Woven rugs covered the wooden floors that minimally squealed under their weight. The colorful patterned wallpaper accented well with the furnishings that were slightly more elegant than he was expecting. They were probably the finest he had ever seen in his life. The cushions on the sofa and armchair in the main room were embroidered and stuffed in excess so that they looked particularly comfortable. Now, he wished he could have gone back to the guest room to inspect the furniture in there to see if they were just as well-designed. In the darkness – both physical and emotional – Dustin hadn’t cared to take notice.
The dining room was just as lavish and the four matching place settings at the polished table looked fit for nobility. Taking a quick look out one of the windows, he found they were situated in the middle of a forest, not on some affluent street in the heart of a big city. His curiosity about the family distracted him as he was promptly seated at the table by the insistent girl.
The two other adults in the house joined them in the dining room and spoke a few whispered words to one another that he didn’t understand. The child climbed into her chair beside him and settled her hands neatly in her lap to wait for her meal. There was a definite air of peace between Darren and the child, but the lady of the house was nearly the complete opposite. He wasn’t sure how, but he could almost feel her apprehension and unsureness.
Dustin shyly glanced toward Eleanor, the only one who seemed diffident toward him. She met his gaze only briefly before disappearing into the kitchen. Darren moved around to the head of the table to Dustin’s right and took his place, seemingly unconcerned by whatever it was his wife had to say.
For the first time, the reality of this scene struck him. Darren was a monster, a beast just like Dustin, but he didn’t behave as one. On the exterior, he was as calm and unassuming as any other man would be. He owned a pretty house, married an equally pretty woman, and fathered a daughter that would be the same. How did he do it? What was his secret?
That curious and hopeful part of him that clung to life began to stir in his chest again, harkening back to the fact that none of it mattered. As soon as he was able, he had to leave these people behind.
“I know what you must be thinking,” Darren said, cutting through his melancholy thoughts. “I know this all seems rather odd, given what you know. But, I assure you that you can have this kind of life too.”
Dustin didn’t reply. How could Darren read his thoughts so accurately? Did his host have some other strange power that he wasn’t aware of? Or was Dustin not the first monster the man had taken into his care?
Eleanor returned to the room and set a steaming dish of roast in the middle of the table. The aroma of the meat had been ever present since he awoke earlier that morning. To finally see it before him inspired a burst of ravenous hunger that paled in comparison to what he had felt before. His eyes felt cold once more, just like they had when he ate the bit of meat Darren offered to him in bed.
Dustin averted his gaze from the meal as Darren muttered what he could only guess was a prayer of thanks in French. Then, Eleanor took up a knife and fork to serve. A plate of cooked vegetables had already been set at the table before he arrived, and the women were given portions of that while the men took a hefty allowance of meat.
Though Darren had already begun to eat, cutting up his slices of meat into bite-sized portions, Dustin would not allow himself to do the same. If he had to, he’d sit on his hands to abstain from taking up his fork or any bit of the roast that had been slapped onto his plate. The adults talked, but refrained from making their conversation secretive and spoke in English so Dustin would know exactly what they were saying. All of it was rather menial things, such as the condition of the paths that led to places he had never heard of, or the supplies they would need for the coming winter. Once more, he was amazed to hear that Eleanor, though she seemed to be a native French speaker, could slip into English easily.
The entire time, Dustin looked at nothing except his thighs and how the tablecloth slid past his knees to drape toward the floor. His stomach growled in protest while that fiery entity screamed at him to do what he so desired not to do. His head began to spin with a light spell of dizziness that was directly connected with the hunger he felt, and he dug his nails into the underside of his seat until the wood almost cracked under the pressure.
During a lull in conversation, the girl beside him asked something in French and Darren cleared his throat in response. Correcting herself, she asked Dustin, “Why are you not eating?”
He looked up for a brief moment and the girl leaned away, transfixed on his eyes. Across the table, Eleanor dropped her fork, causing him to jump. Darren was the only one who appeared unaffected by whatever it was that startled the women.
No one spoke for a few long, agonizing seconds before Darren stood from the table and took Dustin by the arm. Pulling his guest to his feet, they exited the dining room. Dustin was vaguely aware through the spinning world around him that they were now in the main room and standing in front of a mirror with elaborate gold trim.
When he managed to make his reflection come into focus, what stared back at him was more than a little upsetting. His cheeks were darkened by the stubble that he hadn’t been able to shave off, but that was the least of his worries. Eyes that should have been green were a bright, blazing gold in the waning evening light that slanted through the windows.
Dustin cringed and rubbed at his face to make the illusion go away, but it did not. When he opened his eyes again, the gaze of the beast was still glaring back at him.
“Why?” he whispered. But Darren couldn’t possibly know what all that question was referring to. It wasn’t just why had his eyes turned gold, but also why did he have to be alive in this moment? Why did he turn into this thing? Why had he killed Cassandra? Why was he still breathing when all he wanted to do was stop?
Darren fixed upon the eyes that didn’t frighten him at all. “This is what happens when the wolf is close to the surface. It’s reacting to your hunger right now, but it will also show up when you’re afraid or angry. The way you can tell that they have turned gold is when they feel cold. If you’re in public and this happens, keep your eyes down until it passes.”
