Highland Wolf Shifters of Dundaire 4

by Angelique Armae

  HIGLAND WOLF

  Shifters of Dundaire, Novella 4

  By: Angelique Armae

  Publisher: Summerborne Books, LLC

  Copyright © 2017 Josephine Piraneo

  ISBN: 978-1-942346-09-8

  Cover by Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Formatting by Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Cover photo from Hot Damn Stock

  Shifters of Dundaire Series

  Novella 1: DARK WOLF

  Novella 2: CHRISTMAS WOLF

  Novella 3: VIKING WOLF

  Novella 4: HIGHLAND WOLF

  Novella 5: RETURN OF THE WOLF

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at mailto:aarmae@angeliquearmae.com.

  Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. All Rights Reserved. http://www.angeliquearmae.com

  Chapter One

  Wolfsden Keep, Dundaire, Scotland

  If Bane MacHendrie had to stake his soul on one definite thing in this world, it was that his pack of wolves did not eat dainty desserts like candy-pink macarons.

  Not that he hadn’t exposed his kin to the finer aspects of life, that damn lesson on teaching them to use a fork had nearly cost him an eye, but after centuries of banging his head against the wall trying to tame Scotland’s oldest shapeshifter clan, he knew his wolves weren’t the sort to crave macarons.

  Yet the center hall of his ancestral castle sat littered with cartons of the round, colorful treats. And not just two or three boxes, but dozens. A few even with baker’s string still attached, their cardboard sides torn and wedged between the floor’s white marble tiles as if having been sucked into the dungeons below by some supernatural force.

  Crumbs of meringue and cream scrunched under his boots.

  He sniffed.

  The scent of strawberry lingered in the air, as did a hint of vanilla. Personally, he would have preferred kiwi or even pistachio, but who was he to judge?

  The annoying sound of sticking shoe soles licked at his ears.

  Bloody sugar. Dry toast would have been a heck of a lot easier to clean up. Starting his vacation with having to mop the floor was not exactly what he had envisioned.

  February had always been his month. The one time of the year that Wolfsden Keep was all his, free of the pack. And after that holiday fiasco which had nearly cost him his niece, Leila, he needed these upcoming four weeks to be as dull and as boring as possible. Which meant no time wasted on rabid wolves, or pups crying over lost loves, and definitely no frickin’ time wasted playing counselor to a clan member who sated his crazy ass problems with treats a quarter of the size of his palm but cost an arm and a leg to buy. For that amount of money, he’d get the person a proper therapist. And a personal baker.

  Grabbing the handle of a garbage bin from the niche under the kitchen’s arched entrance, he wheeled the green monstrosity across the hall. As he walked, his gaze drifted to the bottom of the curved staircase.

  He leaned forward and squinted.

  An invoice lodged between the stair’s twisted, mahogany spindles, bore the words ‘OVER DUE’ stamped in red ink across the bottom, followed by a hand-written entry ordering two thousand macarons.

  Aw Christ. Apparently, this was not a one-off situation as no one could eat that many desserts in a single sitting, even if they were miniscule.

  He plucked the creased piece of paper from the stairs and brought it in for closer inspection.

  Italicized print occupied two rows across the top.

  Abeille’s Magickally Amazing Treats

  New Orleans #1Bakery Serving All Magickal Patrons.

  A logo, inked in bright red, filled the righthand corner.

  Bloody hell.

  Whenever he saw that damn image of a witch carrying a beehive, his blood boiled. The clan was going to end up one member short tonight if he didn’t get a darn good explanation as to why his number one nemesis was sending her baked treats to his home.

  Taking a deep breath, he rounded his shoulders.

  His canine teeth elongated.

  His jaw shifted.

  Down boy. He did not need his wolf coming out now.

  His body returned to normal.

  Ordering baked goods from his greatest enemy teetered on treason. Never mind the fact macarons from Paris were a hell of a lot closer, which also made them a hell of a lot cheaper than those flown in from across the Atlantic.

  Waste of good money.

  The culprit was going to pay, and considering his wolves wudna be caught dead eating fancy pastries, that left only one member of his pack who could claim the guilt.

  Bane stomped across the tiled floor. Of all the castles he could have inherited, he had to get stuck with a living, breathing, sweet-tooth suffering pile of stones.

  Now the scene in the hall made sense.

  The pulled-through-the-floor boxes.

  The bits of meringue and cream scattered around by a creature incapable of having table manners.

  The huge bill left for him to pay.

  Only a brooding castle could cause such a stir.

  “I didna comment when you downed ten barrels of my finest Scotch overnight.” He grabbed a box, tugged it free from the slight crack between two tiles. “Or when you caused Rhys to fall and break one of the oldest Christmas tree-toppers we had in our collection.” And yet another box. “But this takes the cake. No pun intended.”

  The castle floor vibrated.

  “I dinna give a horse’s arse as to why you did it.”

  Small pebbles fell from Wolfsden’s walls, as did a good dose of dry dust.

  He coughed and waved his hand in front of his face.

