“So, you surrendered,” I voice what everyone must be thinking.
“They did what was necessary. I’ve given you the base history, but the truth is that the deamhanan had begun tae encroach on Were territory and were causing problems o’ their own, history repeating itself. Not twenty years after the fire, the vampires had made their presence public, taking over Glamis Castle. As Sun Tzu said in The Art of War, ‘The men o’ Wu and the men o’ Yueh are enemies; yet if they are crossing a river in the same boat and are caught by a storm, they will come tae each other's assistance just as the left hand helps the right.’”
Only Gavin would have parts of The Art of War memorized.
“A two front war is never wise, and the Were had experienced many losses with the unwillingness tae take on mates that were Other, the fire, and hunters. They could no longer protect themselves from all o’ the outside threats, as well as the internal unrest. It was decided between the five main coven leaders and the current Righ MacCrae that every five years, on March 20th, the treaty would be renewed and imbued with fresh magic tae ensure peace would be lasting.”
“And you trust that? You trust that this centuries old agreement made between your ancestors will continue to last?”
“I have tae trust that, lass.”
A chilling sense of foreboding snakes down my spine. That treaty is not getting signed. The Wards will fall. I know it; that instinct that Gavin seems to have transmitted to me like some disease is screaming it at me.
“Gav—”
“Enough o’ that, little mate. You’re unduly stressing yourself and the bairn. Come look at our future home. Imagine with me what it could become.”
It’s hard to imagine much of anything from the outside. You can’t tell there was ever a fire, from this view. It just looks forlorn and abandoned. Ivy climbs up the turrets, a miniature forest in the front lawn resides in the front courtyard.
It’s slow going picking our way in closer to the entrance. Connor hacks at the growth in front of us, as it is taller than I am. They’ve made efforts to keep nature from fully reclaiming the site, but in deference to me, they’re clearing a wider swath.
I hold on to Gavin’s hand as we wander through the maze of the castle. The walls seem structurally sound, though the roof is nonexistent in some areas. Stately fireplaces and curved archways abound. The many rooms declare the vast size, while the glassless, curved window openings proclaim its old age.
“It’s magnificent,” I whisper.
Some efforts have been made by the pack to restore the site, but it’s obvious that it will take more than just money and Gavin’s motley crew to restore the castle’s former glory.
“Are you worried about remaining hidden?” There has to be a reason they haven’t hired a company to come and handle this.
“Aye. Residential areas have cropped up around the area. There’s even a golf course no’ far from the ruins that uses some o’ the ground’s buildings and is named after Buchanan. We’ve ensured any proposals tae repurpose the building for residential or commercial use has been denied. However, the modernization o’ the world has left us behind. We allowed our presence to fade into the background after the continuous fighting that led to Buchanan’s original demise, but with that, any fear and respect the Were garnered faded as well. I fear we’ll lose our history here, overrun by the general Scottish population.”
“I’d be so curious how it is in Russia, in the vampire’s stronghold.”
Were they able to keep the fear and notoriety required to keep control of their history? Are they able to keep normal humans out?
“That’s never goin’ tae happen, mate,” Gavin shoots down my suggestion.
I have history there too; it’s the birthplace of my father. However, there’s no reason to fight Gavin on this now. I’d much rather fight for him to realize that the witches cannot be trusted, and that he needs to come up with a new plan. Fast.
Mama always used to say that one should never offer up opposition without also offering up a proposition. It does no good to throw down every idea without ever providing an alternative. But I don’t have an alternative. I have no good options to share. Does that mean I should keep my reservations quiet?
The others in our scouting party drift away to discuss perimeter and protection, leaving Gavin and I alone in a beautiful corridor. The roof is still intact, though vines and ivy fight to overwhelm its curves and windows. Sunlight shines through the open spaces, illuminating the cathedral grace of the lines and design.
“Wow,” I breathe out.
“Agreed,” Gavin says, smiling.
His whiskey eyes twinkle in the lowlight, his smile infectious.
I place my hand on his chest, feeling his strong heart beat beneath my touch.
“Don’t go, Gavin. Please.”
The smile becomes strained before disappearing.
“Lass, I wish we were what we once were. I wish the Were could take out the deamhanan and rein in the covens. But I have tae be realistic for your safety and for our bairn’s safe—”
“Fine,” I cut him off in a terse voice.
“Ahh, little mate, do no’ be cross with me.”
“I’m ready to go back now.”
“All right.”
He’s gentle still, seeing past my anger to the worry. He sees more than I’m willing to accept. I care. I care if he leaves to do this thing and doesn’t come back. I need him.
At one point, I wished that this was all some fantastical dream with no bearing in my reality. But now? Now that thought is depressing; because if it were all a dream, Gavin wouldn’t be real.
He takes my hand again and leads me back through the maze of ruins to the front. This castle is almost symbolic, full of beauty, but too far gone to be saved. I know Gavin thinks that his pack will grow and mend itself. He believes that over time things will somehow magically work themselves out and the pack will emerge victorious and rebuild Buchanan. I just don’t see how.
