Celtic Moon (10 page)

 * * * 

T
HE INSTRUCTOR’S NAME WAS
J
ULIE, A RETIRED COP WITH
hooded eyes that constantly observed her surroundings. With her hard body, and challenge-me-if-you-dare attitude, men tended to watch but few approached. Sophie envied her confidence, her strength, and knew in order to protect Joshua she needed to become more like her instructor.

Julie taught self-defense lessons and a firearms safety course for battered women, and had kicked Sophie’s ass every Wednesday night for six months. Joshua usually slept in his car seat close by, never far from his mother’s sight, while she learned to kick back. Julie taught her how to use momentum and balance as a weapon, and how to use a perpetrator’s strength against them.

Their lessons advanced to Sunday afternoons at a local outdoor firing range. Joshua stayed home with his grandmother during those sessions. Empty brass casings littered the ground, an eerie combination of gilded metal, packed earth and spent power. She fumbled through learning how to load bullets, jumping when one slipped from her fingers and landed on the ground, half expecting the tiny projectile to explode. She gave a nervous laugh to hide her mounting anger.

She hated Dylan in that moment, for forcing her to become this person who learned how to kill. This was not the person she was meant to be.

Julie remained calm, ever watchful, patiently waiting while Sophie mastered each new skill. “This is a .45-caliber Glock,” she explained. “They make a slimline model that I recommend for women because it’s light and easy to handle.”

“Is it powerful?” Sophie gave the black pistol a doubting glance. More important, “Can it kill a wild animal?”

“Most people prefer shotguns for critters, but try reacting quickly with a shotgun.” Julie snorted softly. “The .45 will do the job, especially if you use hollow-point bullets. It’s gun etiquette to pull the slide open. Like this . . .” She demonstrated the proper handoff, revealing the empty chamber. “It shows the gun isn’t loaded.”

Sophie accepted the weapon.

It felt like death in her hands.

Throughout the tutorial, Julie adjusted Sophie’s grip, leveled her arms and changed her stance. “I have earmuffs in my truck if you want to use them.”

“No. But thanks.” Sophie couldn’t afford the luxury of muffling her senses. A paper target was stapled to a wooden stand less than twenty yards away. Her hands shook when she fired. The sound jarred her more than the kick of the gun, loud and vile, followed by a much softer sound of rustling leaves in the nearby woods. The softer sound, she realized, had been her bullet missing its very large target.

Unacceptable. She finished the round and loaded another. The acrid scent of gunpowder and lead filled the air and clung to her skin, and only one bullet out of twelve had hit the paper target.

“You’re shooting low because you’re tensing last minute,” Julie explained. “Relax, site your target and just pull the trigger gently. Don’t tense up.”

The lessons continued over the next few weeks, until one Sunday Julie asked the inevitable. “Why are you doing this? Who are you afraid of? An ex-boyfriend? Husband? I may be able to help.”

“You have helped.” Sophie gave her instructor a sad smile. “More than you know.” It would be the last time they saw each other. Once the questions began, Sophie moved on.

The following day, she bought her first gun from a little man with a ZZ Top beard who called himself the Country Cowboy. His home was located on a ten-mile-long dirt road decorated with No Trespassing signs. More important, he believed in the second amendment and in not prying into other people’s business when it concerned their constitutional rights. Afterward, she found a remote gun shop that sold the equipment to make handmade bullets; press machines, brass casings and molds all sat neatly on the shelf like groceries in a convenience store. The kiln to melt silver came later.

Within a month she could load bullets in the dark, because she practiced every night. Within six months, as long as the target was in range of her vision, moving or stationary, it didn’t matter, she never missed her shot. Never.

 * * * 

O
VER THE FOLLOWING YEARS
, S
OPHIE HAD MOVED ON TO
other instructors, other lessons, and other weapons. She hoped never to have cause to use them but would—without question—if necessary.

For now, she tucked the gun under the mattress. Normally she removed the magazine, but tonight she kept it in. Two knives followed, one from the holder strapped to her left calf, the other from behind her waistband; she placed one under a pillow and one under the bed. All were within arm’s length if needed.

