by Parker Foye
“—can’t interrupt in the middle, you furry oaf! Get off me!”
Llywelyn released Griffith like a hot poker, rolling to his feet, face undoubtedly as bright as the flames behind them. Wait. Glancing over his shoulder, he frowned.
“What happened to the fire?”
Sprawled on the grass, Griffith propped himself on his elbows and crossed his long legs at the ankle. He arched his eyebrows, looking exactly like Warden Jones had looked when they’d done something foolish as boys. Llywelyn winced. Only awareness of Ifanwy watching stayed him scuffing his feet in the grass.
“Sorry?” he tried.
Griffith’s eyebrows lowered. “Paying attention now, are you?”
“Sorry,” Llywelyn said, more firmly. He would’ve continued, but his back itched something chronic. Twisting and arching, trying to reach the spot, he was held in place by Griffith’s cool hands. A sharp intake of breath made him still. “What is it?”
“It’s—it’s nothing to worry about.”
“I wasn’t worried. Until this moment.”
“Does anything hurt?”
Llywelyn widened his eyes. “Should it?”
Ifanwy clucked her tongue, drawing their attention. She stood at Llywelyn’s shoulder, able to see whatever had happened to his back. She tilted her head thoughtfully and Llywelyn relaxed. If his skin had been falling off, she would’ve looked more worried than curious.
“You look like one of his bits of magic.” She described a shape in the air with her hand. “Like that. Red, like the ink he uses. Looks sore. Is it?”
“Itches.” Llywelyn craned his neck, trying to meet Griffith’s eyes. “What happened?”
Light from the jars flickered in Griffith’s eyes like constellations. “I’ve never seen anything like this. I was calling on the land to bring protection, like wardens did before me, but with a little more—a little more enthusiasm.”
“How much enthusiasm?”
“You’re wearing a protection warding on your back. That wasn’t anywhere in my list of things that might happen.”
“What does that mean? Griffith? ... Hell.”
Luckily, Ifanwy caught Griffith when he swooned. Draped in her arms like a doll, he seemed small. Fragile, when Llywelyn knew him to be rough-and-tumble as the rest of them. Human, his mind supplied.
Llywelyn scratched his jaw and huffed a breath. No more explanations until Griffith woke. He looked at Ifanwy.
“Did it work?”
Her shrug wasn’t the answer he’d hoped to hear.
* * *
Blood poured like ink from the wolf tied to the table. Rope pressed brindled fur into obscene stripes. Death and rot poisoned the air, seeping into his lungs.
Despite recognising the scene as a memory, when the wolf whimpered Griffith screamed and yanked at the ropes until his voice cracked and his fingers bled. Tanners skinned werewolves alive, working carefully to ensure they didn’t switch to human shape in death. Wolf pelts were worth more than diamonds, Morgan had told him. Sitting at the same damn table. Like it had been common knowledge.
He’d taken the tip of Griffith’s finger, scoring deep into the wood. Little thief.
Griffith struggled to free the wolf, as he’d struggled the first time and in every dream since. The ropes never broke. He tried all the same, until someone cleared their throat behind him.
“Griffith Jones.”
Between one blink and the next, the wolf disappeared. Morgan sat at the table, a cup held between his hands. Steam curled from the tea that would be thick as tar, and too sweet. He’d drank cup upon cup of the stuff until his teeth were stained with brown.
He’d never drank tea in the dream before.
Griffith wiped his hands on his trousers, fingers aching. He swallowed. “Are you here?”
Morgan seemed real, his presence as large as in life. In his sixties, hands and hair showing the years his face belied, Morgan claimed to be the bastard son of English landed gentry. Bitterness over what he saw as losing his birthright had turned into poison only matched by his skills with wardings.
Griffith had tasted the poison too late.
“You’re in my way, Jones. Remove yourself from this place.”
“In your way? How?”
Morgan’s hands tightened around his cup, his swollen knuckles standing out. They’d hurt in the rain, Griffith remembered. Half his apprenticeship had been devoted to researching myths for the secret of youth. Morgan had been obsessed with myths and legends, more superstitious than anyone on their side of the Industrial Revolution had right to be.
