The Wolf's Mate: A Tale of the Holtlands, Book 2

by R. F. Long

  She opened her eyes and captured his, saw the studied concentration there. His smile brought her to ecstasy. Her soul took wing again, flying with Shan as she had with the owl, high into the sky and beyond.

  ***

  The mountain sunlight streamed through the grey silken material of the tent. Later they would return to the Spring Camp, but this was a time for respite. And more. Wrapped in blankets and fur, Jeren rested her head against Shan’s chest, listening to the rise and fall of his breath, and beyond that the beating of his heart. His skin glistened with a light sheen of sweat, and her body warmed again with the thought of him against her, inside her. She pressed her lips against him and was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

  “Careful, little one, or we’ll have to start all over again.”

  She laughed, a chuckle that rippled out of her and into him. “That can be arranged, my love. I think you’re an addiction. One I do not want to be rid of.”

  Even as she spoke, the ghost of what she had seen in the waters below the Vision Rock filled her mind again, and she tried to push it away, to no avail. Her time with him might be finite, but it didn’t have to be boring. She sighed, nestling closer again.

  “What is it?” He ran his fingers through the length of her chestnut hair. “Last night…for a moment, you were lost in such sorrow. Talk to me, Jeren.”

  She hesitated, hating the thought of telling him. Would his face fall? Would he be angry or just disappointed? Worst of all, would she have to watch his heart break right in front of her?

  “I saw my future. I saw myself as ruler of River Holt, carrying Vertigern’s child.”

  It wasn’t that he froze. Not really. For a moment it seemed like he completely stopped breathing. Then he let all that air out in a single rush and pulled her into his arms, gathering her to him as he sat up. “What else?”

  “That was all.”

  “Ariah didn’t look for another option?”

  Options? Ariah had mentioned options, hadn’t she? But then Torvin had attacked and everything had descended into chaos and disaster. “There wasn’t time.”

  He pressed his lips to the crown of her head and she felt them draw up into a smile. His embrace tightened and his voice came again, oddly thin. “There are always other options, my beloved. Always. Nothing is fixed. Destiny depends on our actions. You have to believe that.”

  She tried to nod, wanted to believe. But she knew what she had seen, recalled the feeling of Gilliad’s blood on her hands, of the hurricane of power unleashed inside her and the voices of her ancestors raging in her mind.

  “I want to, Shan. I want to.”

  “Then what is stopping you?”

  “I saw…”

  He lifted her as he got to his feet. Startled, Jeren could only babble a complaint as Shan stepped out of the tent and into the hustle and bustle of a camp about to be struck.

  Jeren buried her mortified face in his naked chest as he strode past the Sh’istra’Phail, past the startled gazes of Vertigern and Elayne, the amused smiles of Indarin and the new Ariah, the disapproving glare of Fethan and his Seers.

  “Stop! Take me back. They can’t see me like this! Shan, please.”

  He laughed. She had longed to hear that sound for so long. Now she flushed red from head to toe. “You are beautiful, my wife. Let them look.”

  “They’re looking at you too!”

  “I do not mind.”

  They passed out of the camp and through the narrow channel of stone that led to the sacred grounds of Aran’Mor, away from prying eyes and indulgent laughter. Jeren opened her eyes once more.

  The blood was gone from the pool below the Vision Rock. Shan lowered her to the ground, holding her against him.

  “Look again.”

  “Isn’t this forbidden?”

  “Not when you have been here once already. Look, Jeren. Look and see an alternative.”

  Their faces gazed back, his so handsome it made her ache for more of the closeness that had made her cry out his name and arch to meet him. Her own face was just her face, though touched with a glow she did not remember seeing there before. A breeze rippled across the water and her image fragmented, reformed.

  An old woman looked back at her, old but beautiful, her skin so pale as to be almost translucent, her hair as white as his, tightly braided. She smiled and Shan nuzzled her neck, pressing his lips to the pulse there in a tender and familiar gesture. Then, in the distant future, and now. Her lover, her husband. Her mate.

