Seeking Her Mates Boxed Set: A Shifter Menage Serial (All Five Parts)

by Carina Wilder

  “I see.”

  “Have you been seeing things as well?” he asked, taking a step forward. “Tell me.”

  “Some, but I think they were dreams. I’ve seen a good deal, and some of it made me nervous. For the future, but for the past as well.”

  “Above all, Lilliana, don’t let it mess with your mind. The future is ultimately ours to control, and no one else’s. What you see can be altered.” The words were as much for his sake as for hers as he attempted to convince himself of their truth.

  “I know. But I am frightened,” she admitted. Her chin was down, her eyes locked on his chest, and she reached her right hand and laid its palm flat against him. It seemed to fit tidily into the spot between his large pectoral muscles, shielded on either side by his massive form.

  “You protect me,” she said, using her speaking voice softly. “And I am well able to look after myself. But when we three are separated, things may become difficult. Strength in numbers isn’t always physical; it’s mental as well.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I worry that they’ll prey on our weaknesses. As that odd Mrs. Fitzpatrick-impersonator tried.”

  “She tried, but she failed. You knew perfectly well that she was no good.”

  “But what if one of us proves corruptible? What if they drive a wedge, or even a giant chasm, between us?”

  “And how could they possibly do that?” Conor looked amused now as he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her in, her hand still on his chest, feeling his heart beat solidly against her. “My Lilliana, how could anything ever come between us? Graeme is the most loyal beast who ever was, and I…well, I am your slave. There is nothing in this universe that I wouldn’t do for you.”

  “I know,” she muttered, her words muffled by his shirt, and she pulled back a little. “I know that worry is pointless. But if rational thought were all it took to get over stress, there would be many more healthy people in this world.”

  “So don’t be rational. Feel, and let it bother you, and remember why it bothers you.”

  “Because love is a brute,” she said, “which takes advantage of weakness.”

  “And a brute which gives us a reason to live.”

  When they climbed into the bed, Lily pressed herself to him, tucking her head under his chin as Graeme slept behind her. Conor’s hand went around her waist and remained there for the duration of the night, and for those few hours at least, she felt safe from the future and the past.

  * * *

  In the morning as planned, they dutifully went their separate ways, agreeing to meet back at the room at the end of the day to report on their findings.

  “Stay out of dark alleyways, and on the beaten path,” Conor had suggested. “Always in public. Always make sure that you’re in plain view of humans, tourists, all the dull stuff. No doubt eyes will be on us. Use your powers if you must, but perhaps avoid the whole dragon thing.”

  He knew that he would be the only one likely to find himself isolated from society; his family’s castle was by no means a tourist haunt. But he didn’t want to frighten the other two, and so he shut the thought from his mind and proceeded as cheerily as he could.

  Though she hated to leave her two mates, and though the entire concept of separation filled her with worry, in Lily there was a little of the independent adventurer who had first traveled to London through the centuries to find her own way. She did love to lose herself in a strange city, and Edinburgh offered the sort of imposing architecture that made her feel as though she’d stepped into yet another century and set of rules. Every structure had a secret story of the men, women and shifters who had wandered through its doors over the generations, and today she would uncover some of those stories, perhaps.

  The potential of pursuit by the sabretooth and other shifters was a mere annoyance, even though the previous evening it had been all too real. Somehow in the bright light cast by rare Scottish sunshine, the possibility of being stalked through bustling crowds seemed minimal. The one thing that Lily knew was that the Stranieri was out for self-preservation, which meant no shows of strength in public, and no attacks in broad daylight. Until evening, at least, she was safe, and she felt it in her bones.

  Whereas the men were spending the day visiting family haunts, she had no definite destination in mind; her role was more to prove a distraction in the city’s core, in case any of the Stranieri had detected the three. She would be the most prominent and perhaps seem the most vulnerable, being female, though Merriman’s words rang in her head: he had once told her to remember always how powerful she was; never to forget her potential.

  She’d never fully understood his meaning, and in a way hoped that she never would. But in spite of her lack of all-out brawling with other shifters during her life, she knew her dragon; it was a fighter, and strong beyond description. When she moved into her déor’s body, it was as though an army surged up inside her, thrusting its weight against her sides and reminding her that nothing could take her down.

  And so in order to take her mind off her absent men, she did what she enjoyed and headed to the Scottish National Gallery to look at paintings. She’d seen advertisements for an exhibition of local works dating from 1350 to 1800, which might give her some sort of insight into the centuries which she’d skipped over during her own lifetime; the ones that had led to the conflict that now existed between dragons and other shifters.

  She found herself smiling as she walked, thinking of Conor’s adventure in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, getting shifters off his back by alerting a security guard of their intention to steal a priceless wedding gown. But at the back of her mind was the hope that she wouldn’t have to do any such manoeuvring. Perhaps she could have a day of peaceful wandering, though the hope seemed unrealistic.

  The exhibit was mercifully quiet, probably because it was a weekday morning, and Lily wandered aimlessly, always keeping her mind open to ominous voices, plotting, nefarious thoughts. But nothing came to her. For the time being all was quiet, though she didn’t trust the silence to last.

