Chapter 1: Part One
Chapter Text
1
John Price considers himself a patient man. He has to be because he is a SAS Captain who heads a very unique squad, the International Task force 141st, aka ‘the Howling 141st’, which consists almost entirely of werewolves. A Born wolf himself, he is his squad’s Alpha and military superior, but more often he felt like a much put upon parental figure. Take now, for instance, as he watched Gaz and Alé gleefully terrorize the latest batch of human recruits through the obstacle course while Ghost watched with feigned indifference from the observation platform.
The elite SAS course was difficult enough for recruits carrying full kit without a pair of snarling, full-shift wolves dodging in and out among them as they ran, threatening to hamstring them at any moment if they didn’t get their arses in gear. Price did admit to himself though, the technique certainly sifted the wheat from the chaff. He fully expected a third of the new recruits to drop out by the end of the week. A regular SAS training course might graduate thirty out of two hundred. Here, that rating dropped further, seldom graduating ten. It took a special breed of human to run with wolves. He gave an amused chuckle and chuffed in surprise when an enterprising young human woman (a rarity in itself in the SAS) leapt up and used a startled Gaz’s head as a step stone to boost herself higher up the climbing wall. Even Ghost made a note on his clipboard. Young Ivy Ngode might go far in the SAS if she survived the course.
He chuckled again when Alé leapt up and grabbed her by the boot heel with his massive jaws and yanked her off the wall, just when she thought she was free and clear. She landed with a splat in a mud hole, but was still smiling as she struggled to her feet to try again and exchanged toothy grins with Alejandro. That even temperament and good humor would serve her well, he thought, noting Ghost’s tiny nod of approval as he made an additional note.
Many human recruits came into the squad with a speciest superior attitude, and made the mistake of trying to bully or dominate the wolves. They quickly learned that was a mistake. Werewolves were not domestic canines to be dominated or bullied into submission. The bonded pack considered most of these bigoted humans as little more than support staff and treated them as such. They were a tightly knit combat pack and they were the ones who had the last vote on who joined the squad. What many humans failed to realize was that the squad was also considered family as well as pack to the Weres. As a result, no other werewolves were permitted to apply without a direct invitation from Price and his SIC, Ghost. And even then, the chosen person would have to pass the pack’s muster.
The 141st took on the nastiest, bloodiest, most difficult missions and they had to trust each other implicitly because they couldn’t always count on backup.
Almost all of the wolves in the squad had dealt with species bias and abuse and discrimination at home and in the ranks before the 141st. Ghost and his last team had been betrayed by their human team leader to a Mexican cartel whose boss practiced Necromancy. Ghost was the only survivor, after being buried alive in a grave already occupied by the man who betrayed him, thanks to the quick action of Vargas and Parra, who were freelancing as mercs at the time, while harassing the cartels on the side as revenge for the slaughter of most of their natal Los Almas pack, a peaceful pastoral family pack.
Farah lost her entire family due to severe discrimination against shifters in her country. The religious leaders there believed all supernatural creatures to be creations of the Devil and ruthlessly practiced genocide. Alex lost his leg due to the incompetence of his superior in the CIA. Gaz’s fiancée left him because he refused to leave the military for a posh corporate job. Too many humans in the military regarded werewolves as disposable cannon fodder and in many countries they were not allowed to serve at all, but hunted like animals. Canada, Great Britain and parts of the United States were the main countries that granted shifters basic human rights. In too many places in the world they were treated as less than animals and hunted relentlessly.
As a result Ghost counted those he could trust on one hand and he seldom showed his scarred, naked face to anyone. He was an utter killing machine in combat and unstoppable in close quarters. He was also a superb sniper and infiltration specialist. The problem was, he was as close to a lone wolf as a military Were could be, despite his tenuous ties to the 141st pack. Price and Laswell agreed they needed a way to anchor him more closely in the pack, to keep him from going feral, but had yet to decide how. Ghost has no living family and few friends and kept himself apart. It was vexing to the more sociable Price, who grew up in a large natal family pack. Ghost did not deal well with change in the squad and Price was about to go head to toe with him with a big one.
Contention with his SIC was difficult, especially since he suspected the man was a rising Alpha. This natural trait was long repressed by childhood abuse and adult trauma, but Ghost was slowly healing and there were signs it was emerging. He no longer followed Price’s orders blindly, but was known to balk or ask questions until a situation was clarified to his satisfaction. This secretly delighted Price, it showed that his SIC was slowly emerging from his indifferent yet protective shell. Hopefully one day soon, he would begin to discard his masks as well.
