Jan Delima: Celtic Moon

“Maybe a little,” she admitted.

“The world’s changing. Sometimes we’re forced to adapt.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “Sometimes we are.”

The easy banter opened a door of mutual awareness. “If I asked you where my son is now, would you tell me?”

She sighed. “We’re coming to you. Let that be enough.”

“And if something happened to you, how would he know where to find me?”

Sophie wasn’t offended by the question because she had prepared for that possibility. “Your son has always known where you are.”

There was a muffled sound, as if, again, Dylan pulled the phone away to hide his reaction. When the line cleared, he spoke low, his voice strained. “How much does he know about me?”

“Everything I know,” she answered honestly, then ended the call before Dylan asked more questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.

THEN HE KNOWS NOTHING.

Dylan shoved the phone away and ran his hands over his face. He hadn’t been prepared for the sound of her voice. He wanted to throttle her. He wanted to lock her in a room and destroy the damn key.

He wanted . . .

Dylan stood abruptly, scraping back his chair and making his way down to the media room. As he walked past the kitchen, Elen hurried after him, her face expectant. He held up his hand, a silent message to wait. She pursed her lips, unhappy but compliant.

Porter sat at his desk, focused on his equipment, his shiny head bobbing to the heavy metal sounds of “Crazy Train.” For a former Jacobite, born late sixteen hundreds, he had an unnatural obsession with modern technology. Several computer monitors lined the far wall. Two flat-screen TVs broadcasted national and local news.

Porter looked up, acknowledged Dylan with a sharp nod, and lowered the stereo volume via universal remote. “I’m having a hard time identifying the source. That woman used a disposable phone, recently registered under a suspicious account.” Respect mingled with frustration as his fingers danced across a keyboard. “That’s all I’ve got so far.”

“Keep trying.”

Elen stood in front of Dylan, blocking his view, refusing to be ignored any longer. Questions spilled out in random succession. “What happened? What did Sophie say? What did she want?”

Porter added his own comment. “The timing is curious, don’t you think?”

Dylan didn’t like the implication. “She called because of my son.” He looked to his sister. “His name is Joshua.”

“Joshua,” Elen repeated with a soft smile. “And he’s healthy?”

Dylan hesitated. “I’m not sure. Sophie believes he might be . . . changing .”

Her eyes narrowed. “You know that’s not possible. A shifter hasn’t been born in over three hundred years.”

“I’m aware of that.” He met his sister’s gaze. “But Sophie isn’t.”

Elen frowned, tilting her head to one side. “What did you tell her?”

“That he’s in danger—that he’ll die without my help.”

She gave a heavy sigh, tinged more with regret than censure. “More lies, Dylan?”

“He’s my son. I will use any means necessary to get him home. And whatever’s happening to him, it’s got Sophie spooked enough to call me. She’s agreed to come.”

Elen looked doubtful. “I hope so.”

“I’ve always known my wife to be completely candid about her intentions,” Dylan reflected bitterly.

If you don’t let me go to my father’s funeral, she had screamed during their last and most explosive disagreement, I will leave you.

And she did.

“I’ll have the north rooms prepared for the boy.” Porter made the assumption Sophie would be staying in the master suite.

The north rooms were the most protected and easiest to guard.

Dylan stilled as an inner battle raged. Sophie’s angry accusations buzzed fresh in his mind, like an annoying swarm of hornets. And much like the flying insects, forced confinement just pissed her off.

You could have stayed.

As a prisoner.

He shook his head, making a decision that defied all natural instincts. “She asked for the lake house. That’s where she’ll stay. At least for a few days until our guests arrive.”

Elen crossed her arms and regarded Dylan with somber eyes. “In light of Sophie’s return, you might consider postponing the gathering.”

“Why? Her arrival changes nothing.” Dylan frowned down at her, realizing he had been too soft earlier if she questioned his timing now, regardless of personal interruptions. “We’re being watched by the Guardians. Should I just sit back and wait for more messages? Consider their demands?”

Porter grunted, a crude sound that confirmed his view on the subject.

“Of course not,” she snapped, offended. “But what of Sophie and your son? How will she react once she’s learned what you’ve lured her back into?”

“They are safest with me regardless.” Dylan began to pace, annoyed by his sister’s insight. “My son is without training—helpless in a fight. Weak like a human. Without me, he’s vulnerable and ignorant. Alone and unprotected.” Fear merged with disgust. “Besides, it’s imperative the gathering remain unnoticed. If all goes well, Sophie won’t even know they’re here.”

“And if all doesn’t go well?”

A valid possibility with seven dominant leaders in unfamiliar territory.

“Then she’ll learn the reality of my world. I kept her too protected before. She accused me of making her a prisoner—”

“You did make her a prisoner,” Elen pointed out, her sensitivity toward that particular subject well known.

“Well, then.” Dylan growled, his patience with this conversation finished. “Maybe it’s time she understood why.”

Elen walked toward him and placed a gentle hand on his arm, stilling his motions and calming his anger. “Just don’t choose our safety over your own happiness.” She lowered her voice. “I’ll not allow that a second time.”

NEWPORT, RHODE ISLAND

AYRES ESTATE, THE OLD SERVANT’S COTTAGE

BALANCING TWO GROCERY BAGS IN ONE ARM AND HER keys in the other, Sophie shoved her way through the front door of their cottage. She set the bags down on the counter, and hung her coat and keys on the hallway hook.

“Hello,” she called out. “I’m home. Sorry I’m so late.” Due to traffic, the drive from Providence to Newport had taken over two hours, plus she had stopped at the grocery store to get a few things for their trip in the morning. She checked the clock. Almost eight. Joshua must be starving.

Tucker, a Great Dane mix, trotted into the kitchen. He nudged her arm and waited for her usual greeting. Sophie bent down and kissed him on top of his head. “Have you behaved yourself today, Tuck?”

The dog huffed, as if bored with her petty demands of proper conduct, and then turned away, snout up, with obvious dismissal.

“Hey, Mom,” Joshua yelled from the hallway. He bounced into the kitchen a second later, like a plow truck fueled by pure adrenaline. At fifteen, Josh had the body of a man with the energy of a two-year-old, awkward and lanky, as if his limbs hadn’t yet adjusted to his ever growing height.

“What have you been up to?” She yanked off her boots, dropping them by the door, mulling over the best way to break the news to her son.

He grinned, wagging his eyebrows. His dark eyes, so like his father’s, twinkled with mischief. “Ask me why I’m awesome.”

Sophie groaned, yet, unable to resist her son’s antics, she played along. “Okay . . . why are you so awesome?”