  In the minds of the humans who wandered about she read thoughts such as, “I wonder how long I should stare at this portrait to make it seem as though I’m interested,” or, “Well, he’s a surly bastard, isn’t he?” by one woman regarding a portrait of some aristocrat or other. At no point did Lily feel threatened, and eventually she was able to settle into her own pace.

  She came to a room featuring paintings dating from the 1500s, many of which looked like English landscapes depicting important events: coronations, weddings, deaths. War.

  On one wall hung a painting of a man in full armour leaning back, a spear in hand, as a great serpentine dragon attempted to take him on. Intruding in the dragon’s flesh were several arrows which apparently did little to prevent it from rearing up and preparing to eat the man’s head as though it were nothing more challenging than pulling a grape off a vine.

  An older painting showed something a little more odd, like a scene from a fantasy novel. As Lily neared it, though, she realized that it didn’t come from any book. If anything, it was as though the painter had witnessed her strange dream and painted it for the world to see: the battle, raging on an open field. Giant creatures fighting, bloodied.

  And in the foreground, a tall man with wild grey hair, a broadsword in hand and a large, white owl flying above him, ready to attack.

  “That can’t be…” murmured Lily, examining the painting as closely as she could without getting barked at by a security guard.

  It was difficult to tell, of course, but the man bore an uncanny resemblance to Merriman. Perhaps a little younger. And the owl…well, the owl was Barnabas.

  62

  Loyalty, Chapter Thirteen

  A tall, light-haired man wandered the grounds of the clan Dunbar’s aged castle, dressed in ill-fitting cotton trousers and a shirt whose buttons didn’t entirely seem to line up. He hummed happily to himself as he went, knowing that it would only
be a short time before his task would be completed.

  Any passerby would have assumed that the man was a contented fellow, albeit a little odd and out of place. His frame was large, his face handsome, his hair somewhat longer than was the usual style of the modern day, and his eyes inhumanly bright; each one a combination of orange and gold, like a rare gem thrown up by the sea. All told, he looked, in this place, like a knight awaiting his liege and commands but without his armour, as though someone had stolen him out of his time and dressed him in clothing swiped from a back garden’s clothesline.

  His liege, whom he had not yet met, did not yet know his own role, or why he’d been chosen to come to this place.

  But he would soon find out.

  The man expected him at any moment, and looked forward to guiding him towards his fate.

  * * *

  Conor made his way on a train to the small town where his family’s castle stood still erect, not as much a tourist destination as a curiosity for travellers who enjoyed veering off the beaten path.

  It was run-down but solid, having avoided the abuses of two world wars and any number of battles which had taken place nearby over centuries. Still after many decades of virtual desertion, groundskeepers tended the surrounding gardens and the castle’s interior to make sure that chunks of loose limestone or gargoyle-like carvings didn’t come barreling down at rare visitors who stood innocently underfoot. The family’s money was enough to cover the maintenance, though in recent years they’d questioned their own sanity for investing in such a strange, isolated building.

  In various wings were restricted rooms; those shown only to special parties, which meant that these days they were shown to no one. But a member of the Dunbar family would no doubt be granted access.

  As Conor journeyed alone he allowed his mind to open up. For days, since his change after the Ritual, he had done his best to keep the visions at bay, afraid of what he might see if he delved too deeply into the future, and afraid that Lily would see his thoughts.

  But despite his attempts at control, the images had continued to come to him which made little to no sense: battles that seemed to have occurred in another place and time. Armoured creatures, running, sometimes at the enemy, sometimes for their very lives.

  And a field littered with bodies that belonged to beings that he couldn’t quite make out. But he was certain that they were his kin, slaughtered, many burned beyond recognition.

  He hadn’t told Graeme and Lily about any of it; there was no point. It seemed more the machinations of a mind taken over by an internal beast than those of a rational human, and none of it seemed relevant to their hunt.

  Besides, never in these strange, misplaced flashes did he see his two mates. And the one thing of which Conor was certain was that Lily and Graeme were to be part of his future—not this strange dream-like past.

  He proceeded from the train station on foot to the castle, a dark grey shell whose outer walls were covered with a thin layer of dark green moss, much as the old Edinburgh structures had been.

  The front entrance was indicated by a small sign which welcomed guests, much as the building itself seemed foreboding. Conor recalled the model in the house in London of this very castle, and how it had always seemed so bright and cheery.

  “Hello there,” said a woman who stood inside; clearly a local volunteer in charge of greeting visitors. “May I help you?”

  “Hello. I’m here to look at the place. I’m…Conor Dunbar.”

  The woman’s eyes went wide in what Conor realized, seeing her inner workings, was reverence. Her mind, open to him, was a mess of words.

  “Conor Dunbar,” “I wonder if he knows who he is,” “Keep quiet and let him pass.”

  “I’ll just go in, shall I?” said Conor.