The woman Dylan had loved was gone; the wildlife activist with nothing more than a tranquilizer gun and innocent ideals had died in these very woods. Now she was older, in mind if not in body, and not so innocent.

She felt jumpy as hell when unarmed, too anxious to sleep. To keep her mind busy, she removed her pants and placed them neatly inside the bureau. The purple scar that ran the length of her leg caught her eye. Bracing her foot on the nearest chair, she smoothed her hand over the puckered flesh, wondering if Dylan would find her scars repulsive.

Chastising herself for caring, Sophie let her foot drop to the floor. Vanity had no purpose in her life. She hefted her suitcase to the chair to search for her sweatpants and nightshirt. The brown paper bag Matthew had given her fell forward onto the floor with a loud thump. Frowning, she tugged on her sweatpants and then retrieved the bag, set it on top of the long bureau, and opened it.

N
OT BOTHERING TO KNOCK
, D
YLAN WENT IN THROUGH
the side door of his brother’s apartments, located on the top floor of the west outer building. Paintings of animal life and wilderness lined the walls, all Koko’s. The furniture was an eclectic assortment, some pieces masculine, some hand carved from wood.

Dylan found Luc pouring a glass of water in his private kitchen.

“Your boy is healthy,” Luc said, downing the water and setting the glass in the stainless steel dishwasher. “But immature.”

“I know.” Dylan leaned against the doorway and sighed.

“His mother coddles him.”

“There are worse alternatives.”

Luc’s eyes darkened with the reminder. “Elen told me her findings.”

“According to Sophie, the changes began three weeks ago. I have no reason not to believe her.”

“Why now, I wonder?”

“From what I’ve gathered, Sophie and Joshua moved around a lot, except for the last few years.”

Luc nodded with understanding. “His move today won’t help.”

An initial shift wasn’t possible if one of their kind felt threatened, a contradiction to the Guardians’ original belief. Even simple environmental discord kept the other half dormant. Age was irrelevant. Luc had remained in wolf form until after they’d settled into the Katahdin region, almost six hundred years after his birth. Regrettably, their earlier years in Cymru had been turbulent ones, Luc’s presence barely tolerated, and only in the camps of other outcasts.

“Yeah, well,” Dylan said, “we both know once the wolf awakens, it doesn’t back down easily.” The first shift was the most difficult. After that, the wolf’s instincts often dominated. Transformations, once completed successfully, were no longer hindered by one’s environment. If threatened, the beast would most certainly emerge.

His brother gave a crude snort. Having been born in wolf form, his dominant nature was that of the beast. It was his human side that fought for control, and more often than not, lost that battle. “When will you try for a shift?”

“Tomorrow. I’m taking him to the gathering place after nightfall. I want you and Elen there . . . but no others. Not until I know for sure what Joshua’s abilities are,
if
any. Either way, he doesn’t need the whole village watching.”

Luc dipped his head in acknowledgment. “I’d be honored.”

“I spoke with Enid,” Dylan added before being asked. “She will be moving to Constance’s cottage in the morning, along with her daughters.”

“A good solution,” Luc replied, keeping his voice neutral. “From what I’ve seen tonight, I believe your mate has learned to defend herself. If she continues, she will earn the respect of our people without your interference.”

“In time, perhaps. Until then, I have a greater problem.” Dylan walked farther into the kitchen and braced his arms on the counter, letting his head fall forward. “Sophie informed me tonight that Siân found her in the woods . . .
after
my wife ran from us.” Dylan looked up and met his brother’s narrowed glare. “Siân found her and let her go, but not before issuing Sophie a death threat if she returned.”

Luc whistled softly under his breath. “And you believe Sophie?”

“I’m choosing to believe her.” His only regret was that he hadn’t sooner. “Do you remember Siân from that night?”

Luc frowned, shaking his head. “No, but we weren’t looking for Siân. Also,” he added with some hesitation, as if recalling a distant memory, or revealing a personal confidence, “Koko felt Siân had the potential for violence.”

Rarely did Luc mention his late wife in conversation. For him to do so now gave Dylan pause. “We
all
have the potential for violence.”

