by Parker Foye
Llywelyn wasn’t sure who’d been right about magic, but he wasn’t pigheaded enough to reject evidence of his senses. Griffith’s ceremony had made Llywelyn into a protection warding, and the land recognised him in kind. Tangibly.
“Do you think I did it?” Llywelyn asked, digging his toes into the soil and flexing his shoulder blades to ease the itching.
Frowning, Ifanwy dropped beside him. “How do you mean?”
Mud was fascinating. “Like I wanted the excuse to stay. And now I’m stuck inside the boundary. Like Angharad is stuck outside.”
“That isn’t how Griffith explained it to me. The ceremony was for protection, he said. Something old. Lots of talking, you know how he gets, but he didn’t say anyone would be trapped.” Ifanwy snorted, the way their mother hated. “You’ve never wanted to stay, anyway. I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’ve dreamed of leaving since forever, you have.”
“I can’t, though—”
“Of course you can.” Ifanwy rose to her feet and looked at him. Not judging, but considering. She brushed her hand over his hair, like their father used to. “You can do anything you want, Llywelyn ap Hywel. No magic can keep you here but your wishing makes it so.” She laughed suddenly. “As for Angharad, I wonder about her wishes. Her and that boy.”
Llywelyn wrinkled his nose. “The human, you mean.”
“That’s father speaking with your voice,” Ifanwy said, shortly. She relented. “I’m saying, none of us truly understand how wardings work. Not even your boy. Try the boundary, if you like. What’s the worst that can happen?”
I find out I’m stuck at a dying hill and Keeley comes for me and everyone I love.
I find out I’m not stuck. And I run. And I never stop running.
Llywelyn didn’t answer Ifanwy, but she hadn’t waited for one. By the time he looked up from his muddy toes, she’d started retracing their steps home. A shadow among shadows, sometimes walking regally, sometimes bowed. Like she couldn’t remember from one moment to the next who she was supposed to be. An unconfirmed alpha, burdened with the responsibilities of a title no Council would recognise her bearing.
Llywelyn eyed the space where the boundary line ran, where Griffith’s family had sank blood and stone into the earth. Awareness of the space tingled across his skin. Glancing unseeing in the direction of the warden’s cottage, he considered waking Griffith and asking for help, but Griffith needed his sleep. And some things Llywelyn needed to do alone. Like he was used to.
Getting to his feet, Llywelyn chewed his lower lip and edged toward the line. Energy thrummed under his skin, and a high note struck, as if in warning. He squinted against the pressure and the instinct to recoil, like people shrink from an open flame. Like Emery shrank from the lines.
The memory of Emery prompted Llywelyn to take another step. Cur and stray. I’m neither. Llywelyn set his jaw. I am Llywelyn ap Hywel, son and brother to alphas, and this will not kill me. He thought of Griffith, and their kiss, and smirked. I’ve things to do.
He crossed the line.
* * *
Sunrise found Griffith at Aberarth’s shore, picking his way across the stones and cursing under his breath. Time away meant losing his familiarity with the tides, and cold had seeped through his clothes during the hour he’d spent waiting for the water to ebb. Stubborn pride didn’t make for a warm companion, but Griffith had refused to return to the cottage. Somewhere, his grandmother laughed at him. And Daffyd, in all likelihood.
Warm light reflected from the idling waves as he searched among rocks for gifts brought by the tide. Driftwood or seaglass, or other things that called. Wardings could be an exact science or a loose one, depending on the working. Griffith needed loci for his casting to confuse Morgan, and the tempestuousness of the sea would flavour the magic nicely. Luck seemed to be avoiding him, though, and after half an hour searching he’d nothing to show for his efforts.
“Room for one more?”
Griffith span around so fast he skidded on the stones and had to flail to keep his balance. Heat rose to his cheeks when Llywelyn laughed at him, even as he offered his hand to help. Their fingers lingered as they shared a smile, until Llywelyn took back his hand and stuck them both in his pockets, turning slightly away. Creating a distance for anyone who might be watching at such a godforsaken hour.