  “They can’t both be true, Shan.”

  “They are not exclusive, but it doesn’t mean you saw everything, little one.”

  “An alternative outcome?” she whispered.

  “Perhaps. The only one I will accept. We will grow old together, my beloved. That is what must be.”

  Her eyesight blurred with tears and the bridge of her nose tingled with emotion. “Braid my hair, Shan,” she whispered. “Make it happen.”

  He nuzzled her neck again and then pulled her around to kiss her so thoroughly she melted against him. “I will, later. We still have unfinished business, you and I.”

  His mouth claimed her, marking her as his, and she returned the kiss with a fervour a well-brought-up Holtwoman would never admit to. But whatever her destiny had in store, Jeren no longer cared. For this moment, this glorious moment and all those moments to come, she could be with Shan, with her one and only mate. And if destiny could be melded to their desire, together they would make it so.

  About the Author

  R. F. Long always had a thing for fantasy, romance and ancient mysteries. The combination was bound to cause trouble. In university she studied English Literature, History of Religions and Celtic Civilisation, which just compounded the problem.

  She lives in Wicklow, the Garden County of Ireland, and works in a specialised library of rare and unusual books.

  But they don’t talk to her that often.

  You can learn more about her and contact her through her website: www.rflong.com.

  Look for these titles by R.F. Long

  Now Available:

  A Tale of the Holtlands

  The Wolf’s Sister,

  Soul Fire

  The Scroll Thief

  A love transcending race and culture…a secret that could cost everything

  The Wolf’s Sister

  © 2008 R. F. Long

  A Tale of the Holtlands, Book 1

  Elite Fey’na warrior Shan is driven only by hatred for Gilliad, the Lord of River Holt, the human responsible for the brutal slaying of his innocent sister. Vengeance will be his as soon as he can find a way to confront his enemy. His mind is set; his path chosen. Then he meets Jeren…

  Jeren of River Holt flees for her life, desperate to escape the clutches of her brother, Gilliad, before his misuse of magic consumes what remains of his sanity. She finds safety and protection with Shan…but only so long as she hides her kinship with the Lord of River Holt. As they are pursued across the northern snow pains, their deepening trust turns to love.

  A love that could shatter when he learns who, and what, she is.

  Warning: This title contains violence, torture, and a wolf-lover’s worst nightmare. Readers may find their imaginations hopelessly ensnared in a beautiful and terrible world of magic.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Wolf’s Sister:

  Shan knew he should have left the girl there in the wreckage at the foot of the cliff. He should have kept on walking. Then he would never have become involved in the vagaries of the Holters’ world.

  But Shan’ith Al-Fallion had never been able to abandon a soul in trouble. The silver wolf padding at his side, once a starving cub lost in the snow, gave testimony to that. Her breath misted the evening air, and she nuzzled his hand in an effort to distract him from the shattered carriage.

  “Stop Anala,” he said. “I’ll just take a look.” The wolf growled but remained with him, pawing impatiently in the snow.

  They were all
dead but for the girl, and she wouldn’t be long in joining her companions. The marks of the Snow Child cast blue tones in her skin.

  He knelt at the survivor’s side, aware of her shallow breath, the feeble rise and fall of her chest. He hesitated before touching her—a Holtwoman and, judging by her delicately embroidered clothes, one of some standing. Silver threads depicting jasmine and ivy encircled her throat and wrists, sewn into the deep green velvet by an expert hand. Girl was probably wrong too. She looked old enough to be judged a young woman by the Holters’ terms. And a beautiful one at that, fine-boned and elegant. But to his people—the Fair Ones, the Fey’na—most humans never reached an age where they would be considered adults.

  Voices carried on the breeze from men climbing down from the road. Relieved to be free of the niggling sense of responsibility for the girl, Shan readied himself to dart into the safety of the trees. Then his sharp ears caught what the men were saying.

  “Bloody stupid misadventure. Who’d survive a fall like that, anyway? They’re already dead, I tell you. No one’s going to come back from that drop.”

