by Selena Kitt
“No, I’ve heard it told,” Griff replied. He’d heard so much about it, his whole life, he really didn’t care to actually read the words. “M’mother, m’aunts, all t’healers’ve poured over that book backwards’n’forwards, since t’day I was born.”
“What’s this prophecy?” Bridget spoke up, frowning between Griff and her parents.
“I thought, mayhaps, t’was just legend,” Aleesa told her daughter. “But if they’ve found t’book... if The Book of the Moon Midwives exists...”
“Oh, aye, it exists,” Griff assured her. “That’s how I found out ’bout t’lost packs.”
“There’s a prophecy ’bout a red wulver who’ll bring together t’lost packs,” Aleesa explained to her daughter. “I did’na know it would e’er come to pass in m’lifetime…”
Bridget sighed, looking at Griff, narrowing her gaze at him. “Yer this red wulver?”
“So they say.” He shrugged. If it served him to be the red wulver here, in this temple, then he would be that red wulver. If it got him what he wanted—the location of the lost, leaderless packs—then so be it.
“If he’s t’red wulver this prophecy speaks of...” Bridget put her mug on the table, leaning in to look at the other priestess. “Mother, only t’dragon can tell us fer sure.”
“Dragon?” Griff’s hand went to his empty sheath. He hated being unarmed. It was like walking around naked.
“Come.” Aleesa nodded, holding a hand out to Griff.
“Where’re we goin’?” he asked as they all rose. He didn’t like the sound of this.
“To t’sacred pool,” Bridget told him, a small smile playing on her lips. “Mayhaps t’find t’very thing ye seek.”
Griff hesitated at the edge of the so-called sacred pool, watching Alaric take up as guardian across from him, arms folded. The men stood, simply a witness as the women busied themselves with bowls of herbs and ceremonial swords.
He had sought this place out in hopes of finding information about the lost packs, but now that he was here, he wasn’t quite so sure that he wanted to know, after all. He’d dismissed the idea of the prophecy his whole life. In part, because his mother had been doubtful of it herself. She didn’t come from the wulver world, even if she now lived in it, and she’d never quite believed that it was her son’s destiny to fulfill some wulver prophecy.
Mayhaps that was only because she had wished it wasn’t so, he thought, watching as the two women faced each other across the pool, chanting softly. The light in the sky overhead had changed, and the slant that came in from above hinted that it was past supper time. They had talked long at the table as they feasted, he realized now.
Aleesa had been overcurious about her daughter, not that he could blame her. But he had little understanding of the woman. How could she leave her husband and infant daughter and set out for this place, when she hadn’t even known it existed?
Aleesa said she had been called here to the Temple of Ardis and Asher. By what? By whom? Griff glanced around, his senses keen, sniffing the air, getting the scent of herbs, the heather and the silvermoon, a heady combination. He felt no other presence here, heard no voices. The dark-haired woman didn’t seem consumed by madness or melancholy, aside from a natural longing in missing her offspring.
Mayhaps a temporary madness, then, when she made her way here to Skara Brae?
But what had kept her? He wondered. After Alaric found his wife, why had he not brought her home? They had a small child they’d both abandoned back at their den, and for what? To guard an empty temple, to chant over some quiet pool? Ridiculous.
It saddened him, watching the two women as they stood, facing each other, ceremonial swords held aloft. So many years wasted, the two of them alone—and now this young woman they were training to take their place. He watched her, the way her auburn hair brushed her cheek as she bent her head, how her eyelashes trembled when she closed them over those bright green eyes, and felt a longing he didn’t quite understand.
Mayhaps it was just that the girl was trying very hard to live up to someone else’s image of her. That much was clear—and he could definitely relate.
That’s when the swords caught flame.
Griff reached for his own sword, then realized, again, that it was no longer at his side. Across the pool, Alaric stood watching, unalarmed. Another trick then? The light overhead, cast in a certain way? Griff cocked his head, this way and that, frowning as the women chanted, louder and louder, in a language that sounded familiar, and yet he couldn’t quite make out full words. Then they began to repeat one word in Gaelic, over and over, one he did know—dragon.
Arach. Arach. Arach.