His ease with subtle gestures made Griffith want to ask who’d taught him, but if a time or place existed for that conversation it wasn’t dawn on Aberarth’s rocky shore. He let it go.
And frowned. “Why are you here?” Llywelyn said himself he hadn’t left the territory in months. That he couldn’t. Griffith’s stomach dropped. “How? What happened last night?”
Llywelyn’s expression turned mischievous. “You were there.”
“Not what I meant.”
“You’re no fun this morning. I ran the lines, like you said. This thing.” Llywelyn jerked his chin, indicating the mark on his back. “It’s changed me. I can feel home. I know what’s happening there.”
Griffith chewed his lip. “What do you mean? Does it—Did I hurt you?”
“You didn’t hurt me.” Llywelyn looked down, wiggling his bare toes on the rock. Waves splashed eagerly against the breaker, as if trying to touch his skin.
Griffith understood the urge. After their kiss, he’d dreamed of Llywelyn in flashes. Things that had happened and things he’d wished to happen, merging into sticky restlessness. He’d eventually abandoned sleep altogether and made for Aberarth. The way magic fizzed over his skin as he crossed the lines had felt like another dream entirely.
If he’d known Llywelyn had been suffering, even for a moment, he wouldn’t have left him. Would have invited him into the cottage, as he’d almost dared, and insisted he stay until they discovered everything the ceremony had done.
Griffith ran a hand through his hair. “Tell me, please.”
“It’s nothing bad. I feel a pull to return, like it’s calling me, but I needed to come here too. I stepped over the lines and knew I would find you here.” Llywelyn leaned toward Griffith and took a deep breath, holding it for a moment before breathing lowly out. “You smell like home to me. I think I could find you anywhere, now.”
If Morgan had said that, Griffith would have ran. If anyone but Llywelyn had said such a thing, Griffith would have gone straight to his learning and searched for a way to become lost.
When Llywelyn said it, warmth burst behind Griffith’s ribs. Like his heart had come into bloom. He stepped close enough to brush their shoulders together, that it might seem an accident. Llywelyn cast a glance from beneath his lashes, and Griffith shifted, the movement displacing the rocks and revealing something that reflected the low light. Griffith ducked quickly, making Llywelyn start.
“What are you—Still collecting those, are you?”
The seaglass, he meant. A green piece half as big as Griffith’s palm. Griffith slipped it into his pocket.
“You brought me luck,” Griffith said. A smile found his lips all by itself.
Llywelyn huffed a breath. “If you say so.”
Griffith scanned the stones for any more gifts but kept being distracted by Llywelyn’s proximity. By the breadth of his shoulders and the warmth rising from his body. By his eyelashes and his smell and the nick taken from his ear, much less obvious than in his wolf form. By his lips, and the memory of their taste.
“What was he like?” Llywelyn asked. He didn’t look away from the sea.
“What was who like?”
“Your berserker.”
Griffith half-wished he’d never told Llywelyn the story. He squinted at the horizon, thinking back. Sunrise rippled across the water, making it shine. Leaning down, he grabbed a smooth stone from the beach and threw it toward the sea. Waves rose to meet it.
“He was dying, when I saw him, bu
t even so I could feel rage rising from him. Like steam with nowhere to go. It was—It made me sad.”
Griffith grabbed another stone and tossed it underhand to Llywelyn, who caught it and span on his heel, gathering momentum to hurl the stone toward the horizon. Griffith didn’t hear the splash. Show off.
“You’re supposed to skim it,” Griffith said. Glad for the excuse to change the subject.
“With these waves? Why don’t you show me—Damn it!”
Llywelyn’s curse turned to growls as he moved in front of Griffith, standing between him and the approaching figures. Although they started on the far side of the beach, the figures were rapidly gaining ground. The arrowhead at Griffith’s belt began to smoulder, slower to react than Llywelyn’s nose but fast enough Griffith could have made an escape, had there been anywhere to run but the sea.
What had been beautiful a heartbeat before became a trap, like a siren and her voice.
Griffith glanced at Llywelyn. “Emery?”
