Highland Wolf Pact: Blood Reign: A Scottish Werewolf Shifter Romance Read online

  He had left his den to find the lost packs, had traveled to the temple with only that goal in mind. He had been ready for talk of prophecy and magic—he’d lived with it his whole life—but what he hadn’t expected was Bridget. All the hoopla about fate and destiny had always seemed silly to him. He didn’t like to think of God like some puppet master pulling strings above their heads, making them dance to an old man’s tune. Then Bridget’s words, “It is all as it should be,” kept echoing in his head.

  Why had he left his den and come here? Had it been to find the lost packs? Or had the divine had a larger purpose in mind? Had he really traveled all this way just to find his one true mate? To find the red-haired, bright-eyed, saucy little Bridget?

  I don’t believe in true mates, he reminded himself, glancing back over his shoulder. He could barely see the crossroads and the outcropping where the temple lay. He’d come that far, too far. I don’t believe in true mates, or prophecies, or destiny.

  But how could he say that now, having seen everything Bridget had shown him behind the temple walls? Moonlight and magic, dragons and ladies, had any of it been real? Certainly the way she’d fallen into his arms that night in the tub had been real. And then, when they’d been together the night before... He imagined he could still taste her lips, feel her breath in his ear, smell the sweet, light scent of her skin.

  He was lost in his own thoughts when he reached the top of the last hill as he neared the sea. He was distracted, consumed by his own fears and doubts, and they had surrounded him before he knew what was happening. There were a dozen, at least, not just humans, but wulvers as well—wulvers he’d never seen before. They were no kin he knew. The sight startled him even more than the attack itself—wulver warriors he didn’t recognize circling him and his horse, mixed with human men wearing armor and carrying swords.

  Griff assessed the situation, scanning the line of soldiers, finding its leader—a man wearing dark armor, face plate up, shouting orders to men and wulver alike—and finding its weakness. There was a small break in their line. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough. If he was fast.

  Years of training took over. Griff made a noise in his throat, digging the heels of his boots into Uri’s side, and the horse practically sighed with relief, taking off from a standstill to a run so fast, Griff had to choke up on the reins to keep from being thrown. Uri fled, letting Griff guide him, just as he’d planned, through the small break in his attackers’ line. The horse, who had been clearly annoyed with Griff’s plodding pace, was relieved to be running again. He had a great deal of pent-up energy, after spending too much time down in the cavern, penned up, and Griff used that to his advantage.

  If he’d been home, if it had been their forest, escape wouldn’t have been a question. Griff would have easily avoided the attackers at home, but this was Skara Brae, and he didn’t know enough about the land and the terrain to lose them. He realized this as he found himself on the rocky beach, the horse struggling in the sand and rocks. A dead end. They could go no further, and there was no ship here to meet them and likely wouldn’t be for another hour, mayhaps two. He had left early because if he hadn’t left, he knew he would have stayed.

  But there was another ship here, and Griff narrowed his eyes at it, seeing the mark on the side, along with a dragon’s head. Is this what had carried the men and horses who were after him?

  Griff turned Uri so they were galloping along the shoreline, leaning over the neck of his horse, a plan formulating in his head. If he could double back, get to the temple, mayhaps...

  Uri tripped. It wasn’t the horse’s fault. He was used to running in the forest, over the rolling, green hills of home, not on this craggy, rocky beach. His hoof sank into an unseen hole in the sand, and he went down with a shrill, horrible scream.

  His leg, it’s his leg. The thought of having to put Uri down made Griff far sicker to his stomach than the sound of the approaching horsemen.

  They were surrounded again. Griff’s side ached—he was wearing full gear again, but the horse had thrown him a good three feet, and his face had been scraped on the rock, along with the rest of him. He tasted blood in his throat as he rolled, reaching for his blade, but it was too late. Three wulver warriors, fully turned, were already off their horses, on him with a net and ropes. Griff shifted. With a shake of his dark head, he shifted, growling and snapping at his attackers. But they were wulvers. They knew exactly what to look out for. The first thing they did was snap on a muzzle, which just made Griff struggle and fight harder.

