Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

Grateful for the distraction, Sophie shook the woman’s hand. “I would like that.”

“Wonderful.” She smiled to show crooked teeth that added to the natural warmth of her features. “I fully intend to continue their education, even if we have to do it behind guarded walls. We can meet in a few days to discuss our curriculum.”

“How many children do you normally teach?”

“Eight. But don’t let that small number fool you. They’re all highly inquisitive and bore easily,” she warned with good humor. “The oldest is twelve years, and the youngest is four.”

Scanning the room, Sophie recounted the heads of all the children. “Why are there only seven here now?”

After a slight hesitation, Gwenfair supplied, “Taran chose not to bring her daughter.”

Sophie blinked in surprise. “I hadn’t realized Taran had a child.” She made a mental note to have a conversation with Dylan when all this was over, and learn the names and family history of every person who lived in Rhuddin Village. Hopefully he had begun to trust her enough to release that information. “How old is her daughter?”

“Melissa is the youngest,” Gwenfair said with obvious concern. “She’s four years old.”

A warning chill crawled down Sophie’s spine; her inner voice of reason was stronger than her distrust of Siân’s family. Regardless of their unpleasant history, or whatever demotion Luc had enforced on Taran, not choosing the safest place for her daughter didn’t make sense, not for any parent.

A twinge of pain lanced through her head, a warning sign she’d learned to recognize, just before an unwelcome voice not her own flooded her thoughts.

Your instincts are correct, Sophie Marie Thibodeau. The serpentine cadence weaved through her mind, an unnatural resonance that made her skin crawl with dread. The mother and daughter are in danger.

“Do you smell that?” Gwenfair darted glances around the room as if looking for an unknown visitor. “It smells like—”

“Apple blossoms,” Elen interrupted, placing a tentative hand on Sophie’s shoulder, only to pull back with a hiss. “It smells like apple blossoms and power— old power.”

With flared nostrils, Gwenfair’s chest rose and fell with several slow breaths. “Yes,” she hummed with pleasure.

“I’ve smelled that scent once before,” Elen whispered breathlessly, “when I was much younger.” Her eyes fell to Sophie’s waist, covered by her sweater. “Are you wearing the Serpent?”

“I promised Dylan I would.” Sophie stood, and immediately wavered as blood rushed to her head. Her vision blurred. “I think I need some fresh air. I’m going to go check on Sarah.”

The mother and daughter are in danger, the Serpent repeated.

Leave me alone, Sophie answered back with silent force, making a conscious effort to close her mind, pushing against the unseen tormentor. It had worked once before, so why not again?

A serpentine laugh whispered back, not entirely displeased with her effort to expel it. You are strong, Sophie Marie Thibodeau, but I am stronger . . .

DYLAN OPTED TO MEET IN THE SHELTERED GARDENS OF Rhuddin Hall. A place without walls was a more practical location if a quarrel were to ensue, a likely possibility with eight dominant shifters within striking distance of one another. As the leaders arrived, each in their human form, a heavy fog settled around their unruly circle, blessing their dangerous union with a mantle of obscurity.

“Madoc, Ryder, Drystan, Daron, Isabeau.” He addressed them each with a nod, followed by the two representatives sent by Nia and Kalem. “As you know, I’ve asked you here to unite with me against a shared enemy.” He tossed the banner in the center of their circle, bright blue and gold, colors that heralded the most vile cruelties of their past. “Our time of peace has ended.”

Voices rose in unison, each one adamant to be heard above the others. Arguments filled with uncertainty. In response, elements churned, pulled forth by eight powerful beings in one location. A gust of wind brushed through the forest. The fog lifted briefly to form a dense cloud mere yards above their heads. Snow began to fall, then turned to sleet, like a lover’s bite, teasing and wanting. Their combined power was pure, potent and addictive. And Dylan’s wolf wanted to play.

Holding her hand up for silence, Isabeau stepped forward, wearing jeans and sneakers, her hair tucked underneath the hood of a sweatshirt labeled Gap across her chest. Earlier that day, upon her arrival, Dylan had noticed her hair had been dyed kohl black, probably the only color that concealed a red so pure it attracted unnecessary attention. He saw no evidence of the broken girl who had stumbled upon his camp all those years ago.

Currently, she stood with her arms crossed and her lips pursed in feigned boredom, and looked no older than eighteen, a guise that suited her well. She had killed men thrice her size before they knew to be frightened.

“You speak as if we’re already at war with the Guardians,” Isabeau said. “I will fight, with pleasure, if they come, but I have not seen evidence of them in my territory.”

“Has all that hair dye made you daft, woman?” Madoc blurted with his usual candor. “’Tis their bloody banner lying at your feet.”

“It may be a warning,” she returned through clenched teeth, her voice too sweet, “but I don’t believe it was a Guardian who placed it. It’s not their way.” And she would know, having lost her entire family to the Guardian Rhun. “It’s not in their best interest to give warnings.”

“I share Isabeau’s view on this matter,” Drystan argued. “I have not seen evidence of the Guardians, and neither have the others. I don’t know who’s playing with you, Dylan . . . but I don’t believe the Guardians have any intentions of leaving Europe. So why should we chance their interest if it is not yet here?”

Daran grunted with agreement. “Having Math among us is enough. I, for one, don’t want to entice any others.”

“None of us do,” Drystan added, urged by the support. “Math has lived among us for almost three centuries now and has left us alone.”

“Math likes his privacy,” Madoc muttered with a sneer. “And we all know why. He doesn’t want the Council close any more than we do. They’d put a halt to his little . . . dalliances.”

“Please,” Isabeau scoffed. “As if the Council cares.”

“Regardless of who placed the banner in my territory, or for what purpose,” Dylan interrupted, displeased with their trepidation, “I believe it’s only a matter of time before more Guardians arrive.” He inhaled the scent of his forest, letting his wolf rise to the surface, a tenuous challenge necessary for his next disclosure. “I have a son.” That earned a murmur of surprise and a generous slap on the back from Madoc. “He was born fifteen years ago. My mate is human. Our son can run as both a man and wolf.”

Agitated by this new information, Isabeau began to pace. “If the Guardians learn you’ve fathered a shifter with a human mate—”

Dylan interrupted, “I’m fully aware of the danger that threatens my family, Isabeau. When the Guardians come, and they will eventually come . . . Do you truly think they’ll remain satisfied not to claim it all? Do you truly think they’ll not move on to your lands? Have you lived so long in peace that you’ve forgotten their ways?”

Isabeau winced as if slapped. “Now you insult me.” She turned and glared at Dylan, her hands fisted against her sides in outrage. “I will never forget!”

“Then join me,” Dylan challenged. “I will not welcome war, but if it comes to my home, I will fight, just as I will fight for anyone who stands with me.”