  “Yes, by all means,” said the woman. “There’s another gentleman around somewhere, but he may have left by now. So you have the run of the place, as it were.”

  Conor walked in, his eyes taking in the large foyer hung with paintings, familiar portraits of his ancestors in all their regalia, looking stuffy and self-important.

  They didn’t interest him much; he’d seen these faces all his life in the house in London. Something in this building called to him, though, much as he hadn’t yet deciphered what.

  The castle was like so many others: Great Halls for dinner parties where various clans would have sat, shovelling meat and ale into their faces before and after a battle. Smaller rooms, still larger than most London flats.

  He peeked into a few bedrooms which sat empty, their contents no doubt long since donated to a museum or thrown out after generations of use. Conor could see why the place wasn’t much for tourists; it really was largely an empty shell. Its architecture was heavy; stones laid on top of one another with no real care to ornamentation or prettiness. This was a practical location, an armoury or a fort, more than a home.

  After a time he felt almost ready to surrender to the thought that this place held no answers for him. Like the London house, it had become more a novelty, a strange museum of relics, than any sort of clue as to his true purpose.

  But he persisted, wandering every hallway that he could access, looking for answers that were laid out in the very stones of the building.

  At the end of one long hallway paved with flagstone, he came to a narrow spiral staircase leading down to the right. The velvet cord which apparently normally acted as a barrier had been moved to the side, as though to welcome his entry in spite of potential dangers beyond.

  Now this was interesting.

  Conor proceeded downward, into what he at first assumed would be a crypt of some sort, filled with skulls or other markers of dead ancestors. Probably not the most inviting of spaces.

  His eyes adjusted quickly to the lack of light as he went, more animal than human in their ability to scan dark spaces. He felt himself focus on small objects which sat in the obscurity: an old chalice, sitting on the floor where it didn’t belong. Various unlit torches here and there. A decrepit chair, disposed of here as though the space were simply an old storage basement.

  He wandered through the vast room, which consisted of a long, arched passageway. At its far end he could see the flicker of torchlight casting shadows on the damp floor. So someone had been down here, and perhaps he or she remained.

  Conor moved towards the dim glow, any fear quickly overtaken by curiosity. Something told him that the answers he sought were at the far end of this wide tunnel. And he had no choice but to seek them out.

  63

  Loyalty, Chapter Fourteen

  Graeme had grown up within the walls of his family’s castle and he was curious to see it again now, centuries after the last time he’d slept within its walls.

  It lay out on a vast green field which, in his day, had been protected by rolling hills on either side that time seemed to have worn down over the centuries, changing shape and morphing into gentle slopes which made the castle appear constructed on a scenic spot rather than a strategic one.

  The stone building itself was well-preserved and obviously cared for, its enormous bricks kept clean and relatively moss-free, though its base was coated in a thin layer of green, the earth attempting to reclaim its walls over time as it did in Edinburgh itself. It seemed at times as though all of Scotland was a marsh, inhospitable for human habitation.

  A group of American tourists was wandering about when Graeme arrived, and he nodded to them awkwardly as he proceeded through what had always been his own front door. In his day it would have been flanked by large men in armour; shifters, though generally not dragons. His father employed wolves or wildcats, usually, known for their speed and ability to chase down any would-be infiltrators in small spaces.

  “Now that’s a proper Scotsman,” Graeme heard a cheeky English woman say as he proceeded by another small group, and he couldn’t help but smile. Had she only known the truth about him, she would have eaten her words. Nothing like a proper Scotsman. Now, a proper dragon…
<
br />   He paid the entrance fee inside, though his instincts told him to insist that he should be admitted for free into his own abode. That wouldn’t have gone over well, though.

  The interior was almost unrecognizable. Structurally it was the same old building, high-ceilinged and broad, its interior imposing to anyone but the largest of men. But now it was hung with works of art that had no doubt been accumulated by the family over the centuries, or added by wealthy locals who felt that the grim grey walls required sprucing up. No self-respecting dragon hung a lot of art; one swipe of the tail would render a Renaissance painting worthless in a flash, not to mention what happened to marble busts.

  Portraits of people Graeme had never seen, in Napoleonic-era waistcoats and other fancy dress, hung here and there. So much formality. In his day they’d been happy to get down and dirty, the clansmen, coated often in mud and blood. That was, of course, when they weren’t in their déor forms, attacking the enemy and winning. Always winning.

  He made his way through the building, down long hallways, noting the old family rooms which had become rather more feminine over the years, floral curtains and pretty accent rugs thrown about. Graeme wanted to run around, tearing them up and dumping them out the windows. Or at least lighting them on fire. The building wasn’t flammable, after all; it wouldn’t catch if he shot the odd flame at some offending frivolous article.

  In a dark, cavernous room that in his day had been used for feasts hung still more works of art; paintings of events which hadn’t yet occurred in his time, a historical documenting of the centuries that he’d missed.

  The most prominent of them seemed not to fit in for its strange subject matter, though, which appeared to have been inspired by mythology rather than fact. It had a title: “The Great Battle, Won by the Residents of ***** Castle.”