A terse nod. “And pals.”
Griffith tried to remember what he had in his pockets. Unprepared, Jones. How did you live this long? The chastising voice in Griffith’s head always sounded like Morgan.
No time for memories. Emery and his two friends, by some unseen signal, broke into a run, the friends dropping into wolf form and eating the distance in a loping run. Griffith scarcely had time to pray to whatever god wasted their time with wardens before he splashed heavily into the sea, a wolf trying to bite off his face. Nearby, Llywelyn let out a bellow, followed by the sound of clashing claws. Not that Griffith could follow their fight, being too busy with his own.
As he struggled against the weight on top of him, twisting from snapping yellow teeth, in the back of his mind Griffith wondered how he’d never appreciated how terrifying wolves were. Pain ripped through his side as claws found their mark, shredding his wondering to pieces. He cried out. The pain helped him focus, and he scrabbled through his pocket for a warding, dragging the card through his new wound and slapping it onto the wolf’s fur. The wolf stopped snapping its teeth, seeming to cringe.
Nothing happened. They looked at one another, warden and wolf, with—Griffith suspected—matching expressions of confusion. He glanced at the warding and swore. It should have knocked the wolf away in a small percussive blast. Yet it had done nothing.
The wolf exploded.
Griffith scrambled upright, light as air without the wolf on his chest, ears echoing with a sick wet noise. He patted himself down, half-expecting to be covered in gore, but wore only seawater. Where was the wolf?
Whimpering reached his ears, and he spun around, near overbalancing on the shifting sand. The wolf lay on the shore, panting fast, its side a sticky mess where the warding had struck. Griffith blew out a breath of guilty relief. The wolf was down.
Seemed like Llywelyn’s wolf had been taken care of too, lying limply over the rocks a few feet farther upshore. Griffith didn’t watch long enough to see if the wolf’s chest rose or fell. More arresting was Llywelyn’s face, streaks of blood making his grin vicious. Desire rose in Griffith like waves, and he shuddered with more than the cold. He wanted to kiss Llywelyn so much he ached with it.
Oblivious to what he did to Griffith, Llywelyn glanced over Griffith’s shoulder, raising his eyebrows in surprise.
“Don’t need my help, then?”
“Apparently not.” Although he suspected Llywelyn’s proximity had helped, the mark on his back increasing the strength of Griffith’s warding. A conversation for another time.
Or never. Never is good.
Llywelyn flashed another grin and turned to their last visitor. Emery. Still in human form, Emery eyed his fallen companions with disappointment. He hadn’t taken advantage of their distraction, as if he followed rules of engagement preventing ambush. Or else realised he stood outnumbered two to one.
“You can take them, if you wish,” Llywelyn offered, shifting his weight as Emery moved around them in a half-circle. “And leave.”
Emery’s sneer was response enough. Griffith grabbed a warding from his pocket and edged nearer to Llywelyn in readiness. His heart thumped once before Emery leapt for them, changing into the huge red wolf in midair. At Griffith’s side, Llywelyn changed with almost as much ease and rushed Emery.
Snarls and growls erupted from the mess of fur and fang, tangled together like a storm in the waves. Griffith tried to follow, to help, but they moved too quickly for his eyes to track. Fear for Llywelyn made Griffith’s throat tight, and he frantically flicked through his wardings, until finding the one he wanted.
“Llywelyn! I need you,” he called, hoping Llywelyn would hear.
When Llywelyn rolled free of Emery, they had but a second. Griffith crouched to whisper into Llywelyn’s ear, close enough some of the blood from Llywelyn’s fur brushed his face.
“Close your eyes and get ready to run.”
Closing his own eyes, Griffith swiped the light warding with blood.
They ran with Emery’s howl ringing in their ears.
* * *
Griffith collapsed onto the musty pile of blankets in the cottage, wheezing for breath and shaking with fatigue. His clothes clung to him from the dip in the sea and his dash from Aberarth, farther than he’d ever run without rest. Llywelyn had nipped at his heels when he’d faltered, until they’d crossed the boundary lines and he’d been allowed to stumble to a trot.
