Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

Dylan stood outside the lake house, letting his forehead rest on the painted wood of the front door, listening without guilt to his wife’s conversation with her mother. Sophie’s admission resonated through his chest, soothing his beast more than a run ever could.

Francine’s reproach to her daughter had been an unexpected insight into her character. He was pleased, but also troubled by his own past mistrust. How different would their lives have been, had he allowed Francine into his home when Sophie had needed her most?

After two knocks, he opened the door. The women jumped apart. Sophie looked shaken, and . . . displeased . Perhaps she sensed her charade was about to end.

“It’s time to tell your mother the truth,” he said.

Her jaw gaped as understanding dawned. “No. Don’t do this.” Sophie started to shake her head, her tone beseeching. “I’ve told my mother nothing. She knows nothing. She can still leave here if she wants to.”

Dylan walked over to his wife and lifted her chin. A wet streak stained her face and he dried it with his thumb. “It’s too late for that.”

Francine poked at his shoulder. Not one poke, but several, until he turned and acknowledged the petite woman.

Undaunted by his glare, she placed both hands on her waist, her questioning gaze on Sophie and then on the bathroom door as it opened. “Would someone please tell me what’s going on here?”

Joshua’s hair stuck out in unkempt spikes, as if he had just shaken his head to expel the dampness. He assessed the situation, probably having heard most of it before stepping into the room. “Grandma, I want to ask you a serious question.”

Francine threw up her hands. “What now?” Her narrowed glare held the fierceness of a worthy opponent but then gentled as she looked to her grandson. “Fine,” she sighed. “Out with it. Ask me your question.”

Joshua gave her a respectful nod. “Would you rather live with us and never be able to leave, or leave us and have your freedom? But ,” he emphasized, “the price of your freedom is to never see us again. What would you choose?”

Dylan interrupted, saddened that he had to contradict his son. “Your grandmother no longer has a choice. She knows where I live . . . where you are .”

Rolling his eyes, Joshua turned his back to both women and mouthed silently, Watch and learn.

Surprised, but also intrigued, Dylan waved his hand for him to continue.

Francine tilted her head to one side. “We’re not talking a hypothetical situation here, are we? This is a real choice you want me to make?”

“Yes,” Joshua confirmed.

“Why?”

“We can’t tell you unless you agree to stay.”

“Fine,” she said, directing her answer toward Dylan. “I choose my daughter and my grandson.” There was no hesitation, not even a question or a doubt, or even a moment for thought. “So, that’s settled. Do you mind telling me what’s going on?”

“I can change into a wolf,” Dylan said bluntly.

Francine laughed. “No, really, what’s going on?”

“I can change into a wolf,” he repeated. “Do you need a demonstration? One of my men is nearby, or I could do it myself.”

The laughter fell short. She looked toward her daughter for reassurance and found none. “He’s serious?”

“I’m afraid so,” Sophie said.

“I would like a demonstration.” The quiet request had come from Joshua.

“From me?” Dylan asked. “Or from one of my men?”

Joshua shrugged as if he didn’t care, but Sophie whispered, “Not you.”

Unwilling to deny her any reasonable demand, Dylan opened the door and held out his arm for Francine and his family to go ahead of him. A mixture of emotions surrounded the slow procession, doubt, sadness, and last, from his son, anticipation. He followed them to the front porch and let out a sharp whistle. Within seconds, Malsum appeared beside Sophie’s vehicle, still in wolf form.

“Dear God,” Francine whispered, her doubt now edged by fear. “That’s a wolf.”

Committed to this display, Dylan nodded to Malsum and ordered, “Shift.”

The wolf gave a low nod and shivered as he drew in the surrounding energy. Dylan heard a startled gasp from his son, not of surprise, but of pleasure as the tendrils of power bled in their direction.

Keeping his face to the ground, an act of respect for Dylan’s family, Malsum began his transformation. Within seconds, a human body took shape in a graceful dance of sinew and receding fur. He was often harassed by other guards for being a pretty shifter.

A deep inhalation expanded newly formed lungs as Malsum unfolded into a standing position as a man; his waist-length hair shrouded much of his muscled form. His dark coloring turned gold in the morning light. With his arms relaxed by his sides, he waited for further instruction, although laughter danced within his brown eyes and a slight grin tugged at his mouth.

Malsum’s father had been a native of this land, and much like his ancestors, he had a calm nature, an ability to evaluate a situation at a higher level. However, he also had the blood of a Celt running through his veins—the source of his wolf. If provoked, if given just cause, the man had no reservations about eliminating anyone who threatened his home and family, quickly and without emotion.

“Thank you, Malsum.” Dylan nodded for him to leave and turned to assess his family’s reaction. Joshua had his hands fisted by his sides, riding out the aftereffects of lingering energy. Sensing his tentative hold on control, Dylan placed a hand on his shoulder. “Soon.”

Tension eased as Joshua gave a sharp nod of understanding.

After shooting an icy glare in Dylan’s direction, Sophie went to stand in front of her mother. “Mum, are you all right?”

The woman answered with a quiet request. “Would you get me my purse, please?”

“Sure,” Sophie said with some hesitation, “if that’s what you want.”

“That’s what I want.”

Sophie disappeared into the house and returned with a small leather satchel. “I told you things were complicated. I warned you not to come with us.”

Francine ignored her daughter as she rummaged through the bag, giving a ragged sigh when she pulled out a metal cigarette case. She removed one cigarette, put it to her lips with a shaking hand, and then frowned. “Lighter? Where are you? Oh, there you are, my sweet thing.” She lit the cigarette and took a long draw, exhaling with a smoke-filled sigh.

Sophie started to pace. “Mum . . .”

“No, no . . .” Francine shook her head. “Not yet. I haven’t had a cigarette in eighteen years. Don’t ruin this for me.”

“Are you unwell?” Dylan asked, quickly becoming concerned with her odd behavior. Perhaps he had misjudged her mental strength?

“My mother used to smoke,” Sophie explained. “She quit when my father was diagnosed with cancer.”

“I saved my last pack for a stressful situation,” Francine added on a breath of smoke. “I’d say this qualifies.”

“Indeed.” Dylan gave her a low nod, thankful that she seemed quite lucid.

However, once the initial shock wore off, Francine leveled him with a look of reproach. “Does this . . .” She waved her hand in the air, searching for an apt description. “Does this thing that you do also affect my grandson?”

“We believe so,” Dylan said.

“I see.” She turned to her daughter. “You should have told me.”

“ How , Mum? How was I supposed to tell you something like this? I asked you once if you believed in any of the old legends, if maybe you thought there might be some truth behind the stories . . . and you accused me of doing drugs.”