“You should have stayed lost,” Morgan said. “You know one can never go home.”
Griffith heard a horse scream in the distance, like the echo of a dream. His charm, warning of Morgan. He felt himself pale. “You’re here. Outside—you’re truly here.”
Morgan smiled, showing his brown teeth. “You were right, Jones. There is yet magic in your little village. I’m pleased I kept an eye on you.”
Ropes burst from the table and fastened around Griffith’s wrists, burning across his skin and tugging him forward. He set his heels and yanked against the bindings. But that part of the dream was as familiar as his failure with the wolf, and he couldn’t get purchase against the floor, which had turned into the tiles from his pensione.
Morgan laughed. He had a horrible laugh.
Griffith was relieved to start screaming.
* * *
When Griffith woke, sweating and shaking, he found Llywelyn by his side and a pile of blankets covering him. Neither had been there when he went to sleep. Questions were loud in Llywelyn’s eyes but he didn’t voice any, instead producing a roll of bread and a lukewarm cup of tea and offering both. Griffith refused the tea but took the bread, eating small bites until his stomach settled and his hands stopped trembling.
“I borrowed one of your books,” Llywelyn said, pointing with his pipe to the small stack at his other side. He’d made himself comfortable, at least. Even found the time to bathe, his mud coating finally gone. “Hope you don’t mind.”
They’re yours. Everything I have is yours.
It wasn’t a question so Griffith didn’t answer, instead concentrating everything he had on eating and breathing. Eating and breathing. When Llywelyn pushed the tea on him a second time, he took it. It tasted awful, too bitter and not enough milk.
Llywelyn watched him impassively, thin trails of smoke emanating from his pipe. After a last puff, he set the pipe aside in a purloined dish and rolled to his feet. He shaded his eyes against the sunlight streaming from the broken window.
Llywelyn was beautiful, Griffith realised with a sharp intake of breath. As if the knowledge had been rattled loose during the night. Confident in his body and what it could do, in who he was and where he came from. Generous and forgiving, with a streak of mischief stamped in the centre like a stick of Brighton rock. Wasting his time playing nursemaid to Griffith when he could be—truly—anywhere and anything he wished.
Griffith had been in love with the memory of Llywelyn as a boy, holding their missed chance in his heart like a warning of things too impossible to exist. Yet there the man Llywelyn stood, in what Griffith suspected was one of his shirts, and trousers showing too much ankle. His hair was too long for fashion and too short for rebellion and he hadn’t shaved in days, had muscles and scars and whatever Griffith’s warding had given him, and he’d made Griffith a godawful cup of tea. He smelled perpetually of tobacco and storms.
Griffith didn’t say anything about his realisation. Couldn’t. His heart was so full it crowded his throat.
Oblivious to the earthquake behind him, Llywelyn spoke. “You should come with me. There’s something you need to see.”
It wasn’t a question, either, so Griffith didn’t answer. Just
got to his feet and readied to follow.
Chapter Five
From the top of the hill they could see England, or near enough. Though winter needled Griffith’s skin, the sky held clear, letting him see almost as far as Llywelyn. A patchwork quilt of fields lay to the east and south, while the sea rolled a murky blue to the west and north. Below, trees surrounded the hill like a moat.
Griffith finished his circle and returned to the beginning, where Llywelyn stood sentry by the grave marker for members of his pack lost at sea. In the full light of day, he looked haggard. Griffith itched to hold him, but he couldn’t. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t.
After the dream he’d had—the memory that had turned to a true dream—he didn’t dare stand closer to Llywelyn than conversation would carry. As if the taint in his soul would smear Llywelyn’s. It had taken Griffith years to shed the feeling, and yet one moment with Morgan brought it back like oil over his skin.
Griffith folded his arms against the cold and read the inscription again.
For those who will never come home. April, 1912.
The words were jagged across the polished stone. Made by claws, scratching over and over. Each member of the pack etching their grief permanently into the memorial crowning the only home most of them had ever known.