  “We have our orders,” said another voice. “Make sure they’re all dead.”

  Shan frowned and glanced towards Anala. Part totem animal, part companion, the wolf knew what Shan’s soul told him to do, and she liked the idea even less than he did. She heaved out a breath, shaking her head rapidly. But that didn’t change anything.

  If those men reached the girl, she would die.

  It never paid for any of Shan’s people to deal with humans. The cost was always too high. Had not one the humans counted as a great leader, a lord of many tributes, murdered Shan’s sister, Fa’linar?

  But what choice did he have? Leave her here, helpless, to die?

  Shan’s own nature conspired against him. He lifted the girl like a bundle of old rags, her chestnut hair tumbling over his shoulder. She felt so light in his arms, like a bird. He retreated with swift but cautious steps, retracing his own footsteps through the snow, until a copse of trees hid him. The green of the girl’s travelling dress aided him, merging with the shadows.

  The wolf’s look branded him an idiot. Still, she followed him, nose to the ground.

  More men arrived, taking the narrow path which wound sedately down from the road rather than the sheer climb undertaken by the first pair. They carried torches, the light staining the snow with ruddy tones.

  Shan grimaced. He could not remain hidden here for long. “Can you find some shelter, Anala?” he whispered to the wolf. “Somewhere safer?”

  With a whine of pure frustration, Anala whirled away and bounded through the snow-laden trees.

  Four heavily armed guards laboured through the snow surrounding a man cloaked in ermine. A jagged wound ran along the left side of his jaw. Though unencumbered by armour, he clearly held command. He scoured the wreckage with flint-like eyes.

  “The girl’s missing,” the first assassin reported. “If news of this reaches River Holt…” The underling’s fear reeked, pungent on the night’s air. It was like watching a lesser wolf before a lead male.

  Flint-eyes studied the trees, as if aware that he too was being watched. Shan resisted the urge to move. He became part of the trees, part of the snow, concentrating on invisibility, or at the very least, camouflage. It wasn’t enough.

  “They’re in the trees.” Flint-eyes’ voice was as remorseless as his eyes. “Over there! Get Lady Jeren back, or you’ll all be sending my greetings to the Death Goddess.”

  Shan fled, slinging Lady Jeren over his shoulder. She cried out at such rough treatment, but he ignored her groggy protests. The need for speed outweighed all others. A shape in the snow ahead gave him a single hope.

  “Anala! Shelter, safety, now!”

  The wolf launched herself forwards, throwing up snow in her wake. Shan ran, tearing madly across the snowfield, making for the rising hills. Fluid as shadow, Shan followed Anala, trusting the wolf’s instincts even above his own.

  Behind him, guards scrambled through the trees, hampered by snow. Shan bared his teeth in a tight grin. They were weak, slow. He was not.

  An arrow grazed his face, so close he could swear he felt the brush of the fletching against his cheek.

  Pain erupted in the back of his leg. His knee buckled and he went down with a cry, Jeren underneath him.

  A voice rang out across the snow. “He’s winged, my lord!” Flint-eyes didn’t respond.

  Another arrow punched into the ground by Shan’s face and he threw himself back, rolling to his feet once more. His leg almost went beneath him, but he knew if he stopped now they’d both be dead. Jeren struggled against him as he lifted her.

  “Hush, little one,” he murmured as gently as he could through his clenched teeth. “Trust me now.”

  Wounded and carrying her over his shoulder, he didn’t know where he found the strength to run. Anala dwindled to a black speck in the distance, heading north towards home. Shan fixed his eyes on the wolf, ignoring the sounds of pursuit. He could outdistance any man, but even a trickle of blood would leave a trail a child could follow.

  The hills were the key. He knew them well. Up there, where the land was riddled with caves and tunnel, he could hide, dress the wound.

  Right now, he couldn’t think.

  I need rest and warmth, that’s all.

  Pain lanced up his leg again, and he felt the barb of the arrow deep inside the soft flesh. Only his own kind could help him. If he didn’t find someone to get the arrow out, it would kill him.