Something changed in the room. A shift, movement, mayhaps just the flutter of a breeze, but Griff felt it tickle his skin, like a coming storm. Something was rising. It hung there, like impending doom, expectant, waiting. He found himself holding his breath, his senses heightened. The hair stood up on his arms and the back of his neck. The red-haired woman, Bridget, stared into the pool, her sword still appearing to glow, but the fire had gone from a normal orange to something blueish silver.
Griff’s gaze followed hers and, deep in the pool, he saw a face. Leaning closer, for a moment, he thought it was just his own reflection—it must be—but then it began to rise, higher and higher, as if it was diving up from the depths. His heart thumped hard in his ears, the way it always did before a good battle was about to begin, and again, his hand went for his sword, finding only an empty scabbard.
Then, the dragon appeared.
It was there—and not there. A dragon’s head, all long neck and wide, flaring nostrils, its eyes looking straight at Griff. He saw the image of the dragon, and yet, he saw through it, too, could look right into and past it to see Alaric standing on the opposite side of the pool, Aleesa to his left, Bridget to his right. They were all there, staring at the image of the dragon, transfixed.
Griff shook his head, doing everything in his power to keep from going full-on wolf and attacking the image in front of him. He knew it wasn’t real—couldn’t be real. He would simply embarrass himself and jump straight into the water, and then have to drag himself out and shake off like a wet dog.
Griff held himself back, staring at the dragon, who stared right back at him.
He felt it happening, before he heard them gasp. His eyes were turning red, mirroring the dragon’s own blood-red gaze. Usually, when his eyes turned, he was feeling something very strong—mostly anger. Although, to his chagrin, his mother used to like to tell people that every time she nursed him, his eyes would turn red. But now, in this moment, he wasn’t feeling anger—an emotion he often associated with strength.
No, he was on edge, certainly, senses more alive than they might ever have been in his entire life, at least while he was in human form, but it wasn’t anger that filled him now.
It was power.
Pure, raw, unadulterated power.
He felt as if he, like the image of the dragon before him, could simply spread wings and fly away. He could burn cities to the ground with a simple sneeze. Fry a man to a crisp with a cough. And if he wanted to? He could rule them all.
Griff struggled to contain this feeling, to make sense of it. Gory hell, even his cock was hard with excitement—he felt like he had another sword under his plaid!
Then the dragon turned its head. It had no body Griff could see—mayhaps the rest of it was buried in the pool. He knew this thought would drive him mad if he lingered on it, trying to find the rest of the dragon who couldn’t really exist that appeared before him and filled him with such feeling.
But then the beast turned its scaly head and looked at Bridget.
Griff moved without thinking. He saw it happen—saw the beast’s eyes flash silver, instead of red, saw Bridget’s eyes, like an answering call, flash silver, too. That grey-green moved all the way to the other end of the spectrum, her eyes glowing, like someone gone blind.
“No!” Griff charged, leaping over the corne
r of the pool to cut the distance, nearly losing his footing on the slippery rock as he tackled the young woman, her ceremonial sword still flaming, aloft, pointing at the dragon’s head rising up from the center of the water.
He heard the other woman, Aleesa, cry out, heard Alaric shout, but he paid neither of them any mind as he covered Bridget’s body with his own, taking her down to the wet rocks with him.
Bridget’s sword dropped, hissing into the water behind them. She cried out as he covered her, mindful of his weight, not to crush her, just to keep her safe from harm. She stared up at him in wonder, their eyes locked, and for a moment he saw himself, the red heat of his own eyes reflected in the silver pools of hers.
“Griff,” she whispered, and he felt the way his cock hardened at the sound of his name in her mouth. His erection strained against the soft, silky material of her robe, and beyond that, against her incredible softness. He had never wanted a woman more than he wanted her in that moment, and if Alaric hadn’t called his name, too, he might have rolled her over and taken her without thinking—right then, right there.
“Are y’all right, lass?” Griff asked, his voice hoarse with emotion.
“I did’na need rescuing!” Bridget struggled under him, movements that didn’t make him any less hard for her. In fact, quite the opposite. She pushed against his chest with both hands—the woman had a surprising amount of strength for a human girl, even without armor and a sword. “Ye’re such an impetuous fool! The dragon’n’t’lady could’ve told ye what ye wanted t’know.”