  He almost freed himself, even though it was now six—three men, three wulvers—against one, but then they bound his arms behind his back and chained him.

  The only good thing about the entire situation was that Uri’s fall hadn’t seemed to break anything. The big animal was back up, and one of the wulvers had corralled him, grabbing his reins to lead the horse over the rocks. Griff howled—still in wulver form—when they slung him over the saddle of his horse. His arms were still bound behind him as they lashed him to the saddle and pulled the horse along the beach. Griff struggled, but his kidnappers had tied him well.

  They led the horse back up the hill, away from the sea. Griff turned his head, trying to identify any of his kind. He scanned each man, looking for their leader—he remembered the dark knight who had been screaming orders at his men, all of them involving capturing Griff. But why?

  “So this is the one.” A smooth voice spoke from near the front of the horse, followed by a low, amused chuckle. Griff felt Uri pull instinctively away, the horse giving a nervous whinny, and Griff knew how he felt. His hackles rose at the sound of the man’s voice, and he knew, even without seeing him, that this was the man in charge of this little venture. This man, whoever he was, had a purpose in capturing Griff, and whatever it was, it wasn’t good.

  I won’t lead them to the temple. It was the only thing he could imagine they might be searching for. Mayhaps they had already attempted entrance, but had been turned away as unworthy. Bridget had told him, it had happened before. Only certain seekers were even entertained for entrance. Some were judged too dangerous or just plain unworthy, and their cries for entrance went unanswered. Mayhaps these men and wulvers—he couldn’t understand how or why his brothers, his kin, for they had to be, if they were his kind, could do this—had already been turned away from the temple, and they had captured him in the hopes he could lead them in.

  “I’m not impressed.” The man sneered and Griff lifted his wolf head to see the dark knight approaching. He wasn’t a Scot. At least, he didn’t speak as one. And his armor was definitely English. So what was this shasennach doing with wulvers Griff had never seen before? “Are you sure he’s the one?”

  “He’s wulver,” one of the other wulvers confirmed. “And he was comin’ from the temple.”

  So it was the temple, then. Griff felt his limbs go cold at the thought of this band of assailants invading the Temple of Ardis and Asher. He might not believe in the divine and sacred in the same way as the guardians and priestesses who resided there, but he had respect for it. Besides, he would take the information to the grave, if it meant protecting Alaric, Aleesa, and especially Bridget.

  Bridget... The young woman’s face swam before his eyes. All the blood was rushing to his head at this angle and he lifted it, taking in great gulps of air, determined now to find a way out of this. Not even for himself, or his family, or the lost packs. He just wanted to make sure Bridget remained safe, now and forever.

  “Take him down,” the man in dark armor instructed. “Off the horse.”

  The wulvers turned Griff around to the knight, who had taken off his helmet and held it lightly under one arm, his sword in the other. The man was handsome, well-groomed, young—probably Griff’s age—and from his accent, quite English. Griff tried to place him. Someone who had visited Castle MacFalon mayhaps? If he could figure out who the man was, he might be able to figure out why the man wanted him.

  “You have no earthly idea
who I am, do you?” The other man chuckled, flashing a brilliant smile. His blonde hair fell over one eye as he dipped his head to look at Griff, searching his eyes behind the muzzle. “Hm. Where are those fabled red eyes of yours, wulver? Show me.”

  So that was it, then. The man knew he was the red wulver. Griff just glared at him, working hard not to show him the color of his eyes, because anger rose in him like a coming storm. He shook his head, changing back to human form in an instant, knowing it would be easier to control his emotions this way.

  “No?” The man frowned, angry at Griff’s resistance, but curious now that he’d changed back into human form. “Mayhaps this will change your mind, then...”

  The armored man brought his sword hilt up against the underside of Griff’s chin. The blow knocked his head back and he groaned, feeling his teeth rattle in his head as he went to his knees. He gagged, feeling light headed and nauseous, knowing he’d be lucky if he could talk at all for a while after that hit—luckily, he was a wulver and could heal relatively quickly.

