Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

“ That’s for me?” Surprise mingled with awe.

“This weapon is for your protection. I want you to wear it at all times when not in my presence.”

“You’re really giving that to me? It’s mine, like, to keep . . . forever ?”

Dylan repressed a smile at his eagerness, remembering his own at a younger age of thirteen, a few months before his father was killed—a few months before Merin, heavy with her third child, had lost her sanity along with her mate. “It’s yours until your first born comes of age, then it is my wish, as it was my father’s, that it goes to him. Or her.”

“Wow. Yeah. Of course, I’ll do that.” His voice lowered, turned serious. “I promise.”

“It’s Celt-forged, not Roman,” Dylan explained. “Made by our kind. It’s also several inches longer than other weaponry of my father’s time.” He pointed to the curved end, another anomaly. “It was designed with a distinct purpose, to separate your enemy’s head from his or her body. As you know, if you listened to your uncle this afternoon, staking a shifter is pointless.”

He nodded emphatically. “I listened.”

Dylan gently handed the sword over. “It must never fall into human hands. The differences will be noted and questioned.”

“I understand.” He stared down at the sword as if searching for an appropriate reply. “Thanks, Dad.”

Such a modern phrase, but given with heartfelt sincerity. Dylan felt his throat thicken and repeated the same direction his father had given him. “Wear it well, my son. Use this weapon to protect your family . . . Use this weapon to protect the innocent who cannot protect themselves.”

“I will,” Joshua vowed.

ABERDOVEY, WALES

STANDING ON THE NORTH SHORE OF HIS HOMELAND, Taliesin looked out upon the moon-kissed ocean. His flight had been long and depleting, since he had been confined within a body of metal for over eight hours. Angry winds whipped his long coat around his legs; even the gods were displeased with his mortal choice of travel, when they had given him the power to live beyond human entrapments, to soar in any form.

Not that he gave two fucks what they thought about his fondness for humanity.

As if in divine answer to his blasphemy, he tasted salt on his tongue and the coppery hint of blood-soaked earth, powerful elements that clung to the back of his throat like an overdone birthday cake. Tempting?

Oh, yes . . . the power was always tempting, and just as sickening in the aftermath. His so-called “gift” had its own set of fucked-up consequences; it was those he loved most who paid the price for his unnatural existence.

An image of Francine weaved through his mind, fiery and full of life, laughing with the pure joy of the untainted. Heart-burdened, he buried that image away, unable to stomach her fate—a fate rearranged by his own actions, because he had chosen to help Sophie.

And Siân, poor Siân . . . May her next life be filled with an armful of healthy children. A mere sixteen years had passed since Siân had scarred Sophie in a stupid act of madness and jealousy. Despite her actions, Siân’s life did not deserve to end under Math’s cruel hand, an unjust fate for misunderstood wrongs.

A turbulent wave crashed upon the shore, pushing an approaching figure closer to the dunes. Thankful for the distraction, he watched the cloaked woman weave her way toward him. She paused by his side, hesitant, an unusual behavior for this formidable ally.

“Merin,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, knowing she would not speak until he did.

“Sin,” she returned with a low curtsy.

“Get up,” he snapped, annoyed. “Humility doesn’t suit you.”

A flash of long golden hair escaped her hood as she rose to his side. She was the mature image of her daughter, though more confident . . . sensual . Merin understood the power of her allure, whereas Elen didn’t care.

“When you stand just so,” Merin said, tucking the fallen strand back under her hood, “I wonder if you are contemplating our future . . . or our demise.”

“I fear they may be one and the same.”

She stilled. “So then it is done?”

“Your banner was planted,” he confirmed. “ And found. Your warning was successful.”

Merin exhaled slowly, her breath a whisper on the wind wrought with possibilities. “Have you seen them?”

It was a common question whenever they met, one he answered freely. “Yes.”

“How are my children?”

“Powerful.”

A satisfied smile turned her lips, reminding him of a mother cat watching her kittens devour their first rodent. Merin had been ruthless in her quest to make her offspring strong, so ruthless that even they did not know her true heart.

“Do they suspect it was I who left the banner?” she asked.

“They assume that it’s a warning from the Guardians, just as they assume that you are one of them.”

“I am a Guardian,” Merin professed bitterly. “And must remain one until the timing is right.”

Taliesin snorted. “I would not do your bidding if you were one of them .”

She laughed outright, a musical sound that resonated across the beach, skittering on the waves like a fleeting caress. “As if you have ever done my bidding. You listen when it suits you.”

“Did I not kill Madron for you?” He would have done so without Merin’s request, having no stomach for a man who raped children. However, it was in her best interest for him to appear aloof, persuaded on occasion by boredom or fancy, rather than affection. Those he cared about had a tendency to live short lives. Consequently, Madron’s death had been the last time he had wielded the Serpent against a Guardian. He had allowed Elen to watch the execution; innocence was a virtue she could not afford, even as a child.

“Madron needed to die.” Merin shrugged without remorse. “He had tired of Leri and wanted my Elen.”

“Stupid man,” he mused openly, knowing he had granted her too many leniencies over the years. But it was easy to do, if one knew the sacrifices she had made, if one knew the secrets she had kept. “How have the Guardians never suspected the truth about you, Merin?” He shook his head. “How have they not realized that everything you’ve done has been to protect your children?”

“The Guardians are too distracted with their own needs,” she pointed out. “Whereas you see too much.”

“You’ll get no argument from me there,” he said dryly.

Hugging her cloak around her chest, Merin stared into the distance. “Will you tell me about my grandson?”

“If you wish.” His thoughts roamed an ocean away. In his mind’s eye he saw Dylan and Joshua, walking toward the Great Oak on Katahdin. The others followed a short distance away, with hundreds more in the forest, waiting, hopeful. A slight ache tugged at his heart, for Sophie looked none too pleased. He missed them still.

Not allowing Merin to know his dangerous attachment to her offspring, he schooled his voice and guarded his words. “Sophie has returned to Dylan by her own choosing. Your son and grandson have been reunited.” He paused, dropping his voice to a mere whisper, fearing the wind would carry his news to unwelcomed ears. “Joshua is going to run as a wolf tonight.”

Merin closed her eyes briefly in a rare show of emotion. As if called by her tempestuous spirit, a gust of wind thrashed her hood, revealing the prominent features of a Celt, fierce and proud. Laughing, she lifted her chin and spread her arms wide; she absorbed the power of the ocean, letting the salt air wash over her. Her hood fell back and long golden strands flew around her face, a wild beauty magnificent to behold.