Griffith looked up. The buried warding stones didn’t form a perfect circle but meandered around the hill and surrounding miles. He’d thought his cottage had sat at the centre, but the hill was closer. He’d never noticed before. As if the first wardens had created boundaries in anticipation for the pack. Had they known how the partnership would end? Griffith’s grandmother had refused to renew the magical ties to the Hywel pack, not seeing their purpose in a time of peace. Griffith had argued they should join and face the future united, but he’d been brash instead of rational, and unable to sway the decree of Warden Jones. Over time, the link faded like newsprint left out in the sun, becoming a shadow of itself. As a result, they had a warden barely attached to the land, and wolves scattering like leaves in autumn.
Spring had always brought riotous colour to their corner of Wales. Griffith didn’t want to think how grey 1913 would be, if they couldn’t drive Keeley and Morgan away.
Though they’d been standing in comfortable silence, Llywelyn spoke abruptly, like the words wouldn’t stay in his mouth any longer. “Daffyd said, if everything went well at the summit, it’d be my turn to go travelling next.” He kicked gently at the soil. “Said he’d heard about a nosy warden wandering about, from packs in Italy. In France. In Bohemia, of all places.”
“Lots of magic there,” Griffith said, his mouth numb. He’d wondered how the letter found him, had imagined an embassy or similar had been involved. Not that Daffyd had tracked him through local packs.
Llywelyn hugged himself. He hadn’t looked away from the memorial. “He said I should go. That he tired of my sad howling.” Llywelyn folded to his knees, reaching to touch the marker. “I miss him. All of them, but him most of all.” He ducked his head. “That’s bad of me, I think.”
Llywelyn had never wished to be alpha. Daffyd had shared idle thoughts, on occasion, of if I were in charge, but Llywelyn never had. He didn’t want the responsibility. He’d dreamed of visiting other territories, confessing his secrets under the boughs of the lightning tree, where only the wind and Griffith could hear. On their last day, when Llywelyn demanded they go, and Griffith bartered to stay, Llywelyn had shone fever-bright with need for escape. With Griffith’s rebuttal the fever broke, as fevers do, leaving Llywelyn visibly defeated. Like he never planned to dream of leaving again.
Griffith’s selfish actions, and Llywelyn’s unfailing sense of loyalty, had trapped the poor bastard.
And I’m so grateful.
Throat thick with shame, Griffith knelt carefully next to Llywelyn. Damp seeped through the knees of his trousers. It felt a repeat of their meeting at the warden memorial.
“I’m sorry I left the way I did.”
“Griff—” Llywelyn sounded tired.
“I meant to say, I’m sorry as hell I wasn’t here. When you needed me.”
Silence settled dense as fog. Griffith felt raw and vulnerable, exposing more of himself than he ever had. They’d kissed once—and only once—but feelings? He’d rather face claws.
From the tight line of Llywelyn’s jaw, claws might be a very real future.
“People keep leaving,” Llywelyn said, finally. Me, he didn’t say.
Every word that rose to Griffith’s lips tasted like false promise. He swallowed them back, keeping silent as he traced the words on the stone with his eyes until they blurred. Fingering the arrowhead at his belt, making sure not to jingle the charms, he wondered if one day he might be allowed to carve his own memorial. For Daffyd. For Alpha Hywel. For all those who were never coming home, like he’d finally managed to do.
Wondered if one day he might be brave enough to ask for the privilege.
Llywelyn rose to his feet. When Griffith glanced at him, Llywelyn extended his hand and smiled lopsidedly, his eyes soft. His expression started to dim when Griffith hesitated, conscious of Morgan’s touch, and Griffith rushed to grab Llywelyn’s hand before the smile went out like a candle. He got to his feet with Llywelyn’s assistance, and in his haste they bumped chests, and almost noses.
Llywelyn’s bright laugh put stars to shame. Before Griffith could try another of his terrible apologies, Llywelyn slung his arm around Griffith’s neck and yanked him close.
“Somewhere Daffyd is laughing at what a sorry pair we make. Come to the tree with me. You can tell me what this thing on my back means, and how we’ll chase those Keeley dogs from our territory.”