  “How about now?” the man asked gently, squatting down beside him and lifting Griff’s head by the hair.

  He snarled at the man, but didn’t speak. Griff wasn’t about to tell him anything.

  “I have a secret to tell you.” The other man’s eyes were blue—dancing, dazzling blue. “You’re not who you think you are.”

  Griff didn’t answer him. He didn’t care who this man thought he was. All he could think of was how he could protect Bridget from these marauders. If that meant letting them take him, then that’s what he’d have to do. The thought of killing all of them was certainly his first choice, though.

  “Should I introduce myself, little doggie?” The man’s cruel slice of a mouth spread into a grin. “My name is Uldred Lothienne. Does that sound familiar to you?”

  It did, although at first, Griff couldn’t think why. He could hardly think at all, the way his ears were still ringing. But then he remembered the story his mother and aunts had told him when he was a pup.

  “Ah, I see you have heard of me. Or, at least, my father before me.” Uldred laughed, an overloud sound that brought light, nervous chuckles from his men. “Can you guess who my mother is, little pup? I’ll give you three.”

  Griff wasn’t playing games. He focused on trying to breathe—and in the midst of basic bodily functions, to think. Eldred Lothienne’s son. King Henry VII’s royal huntsman had always hated wulvers, had made it his mission to kill them all—after his consort, the witch Moraga, had used her magic to enslave the wulver warriors to do his bidding. Which, of course, had involved usurping the English king’s throne.

  He’d heard the story a hundred times, from Donal MacFalon himself, who had slain Lord Lothienne and thwarted his plan to become king of all England. And he knew, too, that the witch Moraga was the reason that no wulver could ever go back to their mountain den. She’d gone missing after being captured—according to rumor, she’d been locked in a cell, but had simply disappeared.

  Darrow, just as skeptical as Griff, believed someone had let the evil woman go, and he had a tendency to believe this, more than he believed the witch had said some magic words and spirited herself away. As far as he knew, the woman hadn’t been heard from again—both his father, Raife, and Donal MacFalon, had sent many men out to find her over the years—and most assumed her dead.

  Griff’s mother, Sibyl, spoke of returning to their mountain den often, but Raife wouldn’t allow it. Griff thought it was ridiculous to keep their growing pack confined to such small quarters, when a much bigger, ready-made home sat empty, but now he wondered if his father might have been right. Was this English knight really the issue of the bewitching Moraga and the devious wulver-hating Lord Eldred Lothienne?

  Because, if he was a guessing sort of man, Griff definitely would have guessed that Uldred was their son.

  “No guesses?” Uldred’s brows drew together in consternation. “What kind of fun is it, if you don’t guess?”

  Griff managed not to pass out, but just barely, when the other man hit him upside the head with the hilt of his sword. The world went black for a moment, and he heard the man’s voice, but not the words he was saying. It took him a moment to tune back in.

  “...as stupid as you look! My mother is the witch Moraga. Look at me!” Uldred grabbed Griff by the top of the head again, jerking his face up so Uldred could yell into it. “I have spent my entire life waiting for the time I could avenge my father’s death—but I intend to do far more than that.”

  Griff knew his pack was in danger. He’d left them alone, undefended, with this madman on the loose. He couldn’t have known, but that didn’t matter. His mother, his aunts, his sisters—and the entire MacFalon clan. Because it had been Donal MacFalon who had slain Lord Lothienne, who had tied the half-dead man to his horse and dragged him behind until he was all the way dead. It’s what Lothienne and men like him had done to wulvers for centuries, a fitting end to a cruel, devious man’s life.

  But Griff didn’t think his son would see it that way.

  So what was the younger Lothienne doing here, on Skara Brae? Griff had clearly been followed. So they wanted him, mayhaps to draw the other wulvers out, mayhaps to use him to find the den.

  If they didn’t already know where it was.

  If his family wasn’t already dead.