  The wind rose and Shan felt his determination falter. Anala had vanished. He could smell the snow coming, the air sharp and bitter. And when the weather broke…

  It happened far sooner than expected.

  The blizzard clawed at his limbs and tore at his braided hair. Only Jeren’s warmth kept him alive at this point, just as his body sustained her. They were one, dependent on each other, breathing as one, moving as one. He could hardly recall a time when his arms had not held her, when her arms had not held him. The nagging sense that she belonged there grew on him second by second. He pushed such foolish thoughts away with a determined will, putting it down to the cold and the wind addling his wits.

  Shan could run no longer, even if he could see where they were going. It became harder to put one foot in front of the other. As the last of his strength slipped away, he dropped to his knees.

  “I’m sorry, little one. There’s no more in me.” Her grip tightened for a moment. A brief surge of comfort passed through him. He buried his face in her hair, inhaling a scent like spring flowers in sunshine. As quickly as it came, the comfort bled away, replaced by wind and snow. “Who are you really?” he murmured. “Why did they want you dead?”

  Magic bites…

  Myla by Moonlight

  © 2009 Inez Kelley

  Created at Prince Taric’s birth, Myla is a spell, an enchantment designed to appear and protect him when he needs it most. She has always been content to do her duty…until one night of forbidden passion leaves her longing to experience life—and love—as a mortal woman. Yet the risk is too great. Even if her blood runs as red as his, she can never give him the one thing he needs: a child.

  Taric’s blessing—and his curse—is knowing the kingdom’s future depends on his producing an heir to continue the bloodline. His bond with Myla has always been that of protector and protected. When it suddenly becomes something much more, he unwittingly sentences his people to certain death.

  An old enemy is plotting to destroy all he holds dear: his lands, his people, his father, and his lover. And this time, even if they fight tooth and blade, their shared magic may not be enough to save them…

  Warning: This book contains a shape-shifting bodyguard, sizzling sex scenes, supernatural lilac mist, swordfighting and heartbreaking sacrifices.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for Myla by Moonlight:

  Once more, he took her hand and they maneuvered across the slick rocks. He eased down beside her,
releasing her fingers but only to flatten them to his thigh and cover them with his own. Heat hotter than the sun’s blaze burned her palm but she did not remove it.

  Side by side, they spoke of minor things, the color of specific blooms nearby, the harvesting schedule and a heron that glided over the stream. Taric explained about wings and flight but Myla barely heard the words. The grace of the bird took her breath. So effortless and serene, it conquered the air with ease and settled on the water with barely a ripple.

  Myla found leisure with Taric to be a joyful and an enlightening time. His laugh was something she had not heard much of, its timbre changed from his youth to a deep, rich tone which stirred her belly.

  She laughed at him when he fetched the berry pouch, hissing and complaining about the frigid water. The sound surprised her. Had she ever laughed before? It felt good in her throat, tumbling over her tongue like a rolling drum.

  Taric knelt before her and opened the drawstring. “Again, close your eyes.”

  “Taric, I am able to feed myself.”

  “I know, but I want to. Let me?” Held by his bronze gaze, she looked deep into his eyes and nodded. How could she deny him this simple request? She closed her eyes and parted her lips. One frosty berry landed on her tongue. The flavor had changed, like he’d promised. Before sweet succulence had filled her mouth but this chilled morsel had a bite. Zest and tang overshadowed the sensual flavor, spiked the sugar and increased the richness to near wine-like taste. An appreciative sound grew in her throat.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever envied a berry before.” His murmur opened her eyes and the rapture on his face silenced her.

  Perhaps the coldness made the fruit hard to swallow or maybe it was way he stared into her eyes. She read hunger in his gaze and acted instinctively, delving her fingers into his pouch and pulling a blackberry free. Her fingers shook, touching his lips. Tilting his head, he took the offered bite but drew her finger inside his mouth with it, his tongue skating along her skin.