“What?” Griff puzzled at her words. “What lady?”
“Did ye n’see ’er?” She wiggled out from under him and he saw that her robe was in disarray, parting slightly in the front, giving him a view of her pale, creamy thigh. Griff saw her noticing him looking at the gap in her robe and she pulled it closed, color rising to her cheeks. “If ye had’na interrupted, ye would’ve seen ’er. She was turning t’me. Did ye n’see ’er eyes go silver?”
“I only saw... t’dragon...” He frowned, moving to his feet, feeling a little lightheaded in the aftermath. He held a hand out to help her up and she made a face, ignoring it once again and standing on her own.
“Father?” Bridget frowned, glancing behind Griff, and he turned to see both Alaric and Aleesa approaching. The look on both their faces startled him, but what they did next left him truly speechless for the first time in his whole life.
“What’re ye doin’?” Bridget blinked as both of her parents took a knee before Griff, bowing their heads.
“Y’are t’one true king,” Alaric said, a slight quiver in his voice, gray head bowed. “How can we serve ye?”
What in the gory hell was he supposed to say to that? Griff stared at them, alarmed. Then he looked at Bridget. It was the fear in her eyes that forced words from his throat. He took the matter in hand as best he could.
“Firs’ of all, ye can get up.” Griff huffed, rolling his eyes. He gave them both a hand up, which they accepted, unlike their daughter, who still stood, tall and haughty and disbelieving, beside him. “And then ye can tell me where t’find t’lost packs. Tis all I wanna know.”
“Alas, we can’na tell ye.” Aleesa looked distraught, wringing her hands, looking at Alaric. “We do’na know.”
“But we can show ye where tis written,” Alaric replied.
“A’righ’,” Griff sighed with impatience. “I s’pose that’s t’next best thing.”
“Except...” Aleesa bit her lip.
“What?” Griff threw up his hands. “T’book’s hidden? We have t’tunnel t’the center of the country mayhaps?”
“No, it has t’be high moon time,” Alaric informed him. “That’ll be jus’ a few days from now.”
“Aye, a’course.” Griff ran a hand through his hair, wondering how in the world he was going to wait, even a few days in this place—for a full moon, of all things. “Do t’stars hafta be in alignment, too? Mayhaps I have t’strip naked an ’dance ‘round a fire while ye chant?”
“Aye, tis exactly righ’.” Bridget looked at him, unblinking, a little smile playing on her lips. “Ye hafta dance naked ’round a fire under t’full moon.”
“Bridget, hush.” Her mother sighed. “T’dragon will’na return now. We’ll hafta wait for t’high moon.”
“If I hafta wait…” Griff sighed, too. He hated waiting. “Can I trouble ye fer a bed, mayhaps?”
“A’course.” Aleesa nodded. “I’ll make up a bed fer ye.”
“And, while I’m thinking on it... a bath?” he suggested hopefully. He hadn’t bathed since the day of the Great Hunt, and the pool in front of him looked very inviting.
“Aye.” Aleesa smiled at him, putting a soft hand on his forearm. “I’ll start boilin’ water, m’lord.”
“M’lord?” Bridget snorted under her breath and Griff glanced at her, remembering the way she felt underneath him, all softness pressed between the stone and the rigid resistance of his body.
“Pardon?” He cocked an eyebrow at her.
“Who d’ye think y’re, a king?” Bridget exclaimed, crossing her arms and glaring at him.
“Aye.” He chuckled, glancing at Aleesa and seeing her frown. Clearly the wulvers were now on his side, even if the girl was not. He told Aleesa, “And I’d like ’er to tend me.”
“I will not—” Bridget protested, her eyes widening.
“Aye, lass, ye will!” Aleesa’s eyes flashed, not silver or red, but there were some things far worse than curses and prophecies, and clearly Aleesa’s temper was one of them. Griff grinned as Aleesa took her daughter’s arm, yanking her out of the room. “Now come wit’ me.”
