“It’s not Christmas time,” Heather scolded me. “And that is not funny.”
I didn’t think it was funny either, but I couldn’t seem to control myself. Everything is eerie and wrong. Even now that we’ve made it here to the Hallow, it’s somehow gloomy and scary, as well.
The area is beautiful; I can’t deny it. If woodland fairies existed, they would choose to live here, which reminds me of the Tuath Dé and Hawke’s story. The sun provides dappled light through the cover of trees, reminding me of how vulnerable we’ll be once it sets. Nearby, a stream winds through the thicket, reminding me of when we ran after the hotel, and I know this is just as temporary as that was.
We can’t stay here. We can’t live here.
No, the Hallow is not a permanent solution, but I have a plan. We need my father. If the witches are against us, if they’ve teamed up with the vampires, then we need an ally as well.
I’m not certain that the wolves in Scotland are the only Were around. It just doesn’t make sense. I’ve heard stories of werewolves in London throughout history, and maybe they left the original pack in Scotland, but other packs must have formed later. The legends of the supernatural extend too far for them to be so isolated and have such a small population.
We can escape Scotland, get with my papa, and build an army together. Maybe if we gather a strong enough force, we can end this war without too much bloodshed. Maybe we’re a target now because we’re too easy.
“Anything?” I ask Connor.
He stands watch at the door of the second largest cabin. The placement is strategy, giving the royals extra time to escape, as the enemy will likely attack the largest cabin first. At least, that’s what Connor said. I think all of the cabins should be the same size, and then the enemy would have no clue which to attack first. Of course, I did assign Athol the largest cabin. If you’re not for me . . .
“Nothing,” he answers.
He’s good at hiding his emotions, but he’s nervous. I can tell. He did his usual, going through the entire little house and child proofing it for me. He stuffed dishrags into all of the windowsills and wrapped me in a blanket to prevent a chill. All of his normal, neurotic, protective tendencies were out on full display, but he kept pausing, perking his head up as if listening.
He’s distracted, and Connor is never distracted.
His gloved thumb keeps sliding along the side of the SAT phone hanging from his cargo pants. Hawke took a phone as well, but he hasn’t called with a single update.
“He’d call if he could,” I worry aloud.
“Do not fret. Perhaps take a nap?”
I worry, because he’s worried. Who could nap at a time like this?
Instead, I move to the little kitchenette and begin brewing a pot of tea. I know things are bad when Connor doesn’t warn me against burns, or insist on making it himself.
While the water warms on the stove, I slide the navy blue curtain away to watch out of one of the windows. People are milling about, a clear division between the outlier pack members and Gavin’s faithful. It’s too cold for the lean-tos, so everyone is doubling up in the cabins. Though the only two allowed in my own cabin are Heather and Connor.
I insisted on that.
I know that the witches betrayed us. But something else is nagging at me, my mark burning in irritation. There has to be more to it. It can’t be that simple.
The sun is sinking lower as dusk approaches. Athol is pacing on the edge of the thicker trees; perhaps she has a heart after all. Perhaps her pacing is a sign of worry for her husband.
The latch on the door is let down, softly, but still loud enough for me to hear. If they’re locking us in, it means they’ve given up on Gavin making it here tonight. I see Heather and Connor whispering to each other by the door just as the teakettle whistles.
Connor starts rounding, going to each window and double checking to ensure they’re closed and locked.
“Connor!”
“The sun will set within the next hour.”
“There’s still time!”
Heather comes to move the teakettle from the stove. I would have just let the whistle continue to grow, louder and shriller.
“I’ve instructed a guard to remain outside,” Heather says lowly.
It’s a warning not to try to leave.
“I don't want to leave, but I don’t want to close up shop yet.”
“Gavin won’t approach at night. He knows it’s too dangerous; it’ll bring too much attention and might lead our enemies here. Once midnight passes—”
Connor doesn’t have to finish that sentence. Once midnight passes, the official dawning of a new day, the witches will no longer be contained by the treaty in any form. The Wards will fall, and they will begin hunting us in earnest. Who knows who they have allied with? The hunters that Gavin mentioned before may join them in trying to find and exterminate us. For all I know, there could be goblins and banshees too.
From the kitchen window, I see everyone retreating inside; outdoor lanterns are snuffed out, and the glow fades from windowpanes. As the last bit of light winks out, I catch a glimpse of two silhouettes going out toward the perimeter to guard against possible attacks.
Snug as a bug in a rug.
“I made tea,” I say.
Connor and Heather each pour themselves a cup, and I slink to the fire in the living room, settling down in a rocking chair to wait.
Waiting is the hardest thing, especially if you know it’ll be for an indefinable length of time. I need an end date, a deadline.
Connor is staring at me, but I don’t know what he’s looking for. Do they think I’ll have a plan? If the worst comes to pass and Gavin, Hawke, and Robert don’t return, what do I do next? I know I need my papa, but will he be able to get us out of Scotland? Will he hate that I’ve aligned myself with his kind’s mortal enemy?
