Jan Delima - Celtic Moon

“Mom, we’re ready.” Joshua headed over. “The car’s all packed. I stacked the coolers so Grandma can have the front seat. And I locked up the cottage.”

“Good luck on your trip, Josh,” Matthew said, holding up his right hand, knuckles forward. “Remember our lessons. And listen to your mother.”

Her son answered with a butting fist. “I will, Mr. Ayres.”

Francine followed, pulling Matthew down for a motherly hug. She always coddled the man as if he were a child, although he never seemed to mind. “Behave yourself while we’re gone.”

Matthew didn’t release her immediately, prolonging the embrace. “I will miss our chess games, Franni.”

“Now cut that out.” She stepped back and shooed him away. “We’ll be back before you know it.”

Sadness hung heavy in the air.

“Okay then,” Sophie interrupted, hating good-byes. She gave her little cottage one last wistful glance. “Time to go.”

LUC CIRCLED THE TRAINING YARD IN A DEFENSIVE CROUCH that demonstrated perfect balance and control. A group of young faces, ages ranging from four years to twelve, stood in a half-moon, absorbing his instruction.

Dylan watched with a heavy heart. Eight children total, eight precious gifts for a dying race—all unable to shift form.

Under Guardian rule they would not survive.

Luc held no weapon, only his hands. He wore sweatpants and sneakers, leaving his chest bare. A new tattoo of a brown owl with outstretched wings covered his torso from collarbone to navel. A cool breeze carried the faint stench of fear. The children had been warned what might be coming.

A few faces turned and noticed their leader, then instantly looked down out of respect.

Luc pivoted to meet Dylan’s stare, his silver eyes piercing the distance. They shared a silent message of sadness.

Too soon. Too innocent. Too weak.

It brought Dylan back to another time, to his homeland, to a place where the forsaken cowered in forbidden forests or suffered under Guardian rule . . .

THE WANING MONTHS OF WINTER WERE GRAVE TIMES FOR THE outcasts who hid within the northern forests of Cymru, when the earth held no succor, nor color, nor even the shelter of leaves to help conceal their dwellings from the Guardians. Thus when a shout rang out within their camp, alerting of an approaching visitor, Dylan had good cause for concern.

The visitor drew closer; a woman, but barely so—more like a girl. She stumbled into their camp clutching a swaddled infant to her chest.

Dylan stepped into a clearing to draw the girl’s attention away from where their young were kept. Others followed, both in human and wolf form, as curiosity overcame caution. Or perhaps, like Dylan, they sensed another victim of a Guardian’s cruel hand.

Dirt and mire caked the girl’s naked form. The scent of blood clung to her skin, along with more offensive odors. Hair the color of harvest wine hung in ragged clumps to her frail waist. He could only wonder at its true splendor, if it displayed such a color under filth.

“What is your name, child?” Dylan searched indigo eyes for a response and found none. They were too calm, like the great sea after a violent storm when monsters continued to swim within the murky depths.

“Her name is Isabeau.” Elen skirted around the crowd and approached the girl. “Get back,” she ordered, shooing everyone away, but only a few listened. “Her family serves the Guardian Rhun. Last I knew, Isabeau’s mother had been with child.”

Too little time had passed from when Dylan had removed Elen from Merin’s influence. She had recent knowledge of the families who were forced to serve the Guardians—families with daughters and sons and siblings who were unable to draw power from the forest.

With soothing whispers, Elen eased the bundle from Isabeau’s embrace, gently unraveling the woolen cloth. “A wolf,” Elen said softly. “A Bleidd.” Somber blue eyes met Dylan’s and he knew before she confirmed, “’Tis dead.”

Isabeau crumbled to the ground, as if hearing the truth spoken aloud stole her strength, or more aptly—it was the final violation of her will. “They are all dead,” she whispered on a broken sob.

Dylan removed his outer cloak and wrapped it around the girl, but made no further attempt to console her, sensing she would recoil from his touch. “Who is dead, Isabeau?”

“My mother, my brothers . . .” The stench of fear and anguish filled the air, more vile than the other odors that clung to her skin, especially when coming from someone this young. “Rhun killed them all . . . Because of the Bleidd.” But another scent rose above the others. It hinted of vengeance, of power, and of hatred.

She’d been allowed to live, Dylan knew full well, because of the wolf he sensed within her. Had the Guardians not claimed her innocence before, they had done so this night; if not from her body—than from her soul.

“PRACTICE WHAT I’VE TAUGHT YOU,” LUC ANNOUNCED, snapping Dylan back to the present. His brother dismissed the students. “We’ll meet the same time tomorrow.” After the sound of young voices lessened in the distance, he strode over to Dylan. “Any word yet from your woman?”

Thankful for the distraction, Dylan opened the window of his cell phone then snapped it shut. “No.”

“I could smell the fear of our people this morning.” The disgust in his voice referred to the village meeting, not the children.

“These modern times have made us complacent. It’s why an alliance is necessary.” Dylan folded his arms and looked across the landscape of his territory. “I’ve made the calls. All leaders have agreed to come, except Nia and Kalem, who’ll be sending representatives.”

“Did any of them reveal if the Guardians marked their territories?”

Dylan shook his head. “Our conversations were guarded. No confirmations were given over the phone.” He was not the only leader distrustful of modern technology. “We’ll learn more on Friday, when we talk in person. Until then, we need to prepare. Have you done as I asked?”

Luc gave a sharp nod. “Ceri and Gabriel will take the area directly around the lake house. Teyrnon is set to guard the north ridge. Malsum and John will supervise a crew within the forest. Sarah has the east range. Porter and Caleb will cover the main house with Taran at the entrance gate.”

The strongest had been assigned to protect their most vulnerable points, the lake house being their highest priority.

“I’ve asked the leaders not to draw attention as they arrive, and to keep their guards to a minimum.” It was the second request that concerned Dylan most. More than one leader had been reluctant to concede, Isabeau especially. “Some may send scouts,” he warned. “If so, we must capture— not harm.”

Luc snorted.

Dylan pressed his point. “Keep Taran with you.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I want her at the entrance gate.”

Pressure built along Dylan’s spine in an all too familiar ache. The refusal of a direct command annoyed his beast. Two dominants in one territory had always been a tentative balance, managed only by loyalties stronger than the instinct of the wolf.

He took a deep breath. The human, the brother , must remain in control at all times. “Explain your reasoning.”

Luc stayed calm, recognizing Dylan’s battle, respecting it without challenge. “Our visitors should be greeted with strength. Taran has earned her place in our guard.”