“We’re—talking—about the lines,” Griffith said, panting. He waved his hand weakly. “Later.”
When they’d crossed the boundary line, his heart had missed a beat. From the way Llywelyn had near tripped over his paws, Griffith guessed something similar had happened to him. Despite the fear-sweat cooling on his body, glee bubbled in Griffith’s blood. Magic. Real magic.
The interrupted ceremony, for whatever had happened to Llywelyn, had woken the lines enough Griffith could feel magic as the wolves did. Ancient wardings trembled beneath their feet like giants disturbed from decades of rest. Griffith wanted to know their stories.
“Later,” Llywelyn echoed, having shifted forms. He wiped his face with his shirt, leaving smears of blood in his hairline, and his hair sticking in tufts.
Perfect.
Tossing the shirt aside, Llywelyn dropped to his knees beside Griffith, the thump making Griffith wince. He leaned down.
“Can I kiss you? Please?”
Griffith nodded. There were a dozen things they had to do, but none more pressing than the sweep of Llywelyn’s eyelashes, or his hand cupping Griffith’s face. Griffith barely had the chance to catch his breath before Llywelyn stole it from him anew.
Llywelyn tasted like salt and blood. Pressing closer, Griffith chased the taste, his hands gripping Llywelyn’s firm biceps to keep him in place. Llywelyn’s hands smoothed back Griffith’s hair and traced lines down his face, his sides, as if he couldn’t touch enough of Griffith at once. Rolling onto his back, he grabbed handfuls of Griffith’s arse and pulled them flush together. Heat surged through Griffith, and he nipped Llywelyn’s lower lip in his enthusiasm, flushing when Llywelyn laughed into the kiss, the noise burbling forth like he couldn’t help himself. Griffith pulled away with a frown, cheeks burning.
“Are you laughing at me?”
Llywelyn snatched another kiss from Griffith, but again a laugh overcame him.
“No! I swear it. I’m just happy,” he said, like it was a wonder.
Ducking his head, Llywelyn scented beneath Griffith’s jaw, his hands tightening on Griffith’s arse. He rocked his hips, grinning broadly between kisses.
Griffith didn’t feel like laughing as their pricks pressed together, but Llywelyn had always been a little strange.
Then again, Griffith was kissing the oddball, so what did that make him?
The luckiest man alive. The truth h
it like a blow, and he gasped, again when Llywelyn rocked his hips more insistently, creating a delicious rhythm of pressure. Griffith rained kisses on Llywelyn’s face, even as Llywelyn laughed at him, both taken with the same joy in each other.
I am the luckiest man alive. And I will kill to keep this.
Chapter Seven
Yule approached on swift feet. Griffith marked the time with missed sleep, as Morgan—both the man himself and memories of him—haunted his dreams. Griffith had been the skinned wolf so many times he grew reckless, taunting Morgan as he applied the knife. Criticising his technique. Each time Morgan’s jaw tensed, Griffith counted a victory.
The first time he’d woken to find a wolf at his side, he’d screamed fit to start the pigeons to rowing. In response, Llywelyn had shifted to his other form to soothe him. When his mind returned, Griffith could have wept with gratitude to learn he didn’t speak in his sleep. Llywelyn hadn’t divined the content of Griffith’s nightmares, just their existence.
After that, Griffith found himself becoming more reckless still, knowing he had Llywelyn sleeping beside him. In his waking hours, he threw himself into research while Llywelyn assisted Ifanwy in the hill, but more and more Griffith found himself drifting from his books to watch the sky turn purple through the broken window. Dusk brought Llywelyn. Griffith waited for dusk like the cuckoo waited for dawn, like women used to wait at Aberarth’s shore for their sailors.
The cottage door didn’t lock. Griffith had repaired the hinges but not concerned himself with security; anything his wardings failed to repel would have no trouble with locks. Llywelyn announced himself with a brief knock, for courtesy’s sake, as he let himself into the cottage. He brought the scent of coming winter with him, wrapping Griffith in cold.