“As I’m well aware. But Koko knew the difference. She married the Beast of Merin, did she not?”

Dylan scowled. “I despise that name.” The moniker was coined by the Guardians upon Luc’s birth. “Why do you continue to flaunt it?”

“Because I can.” His sardonic smile turned serious, changing the subject back to the matter at hand. “What are you going to do about Siân?”

Dylan sighed, finding no pleasure in his next decision. “I have no other choice but to banish her.”

Luc remained silent for several seconds, his stance subdued. “I’ll come with you.”

“I want time with her alone first.” Dylan headed for the door. “Give me an hour. I’m stopping by Alise’s office before I head over.”

Alise was Rhuddin Village’s official town secretary. Her unofficial job was to create new identities every eighty years or so, over a normal human life span. Those who worked outside Rhuddin Village on assignment were more of a challenge for her. In most cases, they returned within fifteen years—before it became noticeable that they were not aging. At that time, Alise planned a life-changing—or -ending—event to suddenly occur in their “human” lives. “Gather Taran and her brother,” Dylan continued. “I’ll allow them to say farewell to their sister . . . or go with her, if they so choose.”

“Cormack,” Luc said, his voice thick with displeasure, “is probably with Elen.”

 * * * 

D
ARKNESS HAD FALLEN ON
R
HUDDIN
V
ILLAGE, NOT ONLY
in the few hours of night, but also in the hearts of his people. There were no voices or laughter as Dylan walked the shadowed streets toward Siân’s cottage, just a few faint whispers filled with concern. Most of the villagers had kept to their homes.

Siân lived on the outskirts of town, secluded by choice, her driveway obscured by tall pine trees. Gravel crunched under his boots as he made his way toward her front door. She had left the outside light on, revealing faded yellow paint and rotting posts as he drew near, neglected, much like the woman who lived within its walls.

As Dylan climbed the front steps he couldn’t help but wonder if the human mind was strong enough to withstand immortality, if the conscience was meant to handle a thousand years of unfulfilled wanting.

The door opened before he could knock, and Siân stood before him in modern jeans, a white winter vest over a navy sweater and hiking boots. The red hair of a Celt hung down her back in a long plait.

She gave him a sad smile, and stood back for him to enter. “I’ve been expecting you.”

He eyed the sparse room, and the four trunks lined up by the door. “You know why I’ve come, then?”

She cocked her head to one side, frowning at his calm tone, and looking somewhat confused. Thankfully, it was not an aberrant confusion; the glint in her eyes this night was lucid.

“I’m sure that woman has filled your ears enough,” she said.

“I’d like to hear your side.”

“Does it truly matter now, Dylan?” He expected anger, even defiance, but instead found sorrow. “I saw your son,” she whispered, her words barely audible, even to his ears. “He has your eyes.”

Her despondent attitude only confirmed Sophie’s accusation. “Tell me what happened the night my wife left me, Siân. Tell me what happened when you found her.”

As if he hadn’t spoken, she looked out the open door toward the woods, lost in the torrent of her own thoughts. “I know Sarah and Michael are out there. They’re watching me.” She remained quiet for a moment. “I used to laugh when that woman fought you for keeping her guarded, and here I am now, sharing her fate.” Her shoulders slumped, and her voice grew heavy with regret. “Except I don’t have you in my bed . . . or a child of my own.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” he said.

Her eyes glazed over then, and she was uncomprehending, or unwilling to answer. She had moved on to that other place, Dylan realized—her place of madness and avoidance. Was it a misguided sense of responsibility that her misery still provoked him? Perhaps it was, but he would rather feel compassion than hatred for a woman who’d once been his lover, and more important, his friend.

“Come here,” Dylan said and opened his arms. She turned back toward the room. She frowned at him, but then the haze of confusion cleared and a soft sob escaped her lips. Three strides and she fell into his embrace, tucking her head under his chin. She smelled like dried lavender and mint. He kissed the top of her hair, more like a father would a frightened child than an ex-lover. “I know why you did it, Siân. But it doesn’t change what I must do.”

“I understand,” she sniffed. “I can’t live here now anyway . . . I can’t bear it.”