“At least take some people with you. I know how you are Gavin, you’ll want to go alone to leave me protected.”
“I’ll take Murdoch. Connor will stay and—”
“I don’t like him.”
“Connor has put his life on the line for me many a time. Most of the scars riddling his body have been a result o’ him saving my life by offering his own.”
“I didn’t say I doubted his loyalty to you. I just don’t like him.”
“If he concerns you so, I will remove him from your inner guard, though it goes against my instincts.”
“You should remove Athol from the pack while you’re at it,” I mutter beneath my breath.
His head cants to the side, like a curious dog—or wolf. Of course he heard me. I should have realized he would. A girl can’t have a single, goading remark to herself with wolf ears over here.
“Are you having problems with the females, lass? Do I need tae speak with them on your behalf?”
Oh, like that would go over well. It would make things worse with Athol. Wait, Athol . . . that kind of sounds like the more brutish name for a donkey. Well, her parents named her right! The thought causes me to laugh aloud, or maybe its hysteria borne of fear.
“Natalie?”
Gavin is looking at me like I’ve lost my mind, and maybe I have, but the irony of Athol’s name and attitude is just too much for me right now. When tears begin to stream down my cheeks from my hilarity, Gavin crosses the threshold from stupefied to worried.
“Natalie!”
He grabs my shoulders and gives me a slight shake.
“What does the name Athol make you think of?”
“A female within our pack . . . ”
“No, I know that. I mean, what does the name sound like? You know . . . ”
I want him to get it for himself. It’d make it funnier, and I’d feel our thoughts are a bit more similar if he could reach the conclusion on his own. I also want to gauge if Gavin’s feelings toward Athol resemble my own di
slike at all.
Nope. Nothing.
A boisterous laugh bursts out from behind me, soon joined by a deeper baritone laugh that I’ve never heard before.
Hawke walks forward and knocks Gavin’s hands away from my shoulders to wrap his arm around me in a hug.
“I’ve often thought the same! I was just never willing to say it aloud!”
Gavin is shaking his head at us, and I decide to ignore his incredulous expression. If he hasn’t gotten it by now, he won’t, unless I outright say it. And since Hawke and the other mysterious laugher have overheard our conversation, there is no telling if Athol might be close enough to hear it too. I don’t want to outright insult her in front of her alpha king. I think she’d kill me in my sleep for that.
Hawke finally settles down, and Gavin seems content to remain ignorant of the reason for our enjoyment, but the deep baritone laughter continues. It stutters for a second and then becomes a chuffing sort of chuckle.
I’ve got to know just who in the pack thinks I’m that hilarious. We’ll be friends for life. I turn away from Gavin and shrug from underneath Hawke’s arm to see just who is struggling to hold in their mirth.
It’s Connor!
Well, I’ll be! The man has a sense of humor and doesn’t care much for Athol. Why did I ever not trust the man?
“Gavin,” I whisper in awe.
I watch while poor Connor glances around as he wipes his streaming eyes. He seems embarrassed to have been human for a minute instead of the emotionless robot that he usually is.
“Aye, lass?”
“Let’s keep Connor.”
“Anything you desire, lass,” he replies, this time with a bit of a chuckle himself.
Enjoying the warmth the sound of his enjoyment inspires, I let everything else fade away. I’ve been doing that a lot, but it’s all I have. Either this entire world is a delusion, or I need to be delusional to survive it.
Each morning I wake up, attempt to knit, give up and sulk. Then, when I tire of that, I seek out Gavin for our daily argument. They all end the same, but routines are healthy. Right?
Like the day after our Buchanan outing . . .
“You should take Luciah, Athol, Murdoch, Hawke, Duncan, and Heather with you. As a matter of fact, take everyone to the treaty, including me! That’ll be safest. Take the exiled pack members too; because we’re going to storm the coven!”
“You, my little mate, will stay here, safe with Connor.”
“Women are powerful in their own right, but noooo, the men are the power in this pack. Ugh. You guys need to just . . . get over it and enter the twenty-first century. I bet Athol could kill men with her spiteful tongue alone.”
“So insulting. Try thinking of us as just another culture with traditions and values that deserve respect.”
“Just saying. At least you don’t wear kilts. Now that’s a sight I do not want to see.”
Despite myself, I picture Gavin in a kilt . . . shirtless.
“Do you relish insulting me?”
I know he’s lecturing me, and I should be aggravated, but all I can do is stare at his lips, mesmerized. Damn pregnancy hormones.
“Are you even listening tae me?”
Actually, no. But can he blame me when he throws words like ‘relish’ into his scolding? The word in his accent, shaped by those firm lips, has me thinking of other things. It doesn’t matter what he says when he says it like that. I know I’m staring, and I can’t seem to stop, hoping he will form more words with that beautiful mouth.
“Lass, I think you doona relish insults as much as you relish something else, eh? Your eyes are telling me you’re more interested in the process of speaking the words than the words themselves.”