The 141st was getting a new member, and this time they had no choice. The higher ups, while pleased with the high efficiency ratings of the Howling 141st, disliked not having as much control over them as they wanted. They were constantly trying to meddle with things that worked well for the wolves or insert new people (read plants) into the ranks. Now, unable to refuse a direct order from Command, Price has been forced to accept at least one new team member chosen by one of the American Colonels on the committee overseeing their international team and it wasn’t going to go over well. Not only was the new man human, he came from a notorious clan of Highland witches–witches who have always resisted the British government. Witches and werewolves got on just as well as fire and water, which is to say, not at all. Most witches regarded werewolves as little more than walking spell ingredients.
It went about as well as he expected, with Ghost snarling and stalking out of his office in a temper, scattering recruits and civilian base personnel like a pod of baby seals fleeing a cruising Great White shark. Price huffed and leaned back in his chair and considered another cigar as he glared down at the bare bones file he had been given on the new arrival. There was a lot of information redacted or just missing from this file, and he already has Laswell pulling together the original. He gave in and reached for a cigar, he was trying to cut down, in courtesy of his pack’s sensitive noses. He was nearly nose blind himself, courtesy of a nasty chemical explosion when he was a recruit.
Farah, especially wrinkled her nose involuntarily every time she stepped into the office and never lingered. She was on restricted duty now because of her pregnancy and already dealing with Alex’s overprotectiveness and the pack’s fawning over her and her tiny bump. Alex had been over the moon to discover they were expecting twins and Price was going to mourn when she left for maternity leave because since she was no longer in the field, she channeled her energy into whipping the paperwork in his office into shape, terrorized the quartermaster into giving them exactly what they needed for weapons upgrades and even dealt with the cranky old base warlock when it came to recharging and replacing necessary protective charms. She was attempting to train Gaz up to aid in the endless, tedious office work, but the energetic young sergeant preferred his more physical duties and found it difficult to focus on mundane paperwork. He was a bright lad and would learn with time.
John `Soap’ MacTavish knew he was in the shite when a shifty-eyed American Colonel, Shepard called him into his base Commander's office and they informed him he was being reassigned immediately to the international TF141 and that he would be wheels up at dawn. He managed to keep his dismay and anger under check and maintained a stoic demeanor as the Colonel slyly informed him that his main mission was to act as an ‘inside man’ on the team and report any ‘misdoings’ directly to him immediately. The man clearly wanted a lapdog and spy placed in the elite international team and gain enough intel to restructure the team more to his liking. He hinted at a promotion in rank in his future, which Soap took with a grain of salt. He has to fight to keep the contempt off his face. He mutters a curse on the man’s head as he exits the office to collect his gear.
Like most mundanes, the man was apparently under the impression that John would be more than happy to rat out his new assigned team, simply because he came from a powerful, venerable clan of Highland witches. It was no secret that Shepard had a beef against the Wolf, Captain Price and wanted to take control of his pack and elite team. Well, he was in for a surprise, because John was neither a rat nor a practicing witch. He was human, plain and simple, and the achievements he has made in his military career came from his own sweat and hard work, no magic involved. He liked his position with the 22d just fine, despite his private opinion that their base commander was an idiot, and was reluctant to leave, although the 141st was the elite squad, and a step up career wise. No, he was reluctant because he knew how most werewolves reacted to witches and he didn’t blame them at all and because once again he would be the FNG.
He fled his isolated clan upon learning that his own mother drained him of most of the natural magic he was born with at birth for a power boost, and that she intended to sell him off to the highest bidder for breeding purposes to any interested clan with enough money and magical favors when he reached age sixteen. The oldest Scottish witch clans were matriarchal and always have been. The women held the magic and the power in the clans. Men in these very traditional clans were there for two purposes only; to do all the hard, physical labor and to breed strong, healthy witch children.
The women drained the male babies born in the clan of any serious magical power immediately to aid in keeping them under firm control. That way the men could pass on the MacTavish gifts for witchery genetically but were never able to use it themselves. MacTavish men were in high demand for breeding stock and treated as such. Soap was extremely lucky because as a born MacTavish with his paternal grandmother’s protections he somehow remained immune to most beguilements. Otherwise he would still be stuck on the farm, happily mucking out the sheep barn and content to wait for an arranged marriage to an unknown woman who was probably at least twice his age.
