Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

The hound let out a soft whine, letting Dylan know he wasn’t the only animal who felt fire invade his skin. “Why do you care? More to the point, what has my wife done to deserve your attention?”

Taliesin gave a nonchalant shrug, and a cool breeze brushed through the clearing as if the forest began to breathe. “Sophie’s devotion to Joshua intrigues me.” He walked up beside the creature and ran a soothing hand over its rust-tipped ears. “I kept her until she was ready for what will come.”

“Your riddles annoy me.”

Taliesin turned; an arrogant tawny eyebrow rose in question. “Annoy you or frighten you?”

“Both,” Dylan said without pretense.

“Ah.” His mouth twitched with a hint of amusement. “I find your honesty refreshing.” Then he quieted. “You must wait another night before attempting a transformation with Joshua . . . His mother needs some time to adjust.”

“Are you giving me advice on how to handle my wife?” Dylan sneered; it galled him that this man knew more about her than he did.

“Soon, your son will run as a wolf.” His voice was impatient but firm. “The transformation will go easier for her, and for Josh, if Sophie learns to trust you first.”

As a father, Dylan could not ignore such a warning, or the promise of an almost unbelievable gift. The lure of gaining his wife’s trust would have been enough, but to ease the effect of the change on his son . . . “If one more night will help achieve that goal, then consider your request granted.” Then he allowed himself a moment of weakness; his shoulders sagged with relief over his son’s affirmed ability, until he thought of all the others, like Cormack, who had endured the dark side of their gift for centuries. “Why has my son been chosen? And why now?”

Taliesin let out a crass snort. “Fuck if I know. You think the gods converse with me regarding their plans?” His voice held a cold edge, and once again the forest responded with a shudder, sending droplets of rain to the ground. “I’m not allowed to play with their toys, as you’re well aware. My sight is contained to this world.”

Taliesin’s crudeness came as no surprise; after the Middle Ages, he had chosen to live amongst the basest of humans, preferring the company of commoners over royalty, a trait Dylan grudgingly admired.

As Taliesin lingered without cause, given that his request had been easily granted, Dylan sighed, quite sure he wasn’t going to like the answer to his next question. “What is your true purpose for being here?”

Deep blue eyes looked up and held his, haunted with a knowledge no being should carry. “Sophie’s not wearing the Serpent.”

“I know.” The warning was like a punch to the gut, confirming what Dylan had already surmised. “You know what will happen if the Guardians learn she has possession—”

“Who do you think I’m protecting her from?” Taliesin snarled. “Your eyes are open, warrior, and still you’re blind. You must convince Sophie to wear the Serpent or you will lose everything you love most.”

His anger deflated under the dire warning; Dylan began to pace, agitated by fear and frustrated by what he could not control. “As you’re well aware, I’ve had little influence over my wife’s decisions in the past. What makes you think she’ll listen to me now?”

“Just try. Wait until morning . . . She’ll be more inclined to cooperate.” His gaze became unfocused, as if plagued by memories, past or future, Dylan wasn’t sure which. Not that it mattered with Taliesin because he had lived one and foresaw the other.

“Why? What have you seen?” Unlike some, Dylan had never asked Taliesin to share his divine sight. He had never loved something enough to risk the consequences. Until now.

A pained expression pinched his features. “Just convince her to wear the Serpent.”

“Convince her yourself.”

Tawny eyebrows rose in what seemed like genuine surprise. “Are you inviting me into your home, warrior?”

For Sophie and his son, his generosity, it seemed, had a higher limit. “I am.”

“Your offer tempts me more than you know.” Taliesin shifted from side to side, chewing his bottom lip. “She’s making pizza tonight,” he said in the tone of a petulant boy.

“Who?” Dylan frowned. “Sophie?” He cocked his head to one side, beginning to realize, with gratifying relief, that the nature of Sophie’s relationship with Taliesin was maternal. “Maybe, I don’t know.”

“She is,” he said with slumped shoulders, his eyes downcast, shaking his head as if to clear a forbidden thought. “I can’t. I’ve already interfered more than I should.” His words were laden with guilt, and he turned on his heels and took to the woods. “Tucker will help your cause.”

“Who’s Tucker?” Dylan called out in frustration, only to receive a soft growl in return. He eyed the creature standing on the trail as if it owned the forest. “You can’t be serious?”

But there was no spoken reply, only an offended huff as the beast lifted its head, snout up, and walked along the path that would take it directly to Sophie.

ENID’S CHEEKS TURNED FLORID AS SHE STOOD IN THE kitchen glaring at Sophie, as if half her blood had just risen to her face. “You’re making Roman fare in my kitchen,” she spat. “Sweet Mother, I’ll never get the stench out!”

“Since you’ve decided to stop by,” Sophie said calmly, “will you tell me where the pasta is?” A blank stare prompted further explanation. “Spaghetti . . . Macaroni . . . You know, it comes in a box. You put it in boiling water.”

“I don’t keep dried pasta.” A smug smile turned her lips. “ I make everything fresh.”

Sophie bit back a smart reply as she leaned against the counter. She didn’t have time to make fresh pasta, but remembering seeing yeast starter in the fridge, she disappeared into the pantry and returned with honey and oil. She had discovered a large bin of white flour earlier, stored in a closet next to the lovely Hobart mixer. “We’ll have pizza instead.”

“Porter,” Enid ordered hysterically, “ do something about this . . . This woman is contaminating my kitchen.”

“You forget yourself, Enid.” Porter stood with his back to the farthest door. His biceps bulged as he crossed his arms, guarding the exit like a demented gargoyle on steroids. “Dylan was born of a Roman and this is his house. I believe pizza is a fine meal for his people. Though,” he added, “I’m hoping it’s the American version.”

Sophie raised her eyebrows, surprised by his support. “Thank you, Porter. It will be, once I find the cheese.” She pinned Enid with a challenging stare. “I assume you have cheese.”

The woman crossed her arms, her lips pressed in a thin line.

Porter supplied, “In the cooler by the side entrance.”

“Will you taste this?” Acting as if she were oblivious to the exchange, a convincing ruse to everyone but Sophie, Francine brought over a spoon filled with sauce. “Tell me if it needs more garlic?”

Biting back a smile when her mother rolled her eyes, Sophie blew on the spoon and took some sauce into her mouth. “Garlic is good, Mum. But add more wine. And maybe a pinch of red pepper.”

“I don’t keep red pepper in my kitchen,” Enid huffed.

“Good thing we brought our own,” Francine returned with a tight smile. She was behaving herself, so far, but Sophie recognized her tone, and perhaps so did Enid, because the woman made no response.

Sensing the start of an ugly dispute, Sophie encouraged Enid to move on. “You should take this time and enjoy your vacation. Go somewhere tropical. Your position’s secure here, and I promise not to burn down your kitchen before you return.”