Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

She nodded, feeling . . . Good lord , how did she feel about Dylan’s punishments toward those who had wronged her? Relieved? Surprised? Protected?

Her throat tightened with another emotion she refused to consider. “Good night, Dylan.”

He gave a brief nod of acknowledgment. “Good night. Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow will be . . . an eventful day.”

She felt an insane urge to laugh. “More eventful than today? How is that possible?” She held up her hand. “No, don’t answer that. I’m not sure I can handle any more enlightenment tonight.”

“Luc plans to be here in the morning,” he continued, searching her face with worried dark eyes. “Afterward, I would like to take Joshua around my land. Show him more of the village. I want some time alone with our son.”

Specifically without her present. It was not said, but she understood his intention. A tight knot formed in her stomach and she shook off the protective reaction. Dylan had every right to request time alone with their son.

“He would like that,” she whispered, wondering if he understood how difficult it was for her to make that concession.

The weight of his gaze lingered until she closed the bedroom door. She stripped out of her sweatpants, leaving on her tank top and underwear. Out of habit, she checked the location of her weapons before slipping into bed. The stairs creaked as Dylan walked upstairs, pausing by the room above hers. He was checking on Joshua. A few minutes later his footsteps returned back downstairs, stopping briefly to pause by her door before moving toward the living room.

She let out a breath, unaware she’d been holding it. It took some time for her mind to relax with Dylan just around the corner. Exhaustion eventually pushed her to sleep. Oddly enough, it was not Dylan that crept into her dreams, but a serpent instead, one with red eyes and the horns of a ram.

HIS HOUSE WAS TOO DAMN QUIET.

He missed them.

He missed Sophie with her soft brown eyes, Joshua with his curious mind, and Francine with her fiery wit, a woman who had taught her daughter strength and conviction, and how to love a child with a selfless heart.

Taliesin sneered at his perfectly made bed. Sophie would have fluffed his pillows and turned the right corner of his covers down. A cold glass of water would have been sitting on his nightstand. His dinner would have been cooked fresh, not frozen in plastic containers he had to heat himself.

What was the point of that? It wasn’t the same unless she made it for him, unless she was in his kitchen, filling his house with warmth and laughter. And family.

Now he was alone.

Again.

He slumped down on his bed. What day was it? Tuesday? He ran his hands over his face. Fuck . . . they had only been gone one day? It wasn’t even Thursday yet? Thursday was pizza and movie night, a tradition in the Thibodeau women’s household, and Sophie made the best damn pizza.

Taliesin had bought the new Jackie Chan movie, an impulse even though he’d known they wouldn’t be here to watch it with him. Joshua loved Jackie Chan.

He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket, flipped it open, dialed his message box and listened to her voice one last time. He heard her fear, the questions, and the mistrust; it ate at him like roundworms in his gut.

She was with Dylan now, as it should be—as it was meant to be.

I must not interfere any more than I have. I must not interfere. It was a chant in his mind, repeated again and again. He squeezed his cell phone so tightly it snapped in half. If I do, if I warn them, if I help them any more than I have—the consequences will be severe.

Taliesin threw the broken pieces of his phone against the wall. Knowing the future sucked.

THE SERPENT WEAVED A HEAVY PATH UP HER BODY. ITS weight surprised her, as heavy as a man, rubbing between her legs and under her shirt, and then a smooth slide across her belly. The texture of its skin reminded her of a knotted rope made of silk, its temperature indistinct, as if it matched hers.

Sophie arched into the sensation, shivering with a mixture of pleasure and revulsion.

The snake hissed, pleased with both emotions. “I see why Sin chose you.”

“I haven’t sinned in a very long time,” she said, wondering why she was debating her virtues with a dream.

“Such a shame, that.” Its voice was a compelling whisper in her thoughts, strong and very old, as if it spoke in a meld of ancient accents.

“What do you want?” The cloying scent of apple blossoms and pollen hovered around the edges of her muddled awareness.

“Only to offer a gift. Will you accept my gift, Sophie Marie Thibodeau, wife of Dylan ap Merin?”

Even a serpent in her dream branded her as Dylan’s wife. That couldn’t be a good sign. “That depends on the gift.”

“Knowledge.” Its head rested on her chest, heavy with horns that circled its head. “My gift has always been knowledge.”

“And just what is the price for this knowledge? The destruction of paradise, perhaps?”

“Do you like walking in the dark when wolves watch from the woods?”

Oh, the serpent was good; it knew how to elicit fear, knew what offer might tempt her most. But then, it was her subconscious weaving this dream. Wasn’t it?

“What knowledge do you offer?” The words fell from her mind, unbidden by her lack of consciousness. Were dreams realities in a different realm?

The serpent slid down between her breasts, snuggled, comfortable— pleased . “You will know danger from security. You will see lies in truth. And you will learn how to defend those you love most. Do you want to protect your son, Sophie Marie Thibodeau, wife of Dylan ap Merin?”

“Yes, of course,” she thought.

“Good.” The serpent reared back with a hiss and sank its fangs into her skin.

SOPHIE SHOT AWAKE, BLINKED AT THE SUNLIGHT FILTERING through the window, and relaxed back into her pillow as reality overcame the nightmare. Unfortunately, a dull ache in her chest disallowed complete serenity. She yanked up her tank top. Two red dots swelled on the underside of her left breast.

Spider bites, she reassured herself, not the dream.

She said a brief prayer just to be safe.

Other events of the night began to filter through her panic over a dream. She swung her legs over the bed and peeked around the door. The couch was empty and the house was quiet. As promised, Dylan had left before sunrise.

Shaking off the last remnants of sleep, Sophie rummaged through her suitcase for her sweatpants, sports bra and jogging shoes, followed by her concealed holster shirt. She resembled one of Enid’s gray sausage links after donning all her layers. She tucked her Glock in the side pocket of the customized shirt, and grabbed two extra magazines, along with two knives. She forced herself to run five miles every day, a routine she hated but never neglected. If another escape became necessary, she would be prepared.

After pulling on her sweatshirt, she checked on Joshua, not surprised to find him still sleeping. As she sat on the edge of his bed he groaned and tried to pull the covers over his head.

“I’m going for a run,” she whispered. “Do you want to come with me?”

“Not today.” He turned onto his back and cracked open one eye, and then lifted an arm over his face to block the light streaming in through the window. “What time is it? Did you make the cinnamon rolls?”