Viking Wolf

by Angelique Armae

  VIKING WOLF

  Shifters of Dundaire, Novella 3

  By: Angelique Armae

  Publisher: Summerborne Books, LLC

  Copyright © 2017 Josephine Piraneo

  ISBN: 978-1-942346-08-1

  Cover by Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Formatting by Glass Slipper WebDesign

  Cover photo from Adobe Stock

  Shifters of Dundaire Series

  Novella 1: DARK WOLF

  Novella 2: CHRISTMAS WOLF

  Novella 3: VIKING WOLF

  Novella 4: HIGHLAND 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

  Prologue

  The fields outside Castle Dundaire, Medieval Scotland

  Vidar Von Hess, immortal Viking warrior and last male of his father’s bloodline, watched in silence as his sword slipped from his hand, the ability to hold on to it no longer his, but rather Rorik’s, his homicidal uncle. The powerful earl’s habit of resorting to magick as a means of getting what he wanted was nothing new. As a master spell crafter for centuries, his mother’s brother was almost as deft as the gods. Physically fighting him would prove nothing. But losing his sword left him completely at the man’s mercy and that is not where he cared to be. Rorik’s orders today had gone too far. “I will not make war with a man of peace. Your threats mean nothing.”

  “Mortimer MacDougal is a Scot.” Rorik said. “He is our enemy.”

  “Why? Because he is more powerful than you? Because he befriends me? Or do you hate him because he rescued my mother from your murderous hands?”

  Rorik lunged at him.

  Vidar stood firmly in place, his feet not budging an inch.

  Rorik hissed. His blood-caked fingers, strong like an eagle’s talons, showed no stress as they dug through chainmail and cloth.

  His chainmail and cloth.

  Pain pummeled Vidar’s shoulder, yet he remained steady, the tinny taste of blood reaching his mouth as the metallic essence wove through the night air.

  He clenched his teeth. A slow breath escaped him before he could speak. “We are on MacDougal’s land. Mortimer has been nothing but hospitable to us and still you find fault with him.”

  He fisted his hands. Then looked down, gazed upon the red stain now marring the white shift beneath his mail tunic. His uncle’s grip tightened. He hated seeing the man’s hand on his shoulder.

  “You know nothing of being a true leader.” Rorik stepped back, bits of twisted metal links now embedded in the padding of his claw-like fingers. “You disappoint me, Vidar. I thought you were different than your cowering father.”

  Vidar looked up, but held his tongue. Anger never did a man good.

  Rorik circled him, the stench of centuries-old rot wafting in his wake. A single blood-soaked plume fell from his cape of raven feathers and landed on the ice-licked ground. He scrunched it with his boot heel. “Your mother was pitiful, too. She didn’t even please my men. Now I find your sister just as worthless. Come morning I will do away with Katya, give her first to my men, then to my slaves. By night she should be dead. But you, nephew, in you I see value. Let us make peace and then reap the rewards we both deserve, together.”

  He was not going to have his sister raped. Or murdered. “You deserve nothing.”

  A heinous laugh rumbled from Rorik’s core. “I don’t know what pact you’ve made with that blood sucker MacDougal or that despicable wolf Bane MacHendrie, but it no longer matters. For soon you all will know the full wrath of my evil.”

  Rorik’s eyes turned black as rot.

  Fear rose in Vidar’s soul. He eyed his sword on the frozen ground, commanded it by thought to rise to his hand, but the blade remained still, it’s hilt slowly succumbing to an onslaught of veining ice.

  He turned his gaze back to Rorik. “Take me instead of Katya.”

  “Are you sure you grasp the true meanings of your words, nephew?”

  “Do anything to me, just free Katya.”

  A hazy mist appeared at Rorik’s side. Swirling in place, it took on substance, morphed into a woman’s form.

  “This is Abeille,” Rorik said. “My newest witch.” He turned to face the old hag, splayed his hand, palm side up in her direction. “The stake, Abeille.”

  The witch mumbled several words in a language unfamiliar to Vidar. As she spoke, a short silver knife materialized in Rorik’s hand.

  “There are many facets to my soul, nephew, but the one that runs deepest is that of spell caster. Tonight, I aim to make sure you never forget the fact. I will spare your sister from being taken by my men, but she will remain under my eye.” He raised the stake.

  In a flash, pain sliced through Vidar’s heart.

  The wolf in his soul howled.

  “You will never be like MacDougal, the vampiric essence your mother passed to you, now dead. Nor will you be akin to MacHendrie. The wolf your father gave you shall soon be cursed in a state of hibernation. If you ever try to lift my hex, the animal will reawaken and kill the person who freed it. Then it will turn on you. And because I am a merciless soul, I will leave you your immortality so you will continue to live, continue to be tormented by knowing I have killed off all that gave your life its joy.”

  Everything that Vidar was, no longer existed.

  His world, shattered. Destroyed by the very man who should have protected him.

  Life, as he had known it, was no more…

  Chapter One

  Wolfsden Keep, Dundaire, Scotland, Present Time…

  Christmas Day

  If there was one thing Vidar Von Hess never wanted the god Odin to see, it was the sight of him waking this evening. And not just because he had over slept, or that he’d slept in a skirt-wearing Scotsman’s castle, but because he’d also done so under a canopy of glitter-dusted sugar plum fairies.