The most famous witch clans were known for various talents. Some excelled in weather witchery. Others in green magic, or healing. Some could communicate with animals. Others scryed and told fortunes. The most powerful clans could access the elements or use compulsion like a weapon. The MacTavish women were best known for their powerful talent for Beguilement. They could twist the mind of any man and control and enslave him and he would bloody well come to love it. John’s mother kept his father that way, love struck and under firm control.
His father was a handsome, young airman from a neighboring clan who made the unwitting mistake of stopping for lunch at the small village pub near the MacTavish family home on his way home for leave. His mother saw him, wanted him and took him. Now instead of a promising, much beloved career in aviation, John Senior was kept bound to the land as a farmer. He no longer thought of flying, concerned only with running the family farm and keeping his wife and family happy. It was years before Soap realized exactly how much of a lie his bucolic early childhood was. It wasn’t like his male relatives could warn him, their feelings were so warped they actually believed they had full mental control and loved their wives or lovers, the MacTavish women were just that adept at mind control.
Now Soap was considered an outcast by most of his clan. The one place the Witch clans could not touch him nor legally reclaim him from was in military service of his country. As long as John was in active service, he was free. No witch could lay a claim on him, legal or otherwise. It went against the blood sworn oath the clans made centuries ago with the rulers of Scotland and England. What Colonel Shepard doesn’t know is that while, yes, Soap grew up in a rural witch clan, he also grew up with several beguiled werewolves, so he neither feared or hated them.
Werewolves were highly sought after Familiars among witches because they were a steady source of power. A young werewolf caught in his man form was almost as easily beguiled as a human. Only a fully shifted Wolf remained immune to a Witch’s seduction spells and beguilement. It was one of John’s werewolf friends and mentors who aided him in escaping his clan’s grasp when he was fourteen, although he remained beguiled himself. His paternal grandmother helped him by stealthily supplying him with mist charms and food money the harrowing years he spent hiding in plain sight on the Glasgow streets before he could enlist. John hoped one day to manage to free the wolf from his aunt. While John thought of and regarded Ian as a respected uncle, his aunt Elise regarded him as little more than a favorite pet.
Colonel Herschel Shepard watched the young Sergeant leave with great satisfaction. If everything worked out as he planned, his man Graves would be taking control of the 141st within the year and Price would be out. After all, it was easy for a combat wolf to end up KIA in an active war zone. Werewolves were too valuable an asset to be entrusted to the leadership of one of their own kind. By inserting the young combat medic in their midst, he would be able to gain control much quicker. Especially if the rogue warlock he commissioned to provide control spells came through, as promised. Wolves were worse than dogs and should be treated as such and brought firmly to heel. It was a pity Shepard has had no luck in persuading the US military to conscript and make use of more of them. Once properly collared and conditioned they made excellent close quarters combatants and cannon fodder.
The Scottish witch would make an invaluable tool. Especially if he was as skilled with coercion as his clan was rumored to be. Shepard knew little about witches, but at least they were human and John MacTavish’s grandmother, Eleanor, was infamous for the work she did for the MI6 during WWII. Eleanor interrogated captured Nazis and their spies and excelled at it. The men were helpless against her magic and told her everything they knew in an attempt to please her. She even received a medal from the King for it, although that meant little to a Scottish witch. The vast land rights on the borderlands near Glasgow that she gained for her clan from the Crown for military service meant more.
The first thing that Soap intended to do upon arrival was report to Captain Price in his office after he dropped his kit at his assigned room. He expected the wolves to make his life very difficult in an effort to oust him from the squad, even from service, but Soap had no intention of becoming witch bait again and he preferred to stay in the military until he was KIA. So, he decided to lay all his cards on the table and let the wolves decide. After all, they could easily tell by his scent, heartbeat and respiration if he was lying. He sincerely hoped Captain John Price’s reputation as an honorable and fair man was true. He was betting his life and career on it.
2
Most of the pack turned out at the transport pad to meet their new addition. To outsiders it would appear an act of courtesy and respect. What they actually intended to do was intimidate the hell out of the witch from first contact. The informal plan was to make the man so uncomfortable he would ask for a transfer within the month. Both Alejandro and Rodolfo were in full shift and sat shoulder to shoulder behind Price and Ghost, teeth on display in wide, sharp grins. Price stood scowling, while Ghost, clad entirely in his funereal black, full plate skull mask on, loomed ominously at his shoulder, arms crossed across his massive chest.