It’s twilight now. The sun is offering its last bit of light and warmth for the day; the possibility for hope that burgeoned in my heart with Hawke’s leaving to find Gavin fades right along with it.
A racket outside the door has me struggling to my feet.
“They’ve found us,” I breathe out.
Which must mean that Gavin is dead.
“Get back! Get back!” Heather whispers the words, her voice harsh and commanding.
The racket is moving closer.
“What’s the point?” If the enemy is at the door, they’ve already plowed through our guards.
Connor snarls. I guess I said that bit out loud.
He makes some kind of hand gesture toward Heather, like they do in the movies, as if Connor has some kind of SWAT training of which I’m unaware.
“It’s too late, Connor. I can’t run.”
I gesture to my swollen stomach, but Heather with her deceptive strength, pulls me up by lifting under my arms. She carts me to the back hallway. I know there’s some kind of escape passage back here. But what’s the point? I’ll be running for the rest of my life, and as soon as I think it’s mildly safe—they’ll appear.
How long before my luck runs out and I give in? Gavin’s luck ran out.
A whistle sounds from outside, some melody I’ve never heard before, and the room stops. Connor’s hand hesitates on the door handle. Heather stumbles, sending me off kilter, though I manage to grab the back of the sofa to regain my balance.
Connor opens the door, only to reveal Elder Duncan.
Once again, my hope is dashed.
Everyone is are gathering around him, patting him on the back, asking a thousand questions a minute. I could kill the man for what he just put us through. I want to kill him because he isn’t the man I wanted to see.
“Athol, get him settled into a cabin,” Connor orders.
And then, in a miracle I didn’t see coming, Connor turns to look at me, his eyes round and wide with shock. His hand shoots toward the SAT phone attached to his waistband.
“It’s vibrating,” he says, wonder in his tone.
Gavin will be here any minute, according to what Hawke told Connor over the phone. The others are gone, Connor guarding outside. I ordered them, as their rìgain, to leave me alone. I included the threat that I’d order executions if they disobeyed. I don't want an audience for this reunion. I pace back and forth, trying to sort through all of the emotions tumbling around in my head and heart.
Then, the door opens, and it’s like the floodgates open. I don’t know if I want to cry, kiss him, or strangle him. I’m thinking all three at once is the best solution.
"You left!” I scream at him.
I wish I had planned ahead and gathered an arsenal to throw at him. I could have chucked that throw pillow, the tea kettle, and the old-fashioned lantern all at his handsome head.
“Natalie . . . ”
“You wouldn't listen to me!”
“I—” he tries to interject, but I have more to say, and he’s going to hear it all, damn it!
“You didn't say goodbye. You just left, leaving me to wake up to an empty bed! You deserted me, and you didn't even have the sense to try and survive by bringing your guard. I. Am. Furious. With you."
“I know the feeling,” he counters.
Well, crap. Having the tables turned on you mid rant is not fun, nor is it sporting.
“Gavin, that’s not—”
“No’ fair?”
He closes the door on his eavesdropping populace, and I take a step back. There’s something off about him. His eyes are dark, a black ring around his golden irises, as if he doesn’t have control.
“You know what is no’ fair? You’re just now understanding what I went through. You took yourself, and you took our child, and you left me in the dark. And ever since that morning, I have been wrecked for you. And now, now that you’re here, where I’m supposed tae be able to protect you, I keep failing.”
“What happened?”
“You. You happened.”
How did this get so turned around so quickly? I’m the one who’s upset. I’m the one who thought he was dead. Gone forever.
“Gav—”
“Your worry for me tore at me. It ate me up. Your mark burned me.”
My mark? The confusion must be written on my face, because he smiles, a sad, hurtful smile.
He pulls aside the collar of his shirt and exposes that shadow, tattoo like mark that I’ve wondered about so many times. It looks agitated, almost angry, and far darker and deeper than before. The two crescent moons look more like a burn than a tattoo now.
“I could no’ even make it tae the meet. I did no’ get the opportunity tae try and negotiate the treaty, because your hold on me is like a leash, embedded intae my skin with daggers. It tugs me back tae you, ripping me apart if I try tae resist your pull. I was already on my way back when Hawke came for me.”
“I have a plan,” I offer the subject change because I can’t process what he’s saying.
He’s been marked by me? This insane bond is two sided? Who is this man in front of me? This man, with the lack of control, the lack of finesse and princely charm, is not the same man who negotiated for kisses and exchanged chocolate hearts with me weeks earlier. This man is at his wit’s end, and I don’t quite know how to deal with that.
“Oh, do you now?” he asks.
“I-I, umm, I do.”
We’ve traded places. Now I’m stuttering, unsure of how to reach him and how to penetrate his anger.
“We go to my papa, because Gavin, there’s more here. I sense it. I feel it. I know you don’t want to accept the possibility that one of your own has turned against you, but it’s the only thing that makes any sense. And that means that we’re in danger even now. After midnight, the witches will have free reign to attack us.”
“That promises tae be an interesting conversation. Tell me, Lass, how are you planning on breaking the news o’ our bairn and nuptials to your dear, deamhan papa?”