  He stared at the sparkly purple and gold mobile with its smiling pixies twirling above his head.

  What respectful Viking still had a shot at entering Valhalla after a fiasco like this? The puffed-out tutus alone were probably enough to get him banned. Never mind what those star-tipped wands did to diminish his battlefield record. Their random falling flakes of glitter were all over him. In fact, if an enemy was to barge into the room right now, fight him, and if he were to die in that fight, he’d show up at Valhalla with his scars covered in purple sparkles. What a sight that would be. Odin would deem him a laughing stock.

  He let out a sigh, then stretched.

  Christmas was not turning out to be jolly.

  A draft rattled the bedroom window, forced a few more flakes to fall from those damn pixie wands.

  Horrid little imps.

  He should have stayed in New Orleans for the holidays, but declining Bane’s invitation would have insulted the Scottish alpha. And since the man was practically family, he didn’t want to disrespect him. But to end up in a bed topped with a mobile of glittery fairies hanging from gold braids attached to a puff of pink netting, was a bit much even for the politest of guests.

  Thank the gods Bane had only one granddaughter. He’d hate to think what the a
lpha’s castle would look like if the man had a whole pack of females living under his roof. Probably even the swords would be draped in ribbons and crystals and whatever else women liked to glue on things. His own sister was testament to that chaos. Rhinestone-bedecked trinkets filled her mansion from its underground crypt to its roof-top patio.

  He shuddered.

  Thank the gods he was not Bane.

  The poor man needed a few more Vikings in his world.

  First it was that beautiful, mighty tree in the downstairs hall, decorated in those Highland skirt-wearer ornaments. Why did the MacHendries not see kilts for the skirts that they were?

  He shook his head.

  Now it was this rotating mobile with its whimsy little fairies dangling above his head. If he didn’t know better, he’d never guess he was in the home of Scotland’s fiercest wolf shifter.

  He sat up and untangled the pink blanket and matching sheets from his body. If Bane thought he was going to raise the next generation of his line to be warriors by giving them soft beddings decorated with pink ballerinas and satin trim, the wolf was sorely mistaken. A good soldier, even a female one, benefitted from sleeping on a hard bed with no more than two animal furs for covering. That’s how he’d slept as a child and he’d turned out just fine.

  Stretching his legs, his feet landed on the thick, plush rug sticking out from under the bed. The vibrant fuchsia color clashed with his tanned skin.

  For her birthday, he was buying little Fiona something gray or black or brown. The child would never learn her colors being trapped in all this pink.

  He pushed off the bed.

  As he stood, a sugar plum fairy smacked his head, its bright pink ballet slipper tangling in his hair.

  For the love of Thor. He would have been better off staying in New Orleans and putting up with that brooding brother-in-law of his for Christmas than to have to deal with tiny dolls assaulting his head. He could accuse Mortimer of many things, but the vampire certainly would not have had him sleep in a bed under a mobile of glitter-covered pixies.

  Coming to Dundaire also meant he could leave behind any chances of running into Bane’s niece, Leila, as he already knew she’d been invited to Katya’s for dinner. And ruining Christmas with a woman who purposely always took at least one step away from him, as if he had the plague or worse, was not how he cared to spend the holidays.

  He unknotted the fairy from his hair. A single wing made of net and lace fell off in his hand, sent a burst of gold flecks dusting his palm.

  Great. Now he’d have to go fish out some glue in the kitchen and mend the damn thing. Hopefully, he’d be able to reattach it without too much trouble.

  A knock sounded at the door.

  “Coming.” He swiped his jeans from the floor, slid in to them, and then traipsed across the room.

  The door opened just as he went for the crystal knob. He pulled his hand back.

  Bane stepped into the room. “I hope the pups didn’t keep you up all night.”

  They did, but he enjoyed listening to their giggles, their carefree laughs echoing over from the playroom across the hall. “They were fine. Besides, I’ve slept so late today, I’ve more than made up for the lost sleep.”

  The alpha rubbed his slightly bearded chin. “Is there anything you need before the family leaves?”

  “No. I’m good, thanks.”

  “Then I guess all that’s left is for me to turn my castle over to you.”

  He slapped Bane on the shoulder. “Don’t worry my friend. The keep is in good hands, trust me. Besides, you’ll be back New Year’s Day. What can go wrong in a week?”

  “You obviously don’t know Wolfsden.”

  He owned seven castles, himself. Being alone in one for a few days wasn’t going to kill him. “I’m sure I can manage. Now go to the cabin and enjoy Christmas with your family. I’ll be up New Year’s Eve.”

  Bane let out a deep breath, a sheepish look crossed his face. “Maybe you should join us. Dinner is always a feast and I can rearrange things…”

  “Don’t even think of it.” He cut the alpha off. He was not spending his entire holiday with the MacHendrie pack. One brooding wolf—himself—was enough to handle. “I’m looking forward to spending the week alone. I need the rest.”

  “Fine, but if you change your mind…”

  That was not going to happen. “I’ll see you on New Year’s.”