“I had Alise create a new identity for you, with six hundred thousand dollars in two separate accounts, under the name Pamela Johnston.”

A soft growl grew close and Dylan dropped his arms, waiting for Siân to withdraw herself. She did so with some reluctance. He reached into his jacket and handed her a portfolio with her account information, her new birth certificate, her social security card and her driver’s license. She accepted the packet, hugging it to her chest, nodding without words.

Heavy padded steps fell across the porch as a red wolf prowled through the door. Cormack took a protective stance between Dylan and his sister.

Siân rested her hand on Cormack’s head. “It is all right, my brother. I’ll be okay.” But her voice cracked with emotion despite her brave words.

Dylan nodded to Taran as she entered and stood with her siblings. Taran took her sister’s hand within hers and waited.

Dylan found no satisfaction in issuing this judgment. “Siân is banished from my territory . . . and my protection, for her own personal actions. I’ve provided her with the means to make a fresh start.”

A low growl hummed through the room. Dylan pinned Cormack with a glare, letting his own wolf have a voice. Both sisters leaned against their brother in a silent bid for respect. In a fight, Dylan would dominate. Cormack broke eye contact first, but his stance remained arrogant.

“I don’t expect you to agree with my decision,” Dylan continued, “but I expect you to respect it. If you cannot . . . then you must leave with your sister.”

Taran nodded. “We’ll go with Siân.”

“No.” Siân shook her head, not willing to force her fate onto her siblings. “Cormack will never have a normal existence among mortals.” The wolf made a noise in the back of his throat, almost human, and clearly offended. “You are trapped in this form.” Siân stroked her brother’s neck. “The Guardians will kill you. And the humans . . . at best they will confine you. Here you’re free.
Here
 . . . you’re safe.”

Cormack pushed up against her, releasing a mournful howl.

“No, I’ll have no argument with you on this.” There was vehemence in her voice and fire in her eyes. “You
will
stay here with Taran.”

Was it divine justice,
or comeuppance
, Dylan wondered, that he’d been given a final glimpse of the woman he’d once admired. She had petitioned him for sanctuary almost four hundred years ago, with a red wolf by her side and a young sister in her arms. Sane and selfless. The protector of her family. And eventually his lover, until her need for a child had driven her to other men, searching for the one who could give her what she’d longed for most:
to be a mother
.

She never conceived with him, or with any of the others. Over time her behavior turned erratic . . .
desperate
. She had started to worship fertility gods, in the old way of the ancient druids, with mating rituals and animal sacrifices, until he put a stop to the senseless animal deaths. By then, whom she’d chosen to take into her bed was not his concern.

For a while, Siân’s restlessness had seemed to settle into a form of acceptance, or so he’d thought.

Not long after that time, hardly even forty years, Sophie and her team of nature scientists had petitioned for temporary residence in Rhuddin Village. Dylan had agreed only to keep an eye on their efforts,
and to sabotage them if necessary
.

However, he hadn’t been prepared for Sophie herself, with her gentle nature and fiery conviction, or her innocence in a sweet woman’s body. She had taunted him, teased him, unaware of the wolf she aroused, with a need long denied.

She had conceived almost immediately.

His greatest joy had been Siân’s worst humiliation. He had little doubt that she had threatened Sophie and his child. And that offense—regardless of their personal history—was unforgivable. “You have an hour to decide.”

With a vile taste on his tongue, he walked out of the cottage. Elen and Luc waited on the front steps, supporting him with their silent presence. He turned to his brother. “Will you escort Siân out, and whoever decides to leave with her?”

“And if Taran stays?” Luc asked.

“Then she’ll need to prove her loyalty before returning to her position. I want you to watch her,” Dylan added for clarity. “
Personally.
She accepted her sister’s banishment too easily.”

He nodded without argument. Elen entered the cottage. Her concern, Dylan noticed, went to Cormack, as she knelt beside the wolf and buried her face in the thick fur at his nape.

“I’m going for a run,” Dylan said, taking off toward the woods. His people had wronged Sophie. He was convinced of that now. And still she had come home to him, of her own free will—for their son.