Chapter Four
Bridget grumbled to herself the entire time as she carried buckets of hot water back and forth from the fire to fill the wooden tub. She had it halfway full, and the floor was wet where she’d splashed—not to mention the front of her robe, which clung to her like a damned second skin—when the big wulver-man, Griff, came into the room. He glanced at her as she put the last two full buckets on the floor beside the fireplace in his room. These were for rinsing, of course.
“Are ye ready fer yer bath, m’lord?” She couldn’t keep the venom from dripping off her tongue.
First, this beast bests her as temple guardian. Then, he somehow bewitches her parents into thinking he’s some sort of “red wulver” who’s here to fulfill a prophecy. Then, just when the dragon and the lady were about to tell them the truth, he attacks her!
Rescue, my foot, she thought, glaring as the man began to undress. His sheath was empty—no swords, aside from the ceremonial ones, were allowed in the temple—and he tossed it onto the bed.
Alaric and Aleesa had given up their room, with the big bed and large fireplace, for their guest. And why? Because they thought this arrogant fool was some sort of wulver king? He was nothing but a bragging, boastful boy.
Bridget turned to watch him, leaning against the tub, arms crossed over her chest. Well, mayhaps not so much a boy, she corrected herself, as he pulled his tunic over his head, tossing it on the bed, too. At least, not physically. His shoulders were big and broad, tawny colored in the firelight. He was so muscled, the hills and valleys in his arms alone were breathtaking, like the scenery of Skara Brae. Rolling and rather delicious.
Bridget told herself it was the heat from the fire, and her own toil in carrying water back and forth from the kitchen, that made her face flush when the man divested himself of his plaid. He half-sat on the bed, pulling off hose and boots too, tossing them aside.
She knew Aleesa would want them washed, and so Bridget moved to retrieve them. She set them all by the door—his clothes, boots, sword sheath, belt—ignoring the fact that he was naked behind her.
She averted her eyes when he climbed into the tub, but she couldn’t help seeing the bulge of the man’s strong thighs, the hollows at the sides of his buttocks, before he sank into the water with a low, soft groan.
“What d’ye wan’ me t’do?�
� Bridget had hissed at her mother as they warmed water over the fire.
“Jus’ tend ’im, Bridget,” Aleesa told her with a heavy sigh. “Wash t’man wit’ soap’n’water. Ye act like ye do’na know what a bath is!”
Of course she knew what a bath was. She’d taken thousands. Okay, maybe hundreds. But she’d never had to wash anyone but herself before. She didn’t know anything about man parts, aside from the fact that, if you brought a knee up between their legs, they had soft stones that puckered and shriveled and turned them into howling babies. She’d learned that lesson by accident, but her father had used it, as he used everything, to teach her a lesson. If she absolutely had to hurt a man, if he was besting her and she had to escape, honorably or no, that was the best way to do so.
“Ye can leave me, lass,” Griff called softly as Bridget put his things in order. Mayhaps she was stalling, it was true. “I can bathe m’self.”
She glanced over, seeing his head tipped back, eyes closed, his big arms resting on the sides of the tub, elbows cocked, hands floating in the water. When she didn’t answer, he peeped one eye open to look at her. She stood near the door, undecided, worrying her lip between her teeth. Griff opened two eyes, then his gaze moved down her robe, all the way to her bare toes peeking out from underneath, then upwards until their eyes locked.
“D’ye ’ave any soap, lass?” he asked, running a hand through his thick, dark mass of hair. It curled even more when it was wet, she noticed.
“Aye,” she said softly, moving to get it for him. She had made the soap herself. Aleesa taught her that, the same way she’d taught her how to chant and throw herbs into the scrying pool. Her own soap smelled of heather and silvermoon, but this was sage and cedar, a far more masculine scent they made for Alaric, who protested going around smelling like flowers—when they could get him to bathe, that was.
Griff lifted it to his nose, sniffing it lightly, giving her an appreciative look as he soaped up his hands and began rubbing them over his chest. She noticed the hairs that curled there, circling his nipples, small and pink, like miniatures of her own. Hers were hard—probably because she’d gotten herself soaked carrying all the water back and forth, she told herself, trying to ignore the soft pulse between her thighs.