  Bane nodded and then turned around.

  A crowd of ten small boys came running through the corridor, all grabbing for the alpha simultaneously. “Come on, grandpa,” several of them said in unison.

  Bane was down the hall in seconds, his hands being tugged by the tots.

  Vidar closed the bedroom door.

  He turned and stared at the sugar plum dancers on the mobile over the bed. One girl among the whole pack of grandchildren. The poor child. Fiona was not going to have it easy with all those boys, which is exactly why he made her that cute pink scabbard to sheath the pink tourmaline-hilted sword he’d forged for her. Of course, the little thing was too young to use his gift just yet, but a female warrior needed a strong weapon. And he wanted to provide that for his goddaughter, because he never wanted her to face a foe without a damn-good blade in hand. Fiona’s wolf was never going to be cursed, trapped in her heart as Rorik had hexed his. Not if he could help it.

  Running his hands over his face, Vidar let out a deep breath. For once he was glad Rorik hadn’t killed him. Little Fiona needed him to make a proper warrior out of her. But it would have been nice if he could do all the things he had planned while still being one with his wolf, while still being able to love a woman the way a man should love his mate. As it stood now, he could never take a wife. Love thawed a frozen heart. Which meant finding his mate could lead to the unraveling of his curse. And that was too much of a threat to any woman he could love. No, his godchildren would just have to put with visiting him at his sparsely furnished, not so tidy, missing a woman’s touch, castles and mansions.

  But still, he appreciated living.

  And despite having had an uncle who had hated him, he did have other people who cared for him, like the MacHendries and his sister. He even had that vampire of a brother-in-law, though he’d be damned before ever admitting to the man that he was warming up to him.

  Overall, living with a frozen heart wasn’t so bad. Being incapable of loving another soul in the way a wolf should love his mate, didn’t mean he couldn’t still live a good life. Being alone wasn’t the end of the world and he’d come to accept the situation, even if he hadn’t liked it.

  Silence descended over the castle. From out in the drive, the sound of several cars’ doors slamming echoed through the air.

  Bane and his happy brood were a boisterous bunch, and while he enjoyed their company, a few days of peace were going to be like heaven after last night’s midnight ball and the drama that had ensued with the banshees. Celts were a strange people.

  Vidar crossed the room, gathered a clean set of clothes from the duffle bag he’d left on the chair near the bottom of the bed, and then headed to the bathroom to shower.

  If nothing else today, at least he’d be able to have an uneventful meal before checking in with his men back in New Orleans. Leaving them to deal with that witch he’d had a run-in with last month, nagged at him. He’d need a clear head before tackling the situation. And what better way to achieve that, than a few hours’ peace and quiet?

  ~~o0o~~

  All her life, Leila MacHendrie dreamt of spending winter nights curled up in front of a fire, her naked body wrapped in the arms of a kilt-wearing hunk. A normal, non-preternatural, non-wolf, hunk, that is. Not that she believed coming to the Scottish Highlands for Christmas was going to magically win her some mortal dreamboat of a guy, but it was one step closer to the fairytale the girl inside her still believed possible. And spending the holidays in Scotland was also what Uncle Bane had insisted on. The man could be damn demanding when he wanted. Though she had to admi
t his idea of giving her the castle for a whole week was the best Christmas gift ever. Of course, she was looking forward to joining him and the rest of the family up at the cabin on New Year’s Eve. But for now, she had Wolfsden all to herself.

  Guilt seeped into her soul. There was nothing worse than getting what you wanted at the expense of a friend’s feelings. And that was exactly what she’d done. Turning down the offer of Christmas dinner at Katya’s wasn’t easy, but she’d never been to Wolfsden for the holidays. And now that her dad was gone, getting back to her roots seemed most important.

  At least Katya’s husband Mortimer shared her sentiment, which eased the guilt a tad. In fact, the man seemed a bit over eager to see her come to Scotland rather than spend Christmas with them at their New Orleans home. But still, Katya did fidget at hearing the news, and that vision was going to make Leila’s guilt stick for quite some time.

  A screech echoed above.

  Leila darted her gaze up to the castle’s tower. A hawk sat perched on the stone ledge, it’s wings flapping.

  Hawks were omens, of that she knew from studying portents, a little side hobby she couldn’t help but keep up with thanks to her supernatural gift of being a magnet for negativity. Sin-eaters like herself looked for omens all the time. Warnings of nearby darkness were a must when your lifelong side kick was an internal Pandora’s box that had a knack for snacking on tainted energy.

  The hawk screeched a second time, glared at Leila with a look so intense it appeared as if the bird had the ability to read her soul, then it took off, soaring to the skies.

  If only she could interpret what the bird might have been trying to tell her.

  She sighed.

  Being an untrained sin-eater sucked.

  Her gaze remained on the castle.

  Wolfsden was an imposing looking place that she bet had many secrets, many omens yet to predict. Just the fact the hill it sat on seemed to have an air all its own, was enough to send a shiver from the top of her spine right down to the tips of her toes. But who wouldn’t have that reaction at first glance? The castle itself was something straight out of a fairytale.