Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

“Did I?” Francine shrugged. “I don’t remember that, but if I did accuse you of doing drugs, it was only because you hung around all those hippie people with knots in their hair . . . who smelled like dirty socks.”

“Dreadlocks, Mum . . . The knots in the hair are called dreadlocks. And those people were educated professors, and scientists, and wildlife activists. And why are we talking about this?” Sophie threw up her hands. “That was a long time ago, before Joshua was even born.”

Francine huffed. “You’d think an educated person would know how to use a bar of soap.”

“They did use soap.”

“Then why did they have knots in their hair?”

Dylan pretended to cough only to hide his laughter; he was quite sure he had met a few of the people Francine referred to, just as he was sure this inane argument was an outlet for their anxiety.

“Sophie, I will take my leave now and give you and your mother some privacy to talk and to . . . adjust .” He ignored his wife’s indelicate snort and turned toward Joshua. “Luc has been detained this morning. Your sparring session will have to wait until later. I would very much like to give you a tour of my lands instead. How does that sound to you?”

“That sounds cool.” Joshua looked to his mother for consent.

Distracted from her argument, Sophie ran her hands over her face. “How long do you think you’ll be?”

“I’ll have him back before noon,” Dylan said.

“My grandson hasn’t eaten yet,” Francine added. “Let me pack some cinnamon rolls up before you go.”

“Thanks, Grandma.” Joshua leaned down and gave the older woman a kiss on the cheek.

Both Sophie and her mother did not look pleased, but they made a valid attempt to disguise their fear, a true testament to their love for his son. Not to mention the three pounds of frosted spiced bread that was shoved into Joshua’s hands, and a whispered warning from a tiny woman who, without question, had been a warrior in a past life.

SPRING HAD YET TO REACH THE HIGHER PEAKS OF Katahdin. Dylan guided Joshua along one of his favorite paths, covered by packed snow, troddeny by the steps of his wolves. “Your aunt Elen told me she informed you of our history.”

“Yeah, she talked a lot about scientific stuff, our anatomy and longevity, and the transformation process.” Joshua walked in rhythm with his father’s stride. “How long does this trail go for? Are you really going to help me shift tonight?”

“I am,” Dylan confirmed. “After nightfall.” He wondered if his son’s rapid change of focus was common among modern teenagers. He made a mental note to ask Sophie about it later. “This trail runs north for approximately forty miles. Do you have any questions about the transformation?”

“I don’t know. Not really. Aunt Elen was pretty descriptive.”

Knowing his sister well, Dylan felt confidant Joshua had been gently but thoroughly prepared. “Then is there anything else you would like to know? Perhaps about my family?”

“Sure.” Keeping his gaze forward, Joshua kicked a chunk of snow out of his path. “What’s your last name? Mom said it was Black but I searched your ancestry at the library. I couldn’t find a connection to the name Black.”

“Currently I use the surname Black. We keep our records as secure as possible, although that has become a challenge with the Internet open to the public. We have a woman in the village who manages false birth and death records, with your aunt’s assistance.”

Joshua nodded. “So then what was your last name when you were born? Aunt Elen told me it was around the Middle Ages. That was like . . . King Arthur’s time, wasn’t it? Was he real? Did you know him?”

“I knew of him,” Dylan replied, keeping his voice neutral. “Arthur was just a man. His accomplishments were highly exaggerated by a drunken bard and bored monks who wrote down the ramblings of a fool.”

He didn’t mention that Taliesin, aka Matthew, had been that drunken bard. Taliesin had spent much of the Middle Ages intoxicated, an impressive feat since, like Dylan, his metabolism was more active than a mere human and wolf combined. He’d had to consume a massive amount of alcohol. Unfortunately, too many stories of his antics were documented by humans during that tumultuous time.

“When I was born,” Dylan continued, purposely steering the conversation back to Joshua’s original question, “we did not use surnames. Humans were differentiated by their father’s name. Villagers called me Dylan ap Aemilius, as in Dylan of Aemilius. My father was human.”

“Did your kind call you something different?”

“ Our kind,” Dylan emphasized, “uses the name of our more powerful parent, regardless of gender. In my case, my mother is more powerful. I am called Dylan ap Merin. Although I haven’t heard that reference in a very long time.”

“Powerful?” Joshua paused on the path, taking a pine bough in his hands and running it through his fingers. “As in able to shift into a wolf?”

“Yes.”

“Is your mother still alive?”

“She is, as far as I know,” Dylan said carefully. “Merin is not a kind person. Unlike your mother, she was very cruel to her children. We don’t speak of her.”

“Oh.” Joshua looked to the horizon with a contemplative stance, tactfully changing the subject. “So, I would be known as Joshua ap Dylan.”

His heart clenched with pride. “That’s correct.”

“Cool.” Joshua’s gaze focused on his feet.

Sensing a sudden shyness, a trait he had yet to witness from his son, he asked, “Is there anything else you would like to know?”

“Yeah. I was wondering . . . What do you want me to call you? I mean . . . Mr. Black seems kinda weird.”

“Don’t call me Mr. Black,” Dylan said, more harshly than intended and took a moment to calm his reaction. “What do other young men your age call their fathers?”

“Dad.”

“Then let’s go with Dad.”

“Okay . . . Dad. ”

Swallowing past the thickness in his throat, Dylan reached out and squeezed his son’s shoulder. “I would like you to know something . . . I was unaware your mother was mistreated in my home. She will never be so again.”

Joshua’s posture stiffened. “Good to know, but since you’ve brought it up . . .” He looked up with dark eyes that didn’t waver. “What are your intentions toward my mom?”

Letting his hand drop, Dylan didn’t hesitate with the truth. “I want you and your mother to move back into Rhuddin Hall where you both belong. I want us to be a family. How do you feel about that?”

Joshua shrugged; the nonchalant gesture didn’t match his lowered tone. “I’m okay with it, I guess . . . as long as Mom’s happy here.”

“I will do everything in my power to make that happen.”

“And my grandma?” Joshua probed. “Can she stay with us too?”

Dylan nodded, refusing to repeat this past mistake. “Your grandmother is welcome as well.”

Tension eased from his son’s stance. “You’re going about it all the wrong way, you know.”

“I’m well aware of that,” Dylan said, unashamed to ask for advice. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“Give Mom the choice to leave,” he said as if it were the simplest thing in the world to do. “She’ll choose us, like my grandmother did . . . but she needs to know she has the choice.”

“You don’t understand this yet,” Dylan tried to explain. “And a part of me hopes one day you will—and another part of me wants to spare you the anguish. As I’m sure you’re somewhat aware, our kind is compelled by the instincts of our wolves. When you were conceived, your mother became my mate. It goes against everything I am to let her go.”