  Oh God, that couldn’t be true. He wouldn’t let that be true.

  “You see, my poor, sad, misguided, little puppy...” Uldred’s hand moved through Griff’s hair like he was petting him, a smile stretching the man’s thin lips even thinner. He moved close, and whispered in Griff’s still ringing ear, so that his men did not hear. “You’re not the red wulver... I am.”

  Griff jerked his head away from the man’s touch, hearing him laugh, a low, grating sound. If this man was a wulver, then he was a pig—and while Griff had a hearty appetite and occasionally found himself rolling in the mud, he definitely didn’t have a snout or say “oink.”

  “Oh, I’m not yet.” Uldred tapped Griff’s cheek lightly a few times with a gloved hand. “But I will be. My mother... you’ve heard of my mother, the witch Moraga, have you not? She’s more powerful now than she was even then. And she wants me to take my rightful place, among men and wulvers.”

  Rightful place? Griff sneered. Did this fool really believe he could lead a pack of men, let alone wulvers? No wulvers he knew would follow him. Which made Griff look both left and right at the wulvers on either side, who held his chains. Who were these dogs? Where had they come from? They weren’t part of his pack—and no wulver he’d ever known would serve a Lothienne, even for the promise of gold. Wulvers were loyal, honorable.

  They’re being compelled.

  This thought flitted briefly across Griff’s mind and he wondered if it was true. That had been part of the story, hadn’t it? He tried to remember what he’d heard about the witch Moraga, and her plan to enslave the wulvers for her consort, Lord Eldred. At the time, it had seemed ridiculous, of course. The thought that some woman could compel an entire den of wulver warriors to fight for this man was insanity.

  The stories he’d heard as a pup, back in his den, were that Eldred Lothienne and the witch Moraga had planned to enslave all of the wulver warriors to use them to take the throne—and then have them turn on one another until there were no more wulvers left on Earth. The witch claimed all she needed was the wulver leader’s blood—Griff’s father, Raife, had been the wulver leader at the time—and she’d almost gotten it, too. Griff didn’t know if it was still Raife she needed. Mayhaps Raife’s son, Griff, would do?

  Was that why he was being taken?

  Uldred leaned in close enough that Griff felt the man’s hot breath on his cheek. “You see, I don’t need to actually be the red wulver—I just need them to believe that I am. Then I can reunite all of the lost packs, and use them all to take the throne. And with your blood, I can enslave them—forever.”

  Griff’s stomach dropped. He knew about th
e lost packs. Uldred was using the prophecy, using it against the wulvers. But how could he have convinced these wulvers that he was the red wulver? The man couldn’t shift. His eyes did not glow red. Unless, some magic...?

  Griff would have said he didn’t believe in magic before entering the Temple of Ardis and Asher, but after what he’d gone through with Bridget at the sacred pool, he wasn’t so sure. They’d only touched briefly on the idea of “dark magic,” but he wondered at it, because that was the kind of magic Uldred and his mother, Moraga, would be entertaining. Something foul, and unnatural.

  Is that what they had planned?

  “And if the prophecy is real?” Uldred was still speaking just to him, his tone gleeful. “Oh, I do so hope the prophecy is real, as my mother believes. You see, we share an ancestor, you and I, one that you can trace back to Asher and Ardis, as you wulvers call them—but we knew him as Arthur. The king who pulled the sword from the stone? Thanks to Merlin, who decided it was wise to teach his pupil by turning him into animals, we may not share a mother and father, but we are blood brothers, after a fashion. And I need yours.”

  “For what?” Griff snarled. To turn his wulver brothers against him? To compel them to follow this man, whose ravings were just simply mad?

  “If the prophecy is real, when I look into the pool at the Temple of Ardis and Asher during the eclipse, I will become the red wulver,” Uldred told him, his blue eyes dancing wildly. “And if it’s all nonsense—well, then, I’ll have your blood, and my mother can use it to compel the wulvers anyway.”

  Griff’s blood ran cold at the thought.