He didn’t let go of Griffith, all the way down the hill and into the forest. The world shrank as they slipped through the trees, branches fracturing the day into splashes of light and shadow. Griffith knew only the warmth of Llywelyn’s touch, the steady sounds of their breath, the clean smell of winter. People—evil—like Morgan couldn’t exist in such spaces.
Griffith tucked himself more tightly beneath Llywelyn’s arm, though it made their progress awkward. Llywelyn didn’t seem to mind. His fingers pressed briefly into the muscle between Griffith’s neck and shoulder once or twice, as if to check they were both there. That his senses weren’t deceiving him. Griffith understood the urge.
The lightning tree welcomed them with outspread arms as they settled beneath like boys, shoving and jostling, Llywelyn finally releasing Griffith. Resting against the trunk, Griffith stretched out his legs, taking nearly twice as much space as Llywelyn sitting neat and cross-legged beside him. Barefooted, as always. When they were younger, Llywelyn and Daffyd had shared one pair of shoes between them, never needing more. How many pairs did Llywelyn own now? Did he ever go anywhere he’d need them?
“Penny for your thoughts?”
Griffith started from his contemplation of Llywelyn’s feet, heat rising to his face. “Thinking about things I’ve missed. Your Sunday shoes. All that.”
Smiling slightly, Llywelyn nodded. “You think you remember someone but you only remember an idea. A ghost.” His smile faded. “I’m tired of ghosts. You said you came back because you saw a berserker. Like in the stories. Is that true?”
“I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t seen it myself. I saw him in York, with his alpha. Like they’d stepped straight out of the stories your—your mother used to tell us.”
“She hasn’t told any stories in a while,” Llywelyn said, following the reason for Griffith’s hesitancy. He tipped his chin, resting his head against the trunk, and closed his eyes. His eyelashes were perfect. “One day she’ll be ready to tell them again.”
Griffith tugged tufts of grass, for something to do with his hands instead of holding Llywelyn’s like he wanted. He didn’t know whether to continue the conversation or change
the subject, nervous of choosing incorrectly and hurting Llywelyn more than he had already. More and more it became clear Llywelyn walked the world like a wound, all rawness and vulnerability. In Griffith’s memory he was solid, but as Llywelyn said, they were all as ghosts in memories. No one could hurt a ghost.
Morgan was no ghost. Griffith needed to hunt him, or drive him away in such a fashion he never crossed into Wales again. But how? Morgan had decades more learning and significantly less scruples. Where Griffith would baulk at using dark loci for their power, Morgan gathered them in fistfuls. Created them from scratch. Terrified of death, Morgan had no compunction over dealing it to others. He allowed his life to be dictated by omens and portents, and none had yet indicated disapproval.
Flicking grass from his fingers, Griffith glanced at Llywelyn. They’d sat in silence for minutes, time measured in the scattered handfuls of grass by Griffith’s hip. Llywelyn seemed content to sit like a statue. Though, when Griffith looked closer, unable to resist for long, Llywelyn’s shoulders were stiff and his jaw clenched.
Shit. I guessed wrong.
Desperate, Griffith plucked the first topic that came to mind.
“I met Morgan in London, in one of the libraries my grandmother told me about. They were funny about letting me in, didn’t like my accent, but I showed them a warding and they let me by.” Griffith glanced at Llywelyn and started to find him staring intently back. When Griffith paused, he raised his eyebrows. Go on, that look meant. Griffith cast his mind to the library, dark with smoke and conversation. “Morgan was the first person who didn’t laugh at me. Not then, anyway.”
“He’s not a good warden? He can’t be, to have you so unsettled.”
Griffith snorted. “He knows a lot. I doubt much of it is good.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
Griffith would never tell Llywelyn about the wolf on the skinning table. Not in all his days. If Llywelyn didn’t already know of the dark practise, Griffith couldn’t be the one to say. And if he did know? Griffith already wore the stain of association. If Llywelyn ever felt the same way, it would destroy everything they were tentatively rebuilding between them.