  “This is the end, old Wolfsie. If you don’t get your act together, I’m renovating. Turning this place into one of those sleek, shiny new spa-hotels. The type that attracts tourists from across the globe. You’ll have a whole sea of strangers trotting in and out of you then, and I doubt a single one of them will be concerned with picking up trash off your lovely floors. A few may even bring their pups with them, make their trip a relaxing holiday for the whole family. And you know how pups are not pee trained. They’ll be lifting their legs in every damn corner you have.”

  The castle stilled.

  “Consider this your final warning.”

  A low hum vibrated through the hall.

  “Whine all you want, but I will not be swayed.”

  He tossed the boxes into the trash and headed toward the kitchen, bin in tow. The sound of the bin’s wheels hummed as they rotated over the floor.

  Cool air danced under his nose, its scent of lavender rousing his memories.

  His breath hitched.

  Aine.

  A tightening assaulted his chest. What the hell?

  Releasing the trash can, he grabbed his shirt, bunched the white cotton between his fingers.

  He gasped.

  He may be a thousand plus years old, but he had the looks and physique of a healthy thirty-five year old man. Just like all adult males of his pack.

  Yet his heart was beating out of control.

  Damn.

  Visions of Aine flooded his mind: their wedding day, th
e birth of their sons…the day she left this earth to live in the shadows.

  Pitching forward, he leaned against the kitchen arch, his hands splayed over the wall’s smooth plaster.

  Only once had panic of this magnitude overtaken him, but that was due to an earthquake jarring the lid on the urn containing the love he and Aine shared. And his wolf senses hadn’t pick up on any earthly vibrations today. At least none strong enough to rock the electronic safe he’d had installed to protect the jar.

  He sucked in a deep gulp of air.

  No way could a portion of the bottled-up essence in the urn escape again. The tech guy guaranteed it would remain intact, even in the event of another quake, which definitely was not the case today.

  So why did he feel as if the love he’d shared with Aine had escaped its sacred bonds?

  A soothing sensation blanketed his shoulders and slowly started working its way down, even relieving the constricting force around his chest.

  His muscles relaxed.

  A buzz flew past his ear, probably a fly or some other dratted insect. Those things never really died off fully during winter, especially in an old castle like Wolfsden that seemed to sometimes be a refuge for the pesky things.

  Bane took a deep breath and straightened. The oddities of Dundaire never ceased to keep him on his toes. Whatever the hell this last one was, it had now vanished and inquiring about it would only cut short his quiet time at Wolfsden. Dismissing it for now was best.

  A shadow wafted in from the open window in the entrance hall. The aroma of tropical lime accompanied it.

  He stared at the swirling entity. Only MacHendrie wolves had clean smelling scents, each clan member having a distinct fragrance all their own, and only one gave off the essence of tropical lime with no other aromas mixed in.

  Conall.

  The world was going bloody mad today. That or he was going delusional. Which considering all that had happened, from his brooding castle eating macarons, to the lavender scent of Aine’s soul smacking his nose, to his chest constricting, insanity wasn’t a far-off bet.

  Conall’s body took form.

  “This canna be good.”

  “Hold your tongue, brother. I’ve come for a reason.”

  “It had better be a great one because showing up here means you’re violating your sentence.” The gods hadn’t been easy on Conall after he’d attempted to marry a goddess. His brother should have learned from his own experience that human bloodlines, even those that were half-preternatural, never fared well when mixing with that of the gods. His own tragic love story should have been enough to deter Conall, but no, the love-sick fool still fell for that powerful half-witch, half-goddess. Now he lived most of the time in a ghost-like state, bound to the grounds of his personal castle. And leaving those cursed grounds to pop in at Wolfsden Keep only meant trouble.

  “Am I going to care that you’re here?” He grabbed the garbage bin and slid it into its proper place in the niche under the kitchen archway.

  Conall floated over. “Before I answer that, I want you to know you have my full support.”

  Counting on a wolf shifter who couldn’t even muster enough energy to keep his body in full substance, wasn’t going to be much help in whatever doom the man had come to announce. But that didn’t mean Conall’s heart wasn’t in the right place. “Go on.”

  “You do know that witch Abeille has been spotted in the vicinity, right?”

  Not what he wanted to hear. “What in God’s name has brought her to Scotland? The damn macrons bill can’t be all that late.”

  Conall raised one black eyebrow. “Since when did you start eating those froufrou French things?”

  “Some would say the pastry’s history is actually Venetian.”

  A blank look crossed Conall’s face.

  His brother’s clueless stare was exactly why he knew his lot of wolves could never be refined. Etiquette lessons just didn’t work on the pack, but hand them a sword, specifically a claymore, and you were talking a different matter. Their IQs were off the chart when it came to all things Scotland. And that endearing pride is what made being their alpha all the more heartwarming. “You were saying something about Abeille?”

  “Right. She’s been seen in Dundaire, mumbling to herself and stalking down the street, a mad woman’s purpose to her walk. Humans ignored her or just didn’t notice her, but the shifters parted way for her, some going so far as crossing the road all together. They say dragon fire shot from her eyes.”