Dustin listened, but his mind snagged on one word in particular. “Wolf?” he questioned, looking to his host through the mirror.
He nodded. “That’s what you are, Dustin. That’s what I am.”
As if to prove his point, Darren’s brown eyes lightened until they resembled that same golden color, matching Dustin’s perfectly. Two wolves looked to one another through the mirror and it awakened that fierce spirit within himself that he had wanted to ignore.
Dustin hadn’t thought of himself in that way. He only remembered those vague impressions of a creature, a beast without control or remorse. He had seen wolves in the wild and knew what they were capable of when hungry. They stole sheep from the fields and inspired so many fables for the Irish.
But not once had he thought he would be a faoladh, a wolf shifter.
It all made sense now, but that didn’t sooth his troubled soul. This revelation only gave a name, an identity, to that thing that would not be quieted within him. Also, it told him without a shadow of a doubt, that Darren could be the one to help tame this beast, tame the wolf. This Englishman, who he should have hated with a passion, simply because of his heritage, might prove to be his best bet at feeling like his normal self again. He had no strength to fight it any longer and he gave into his fate to continue living, at least for a little longer.
Chapter Six
Dublin, Ireland, Two Weeks Later
Tobias’ eyes poured over the map spread across the rickety table. The coming winter chill seeped through the walls of their room at the inn, but he had hoped they wouldn’t be staying there for long. They had just one more county to investigate before completely giving up on Ireland all together. Two weeks had passed, and they still hadn’t found the escaped werewolf, Dustin Keith.
By the window, Oliver watched the carriages and civilians pass in the street below, his crossness plainly evident. His partner showed what Tobias concealed, but they could not give up hope. Their debts were mounting as it was, and Mr. Flanagan promised to pay them handsomely upon their return to Glengarriff with his son-in-law.
“All that’s left is Ulster,” Tobias announced in a dull tone.
Oliver crossed his arms. “Any news from England?”
He referred to the letters Tobias had sent out nearly a week ago after they traveled throughout Munster and Connaught with no sign or word of any suspicious activity that would suggest a werewolf sighting. Their fellow hunters in Scotland, England, and France could always be relied on for intelligence when it came to searching for specific targets. An Irishman was not likely to go unnoticed through any of these countries. Especially one that would be unskilled in certain social etiquettes, making him stick out like a sore thumb.
“A letter from Thomas arrived earlier this morning,” Tobias replied as he rubbed at his brow. “No sign of him in Scotland.”
Oliver turned to regard him with mild anxiety. “Are we sure this target is worth this much trouble? Mr. Flanagan is only a farmer after all. He couldn’t possibly have enough to make this worth our while in the end.”
Unable to cope with a headache this early in the day, Tobias glared at his partner. “Would you rather return to being a plain game warden in County Tyrone, scrounging a meager living on some nobleman’s payroll? I’m sure you don’t miss it.”
This seemed to silence Oliver for the moment, but Tobias still grew weary of his pessimism. He didn’t need to be reminded that they had absolutely no leads as to where Dustin might have been hiding. There were plenty of Irishmen in every town they passed that were tall, had brown hair, green eyes, and well-built as any farmer or laborer might be. They had at least hoped that a unique name like Dustin Keith would point them in the right direction rather quickly. If that wasn’t enough, then surely there would be a man wandering around Ireland looking lost, confused, and terrified out of his mind while searching for a warm bed and a meal.
Nothing. And if they were ever given a clue, it turned out to be someone else entirely. They had been able to find werewolves for years with ease, but it was as if Dustin Keith simply disappeared off the map. Either he wasn’t in Ireland anymore, or he was better at covering his tracks than any other freshly turned werewolf they had ever encountered. The former was more likely than the latter, which is why they waited for any news from their correspondents.
Just as Tobias leaned over the charts one more time to look for a town they may not have visited yet, a knock came at the door. Oliver, the ever impatient one, rushed forward to let the servant in. The young woman presented him with a letter, but it was addressed to Tobias.
Without wasting a moment, he tossed it onto the table and waited for his partner to read it aloud. Much to his irritation, Tobias only opened and read it silently to himself.
When a slow smile crept across his lips, Oliver could hold his question in no longer. “Good news?”
Tobias folded the paper. “Phillip reports from France. There’s rumor that an Irishman is in Bordeaux and staying with a family associated with the Couture.”
A devious glint shone in Oliver’s eyes. “So, are we going to France?”
It should have been an easy decision, but Tobias paused for reflection. If Dustin was anywhere in Ulster to the north, then they shouldn’t risk traveling to France. Yet, the evidence tempted him. What Irishman was likely to travel to Bordeaux and be in the company of people of reputable status? Why else would he be there, unless the Coutures were also werewolves? It was a wild, unfounded theory, but it merited investigation.
Charging Phillip with the task of inspecting further would only make their commission be split a third way and they couldn’t afford it. Yet, did they have enough money in their reserves to book passage all the way to Bordeaux? The journey would take them a week. By then, Dustin may have moved. For all they knew, he might have moved already. But, the more time they wasted in Ireland could have given the werewolf more time to move again.
