gravelly, as if it hurt him to speak.

She didn’t move, knowing that calm composure was the better response. “Then why show me now?”