  A wicked, angry witch was never a good thing. “Well, I pity the soul who she’s come to see, but it is none of my concern.”

  Conall shifted from gossamer to flesh. He adjusted his kilt and then grabbed the dagger at his side. His fingers worked the silver hilt in a nervous manner. “A feral wolf spotted her in your drive just before dawn.”

  “Nonsense. I would know if that hag set so much as a single toe on my property.”

  Conall stared at the garbage bin. “What were ye cleaning up?”

  “Macarons. Old Wolfsie had a feast of them overnight. Consumed two thousand, though according to the bill, only a portion made up this latest delivery.”

  “Ah, so he ran up a tab, did he?”

  “Yes, but…” He fisted his hands. “Bloody hell, the witch must have delivered Wolfsden’s order in person. But why do that when she canna stand the sight of me and vice versa? She had to have known there was a chance we would have crossed paths.”

  “Women have always been a mystery, brother.”

  He couldn’t agree more. His lovely Aine, with her long, flaxen hair and brilliant light brown eyes with those gold-flecks that seemed to sparkle whenever the moonlight washed over her, was a puzzle he’d never solve. “Well, whatever Abeille’s reason was for being here, she didn’t stick around, so I am not concerned. I’ll pay the bill online.”

  Conall plucked a piece of invisible lint off his kilt, his fidgeting growing worse.

  Abeille delivering macarons couldn’t have been all that traumatizing to the big lug. “What else are ye not telling me?”

  His brother hesitated, but only for a second. “There were also reports of the witch leaving Dundaire. And I think ye better sit down for this part.”

  The first time Conall steps out of bounds against the gods, and the man has to bring a crap load of bad news with him.

  Bane shook his head. He pulled out an oak chair at the kitchen table and leaned against its back. “This is as close to sitting as I’m going to get. So out with it.”

  “A wolf in town said Abeille had a distinct scent to her….” He paused.

  “Don’t clam up now, brother.”

  “The wolf said she smelled of lavender and that she was also seen holding a red glass jar while talking to a buyer at an antiques shop.”

  “What are ye gettin’ at?”

  A hint of worry sparked in Conall’s blue eyes. “I’m just suggesting we go into the crypt and check the urn. As a precaution.”

  His stomach twisted. His wife had been dead, or more correctly, living in the shadows, for a thousand years, their love locked up for safe keeping to be set free only once they could safely reunite. “Why would Abeille come for the jar? It’s not like it will do her any good. The only purpose our locked-up love serves is that it keeps Aine in the shadows, away from that bastard Jarle. And he has been dead since last summer.”

  “I’d never dare pretend to know what goes on in Abeille’s mind,” Conall said. He paused again. “Why haven’t ye released your love for Aine now that Jarle is dead?”

  “Are you accusing me of being afraid to love my wife? Of purposely keeping her in the shadows?” No one knew the truth of the matter. Jarle being dead didn’t erase the fact that technically the Viking witch could claim Aine’s heart, even in the afterlife, because of a small matter that was never fully settled back in Medieval days. But just voicing his concern over the fact could give power to his words. And losing Aine for eternity was not what he wanted. He’d already
nearly faced the loss when Jarle tried to bind Aine’s heart last summer. And that was even without releasing their love and freeing Aine from the Otherworld.

  “I would never accuse you of such a thing.” Conall’s fingers went back to nervously thumping over the hilt of the dagger at his side.

  Bane kept silent on the matter, but another second of that drumming noise and he’d go insane. “Verra well, what else are ye keeping from me?”

  “It is only rumors, but I have heard from others in the shadows, that a goddess recently reached out to Abeille.”

  It couldn’t be true. “Aine would never do such a thing. Are ye sure you have your story straight?”

  “Of course I’m sure. Why would I lie?”

  “I never said ye lied. What else have these rumors alluded to?”

  “Before I say, just know I am not accusing you of anything. But a few dead souls roaming around my castle have said that the word in the afterlife is that you don’t have rights to Aine’s heart. And that Jarle does. And that Aine has decided to fix things. And that Jarle has managed to slip through time…once or twice. Though, that last bit is only speculation based on the fact that Jarle’s ghost has gone missing for short spans of time.”

  Damn him to hell, his worst fears were coming true. “Aine would have to go back in time herself to fix my mistake. And consequences of that action would be too much to remedy even for a half-goddess such as herself.” He shoved the chair, it’s oak frame giving off a cracking sound as it bounced against the table’s edge. “She’d never do such a thing.”

  Conall glared at him. “The underground bookmakers are saying the payout for you winning this one is a ticket out of hell. How much more proof does that thick skull of yours need?”

  Well, his brother certainly had found his tongue on that matter. Though he still doubted the rumors. Aine going back in time, together with that bastard Jarle, could disrupt countless lives, specifically those of their sons. And Aine would never do anything to harm the boys.

  “What foolish thing did ye do, brother?”