Tobias looked to Oliver and knew what answer the man favored. Any lead was better than no lead. He nodded his approval of the plan and Oliver couldn’t move toward their suitcases fast enough to begin the process of packing.
Landes Forest, France
“This is a load of feckin’ shite!” Dustin shouted as he dragged his feet out of the muddy bog. “How is any of this supposed to help me?”
Darren was at least thankful that Lucy was at the house and well out of earshot. They had already caught her muttering little obscenities here and there since Dustin came to his senses. The majority of his day was now spent in training and lessons under Darren’s care, rather than shut up in his room sulking over his unwanted fate as a loup-garou.
At first, he had been glad that Dustin took to his daughter so well, but he feared the Irishman’s influence over Lucy’s impressionable mind would be too much. Eleanor was already coming up with more schemes and chores for her to do around the house just to keep the child busy, away from the men while they trained.
Darren, almost a quarter of a mile off from where Dustin finally managed to stop after sprinting for the barrel he had set up as a target, did not respond. He waited for his pupil to return, so they could start again. They had been training each day for three weeks, but Dustin was proving to be a less than competent student. He continually overshot his mark by several yards and no amount of instruction helped him.
He caught sight of the blur headed in his direction and knew that he wouldn’t stop soon enough – again. Darren held out his hand and grabbed Dustin’s arm with such halting force that the Irishman’s shoulder may have popped completely out of its socket. It was already well into the afternoon and he couldn’t wait for Dustin to come walking back to the starting point.
Dustin groaned at the pain and without a word, Darren slipped his joint back into place for him, so it would heal properly. The Irishman had suffered worse this week alone and Darren was unafraid of these little injuries anymore.
“Do you know what you did wrong?” Darren questioned.
“Agree to do this stupid training,” Dustin grumbled.
He sighed. “Did you focus on the barrel?”
“Yes,” he replied with a roll of his eyes.
“When you were getting close to the barrel did you – “
“Slow down. Yes, I did.”
“Then why did you miss it?” Darren gestured to the mud that clung to the fabric of Dustin’s pants all the way to his knees. “I can’t imagine that you enjoy getting stuck.”
Dustin sneered. “I don’t, but I also don’t understand why this has to be so feckin’ hard. Why does this matter anyway?”
Darren didn’t bother scolding the man for his foul language. There was no point. After the first few days of reprimanding Dustin, he knew that there was little that could stop him from cursing if he wished.
“Do you want to run the risk of flying off a cliff because you can’t stop soon enough?” he quipped. “It sounds rather inconvenient to me and might be painful.”
Something in his words made Dustin’s countenance shift completely. Instead of the frustrated guise he seemed to don constantly during their training sessions, he turned pensive and distant, just as he had that first night at the dinner table when Eleanor tried to ask him about his former life in Ireland.
Whatever had happened weeks ago before they came to him, Dustin was not willing to share. Bits of his days as a farmer came out in conversations and passing mentions of his hometown of Glengarriff, but there was still so much they didn’t know. Where was his father? Did he even have one? Who did he leave behind in Ireland that might have instigated such a regretful look? What were the particulars of his turning that would bring him all the way to France? Such questions were avoided, though the entire Dubose household desperately wanted to know more about him.
> If he didn’t witness Dustin’s outbursts on a daily basis, he might have thought the young man was more reserved than he truly was. Darren hated those seemingly endless moments when Dustin would stare vacantly, probably reliving something from his past that did not need to be replayed. Because of this, he did his best to keep the Irishman occupied, both mentally and physically.
Darren clapped Dustin on the shoulder to turn him toward the barrel that remained completely untouched. “You’re also veering to the right, did you know that?”
He simply shook his head, but whatever it was that changed his attitude also held his tongue in check.
“Are you left handed?” he asked, glancing to Dustin’s muddy feet to see if he seemed to favor one side or the other.
“I am.”
Darren nodded. “That explains a little. Try to run straight this time.”
No smart remark was given to this instruction and Dustin took a steadying breath before bracing himself for another run. He didn’t need Darren’s permission before darting off once more. Two seconds later, he heard the crack of wood and Dustin’s string of colorful words that followed as he tumbled through the bog beyond the barrel.
He had to hold his lips tightly together as his pupil rose from the swamp, his shirt and hair caked with mud. In his path were splintered pieces of the once perfectly good barrel they could no longer use for anything else but firewood.
“At least you didn’t miss it completely,” he mused light-heartedly.
Dustin’s filthy face puckered in disgust as he trudged onto solid ground, chunks of mud dropping from his outstretched arms. There wasn’t a chance that Eleanor would allow him in the house. Even Lucy, who was always willing to go wallowing in the dirt, wasn’t likely to go running up to Dustin in this state.
“I think we’ve done enough for one day,” Darren said as he waited for Dustin to walk back, slinging speckles of muck with each shake of his sopping sleeves and legs.
The Irishman (A Legacy Novella) (The Legacy Series Book 7) Page 8