“Nupti—”
“How are you going tae explain why you lied tae him, as you did me? How are you going tae explain leaving me alone in that hotel room?”
It’s like something in him has broken. The control and restraint he struggles so hard to hold onto every day has popped like a rubber band stretched too far. Yet, I still strive to keep the conversation on an even keel, as if it’s normal.
“My papa doesn’t need to know how it happened. I don’t live at home. I’m an adult. I made a mistake, and now I’m taking responsibility for it. It’s simple.”
“No, a father and his daughter are never simple. He’s no’ going tae accept that easy explanation, and I think you know that.”
“Simple? None of this is simple. It’s all complicated. It’s all awful!”
He shakes his head at me as if indulging a child’s charming naiveté.
“Your da will no’ accept that. He’ll want tae know who I am, why you gave in, what you were thinking, and how I could dare touch his little girl without placing a ring on her finger first. He’ll want tae rough me up. I would want tae rough me up. I already feel protective o’ our little girl.”
My hand comes to rest on my stomach as I take a step back to prevent him from reaching out to touch me. Whenever we talk about the baby, he always seems to feel the need to touch me—mainly my stomach.
I see his eyes shift to catalogue the betraying movement. His brow furrows, but I refuse to feel guilty about this. I’m doing what is best for my baby; his current behavior proves it. This environment isn’t safe. It isn’t natural.
“It’s a boy,” I inform him once again.
He shifts, shrugs his shoulders, and a smug smile transforms his lips to disguise the hurt evident only a second before. Yet even with that, there’s still something cruel, something harsh, to his expression.
“No, our bairn is most definitely a girl.”
I determinedly ignore his emphasis on our. Eventually, he will have no choice but to accept my decision—when I disappear.
“I think I would know, seeing as how my boy is inside of my body.”
“Royal matings always produce a girl as the firstborn.”
“That’s hogwash.”
“Tis been proven true over centuries.”
“Fine, your theory only helps me. This baby is a boy. I’m positive, which means, if we count your superstitious lore as fact, that we are not mated.”
“You are my mate! Nothing can change that,” Another shake of his shoulders, then, “I’m sorry it distresses you so.”
“The only other possibility is that you aren’t royal.”
There are gasps from outside the cabin, assuring me that our conversation is in no way private. Of course, I’m partly to blame because of the fact that I get louder with every word I spit in his direction.
“According tae wolf culture, an insult like that earns you a beating.”
“How vulgar.” And further proof that my little boy will never grow up with you and your band of crazies.
He steps forward and I back away, feeling the first tinge of panic join my wariness. I don’t understand the subtle rules of etiquette in a culture for a race that shouldn’t exist, and Gavin is not acting himself. How am I supposed to know when I push too far? One day he’ll tell me that werewolf law requires my death for not blessing him after a sneeze, and I’ll have nothing to refute him. He can make it all up and it won’t matter, what with all the muscle he has backing his edicts, not only on his own body but on his eager packs’ as well. He is watching my retreat with a decidedly wolfish tilt to his head as he tracks my movements, stalking me patiently.
“You wouldn’t dare!” I shriek.
He only grins. I hear laughter outside and know the sadistic pack is enjoying my fear. My hands clench over my belly, reminding me of all I stand to lose if I can’t just pretend to follow along for once in my life.
“I’m carrying your child. Your precious, defenseless baby.”
“So now she’s my bairn? Funny, I distinctly remember your vehemence that she was only yours.”
“There’s nowhere tae run, little mate.”
The endearment has begun to mean something special to me. Tenderness and affection always lace the words, and I crave them despite myself. How cruel to use them now when he plans on hurting me. And somehow the words spoken in his husky voice still soothes me, even now. It is a sick form of conditioning I never even recognized was happening.
“Please.” I’ve never begged him before; not really.
I manipulate and wheedle to get my way, but I have never lowered myself to beg him for anything. But my stubborn pride is no match for my need to save my baby. The back of my knees bump the chair and I stumble. I have made an entire circuit around the cabin. I reach for the chair back to correct my slip, but my hands are clammy with fear and slip off the wood.
Gavin hisses in a breath and lunges, as I start to fall backward and sideways, scrabbling for a hold on something—anything. My fingers claw into his shoulders as he swoops down to catch me before I hit ground. When he growls, I let my convulsive grip fall away as he stands with me in his arms. He turns to sit on the chair and settles me on his lap.
“Shhh,” he whispers against my hair, rocking me in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’d never hurt you. Never.”
I have no choice but to trust his words. To fight now, in my current position, would accomplish nothing.
Tears of defeat trek down my face, and Gavin snuggles me to the side before pressing my face into the hollow where his neck meets his shoulder.
“Shhhh, little mate. Everything will be all right. I’ll never hurt you,” he repeats again.
I sniffle and push my nose further into his warmth, inhaling his woodsy, natural scent. He sighs and begins to sing a lullaby I’ve never heard, though the melody is oddly familiar. It seems to calm him as it calms me. My calm Gavin returning once again. One hand strokes my hair, and the other cups my stomach.
Die By Night Page 34