There it is again, that word, and this time he has drawn it out, almost like a rumbling purr. Wait, is he antagonizing me? I have to go back and try to replay the content without the accent, inserting blander synonyms into the mental file where I need them, so I can pay attention.
Girl, I think you don’t like insults as much as you enjoy something else, huh? Your eyes are telling me you’re more interested in the process of speaking the words than the words themselves.
Ahh, yes. He is taunting me. Am I that transparent? Who am I kidding? Everything the man says and does is sexy, no matter how irritating!
Needless to say, I haven’t gained any ground. The baby is due in a two weeks, Gavin leaves tomorrow, and I’m just as powerless as I’ve been since this all started. I may not be decided on my future with Gavin, but I have come to realize I want Liam to at least know his father. He deserves that. They both do.
“You’re improving.”
I look up to see Gavin watching me from the doorway. Lifting up and examining the progress of my knitted blanket, I know his words to be a lie, but it’s nice all the same. We haven’t had our daily argument today yet. I wonder if he’s here to get it out of the way.
He looks even more ragged today. I know he stays up late planning over maps and reading through old tomes. I also know, judging by his weary face, he hasn’t found anything helpful. Elder Duncan left a week ago in an attempt to gain some friends among the witches in other covens; he still hasn’t returned. It was a suicide mission, and we all knew it, but he is one of my least favorites, and I care more for Gavin’s survival than his. I know it’s heartless, but I just don’t care.
“I brought you something.” He stops, clearly unsure, piquing my interest. “Actually, two somethings.”
I toss the poor excuse for a blanket to the corner of the bed and reach a hand between my body and the headboard to massage my aching back. His demeanor is too serious for this gift to be something I’ll want.
“What is it?” I ask.
He brings out an old, red book from behind his back along with a cup. The leather of the book is worn, but shiny and clean. It’s the type that always used to inspire me to explore in the library back in college. Leather bound books have always held a bit of mystery for me.
I reach out for the cup first. Somehow it seems the more innocuous of the two.
He sets the book down and relinquishes the cup to me.
“It’s called a quaich,” he explains.
The word is strange, almost like quake” but with that glottal ending sound that only Scots can manage.
The cup is a fine china piece, with a delicate pattern around the rim and Celtic knots painted in green in the center. There are two handles, one on either side.
“It’s beautiful.”
“The Scottish custom is a quaich made o’ wood, but Da had this specially made with fine china, tae include my mother’s American culture. The tradition is that a couple drinks whiskey from the cup together tae signify their union.”
I won’t be drinking whiskey any time soon. Is he trying to give me hope by offering something that will only have use in the future? I want the hope, but at the same time, this is a huge thing weighed in ritual and family. It’s not something that should be thrown out right before he risks his life.
“Gavin . . . ”
He holds up a hand and pushes the book toward me. I carefully set the quaich on the bedside table to pick up the book and bring it closer to my face. The title is etched in what I assume to be Gaelic.
“Hawke can go through it with you; he can translate it for you.”
“This better not be what I think it is,” I respond, all the tense nervousness and discomfort I feel bleeding into my tone. The quaich is bad enough, if this book is the same one that’s been passed down, the same one that Gavin learned from as a child . . .
“Tis the pack’s rules and traditions for royalty, passed on generation tae generation.”
He means it as some sort of parting gift, a way to keep tradition alive if he doesn’t make it back. How dare he?
“I’m not royalty.”
“You are the rìgain MacCrae.”
“I can’t be a queen! I have no experience whatsoever! There’s nothing to qualify me for that position.�
��
“You being my mate is the only qualification that’s expected o’ you.”
Not again. “Wonderful. You and this mate business . . . it’s your explanation for everything. No, really, it makes me feel valued as a person.”
“We both know tis true.”
“Harp all you want. The point is that there has got to be someone better suited for the job.”
Like you, Gavin. You need to be king. So, don’t give up. Don’t die for me.
“A wise someone once told me that the desire for something better for your people is a defining quality o’ a good leader.”
That’s just it. They’re not my people, and I’m too much of a coward to try and become part of this pack.
“We need tae discuss contingencies. I know you doona like for me tae keep you out o’ anything. I’m offering a truce tae you. We can talk about what might happen, and you can take the tome for your own—tae pass down.”
“Or?”
“Lass, what will be, will be. Nothing we say or do now can change that. I doona want tae leave with you angry with me.”
“Then don’t leave.”
He sighs so deeply, that his entire body shifts up and down through the movement of his chest.
He’s giving in and giving up. We have so few options and it’s tearing us apart. I wish I could reach out and stroke his hair away from his temple. I wish I could flip a switch and turn the light back on in his whiskey eyes. I wish it were simple.
Something’s gotta give.
“No. You don’t get to give up. You know you’re going to your death or you wouldn’t be giving me this. This is your goodbye!” I yell and fling out a hand toward the tome.
Die By Night Page 32