The effect that they were shooting for was entirely spoiled by Roach’s awed gasp and Gaz’s breathy “Bloody hell!”
Even Ghost blinked and Price noted that he straightened from his indifferent slouch.
The striking, broad shouldered young man that strode down the ramp of the transport was informally clad in a Black Watch kilt, the dark plaid of woven black, navy and green swishing jauntily around his hips, black kilt hose, and combat boots neat and well kept. His black plumed beret was set at a rakish angle on his head and he carried his own gear, full duffle, kit and a fat, custom field medical bag over one shoulder. His combat sigils were on modest display on his plate carrier along with his blood type, a Scottish flag and a wicked black handled dirk, and at a glance they could see he was decorated for valor in combat, marksmanship and for being wounded in battle. His medic sigil of twin serpents entwined around a sword impaling a skull, set over a red cross to form a military caduceus was set above over his heart, indicating a blood oath to serve his brothers in arms.
Price snorted in reluctant amusement as a gaggle of passing recruits nearly tripped over their own feet as they gawked at the striking young Sergeant, steps slowing as they stared. The 141st was not just getting an ordinary field medic. They were getting a SFMS, the cream of the crop. A SFMS was a Special Forces Medical Sergeant, a man who trained not only for combat field medicine, but took the same weapons, endurance training and intelligence courses as the Special Services men.
This was not a gullible recruit, this was a man who has seen action and survived it. (There was an impressive number of knives visible on his person.) He walked fearlessly towards them, brilliant cobalt eyes set in a strikingly handsome, tanned face. He wasn’t as tall as most of the squad, but he was powerfully built and perfectly proportioned. His keen gaze flicked over the lot of them, barely blinking at the wolves. Once in front of them, he stopped and snapped off a full, respectful salute.
“Sir.”
Price returned it, a surprised glint in his eye. Ghost, he noticed, was suddenly very quiet and still, no attempts at intimidation on display. Price only caught the deep inhalation his SIC made to read the medic’s scent because he was so close. Curious, he discreetly inhaled deeply and even nose blind caught only the barest hint of the young man’s clean, salty male musk, with a hint of citrus and sandalwood from his grooming products. There was no ozone reek of magic at all, nor a sour hint of fear sweat.
“Sergeant MacTavish. Welcome to the 141st. This way please.”
Price curtly indicated that he leave his gear with Roach and Gaz and he relinquished it all with a quiet thanks and without a backward glance, clearly not bothered with his possessions being handled by wolves. His mouth quirked a bit at Gaz’ surprised grunt at the weight when he hefted it. And handle them they would. Farah was already waiting in his assigned quarters, scanning amulet at ready to examine it all for hidden hexes and trackers.
Once inside Price’s small office, he waved the man to the ladder backed wooden chair in front of his desk and took his seat behind it, while Ghost simply leaned against the wall by the door. If the Medic found a huge, silent skull masked werewolf lurking at his back unsettling, he showed no sign of it. To his surprise, the man wasted no time with pleasantries. He leaned forward, blue eyes earnest on Price’s face.
“Ah will get right to the meat of the matter, Sir. Shepherd means for me to spy on ye, Captain. He intends to oust ye and put his dog Graves in charge of the 141st. I’m meant to coerce ye slyly and cause discord in yer pack.”
The Scot spoke with a thick, nearly archaic Scottish accent. His file stated he grew up on a farm outside of Glasgow, but the witch clans were notorious for cloaking their homelands. It was more probable that he was raised even farther north in a remote Highland mountain glen or even on one of the Hidden Isles. The ability to fade into the landscape has long served the rebellious clans, who never bent their knees to the first Elizabeth. Alba remained independent. There was a reason the entire MacTavish clan carried the title of “The Children of the Mist.”
Price heard the truth in his words and saw Ghost’s confirming nod behind him.
He tilted his head and gave the man a cold stare and spoke softly, sharp incisors barely visible.
“Why should I believe you, Witch?”
“Because Ah am no witch, Sir, Ah’m a career soldier. Ah have no magic. It was drained from me as a wee bairn by my own mother. Any rank I have here, I earned with my own blood, sweat and tears. I’m career until KIA, to stay out of their hands. What do ye know about my clan, Captain?”
Intrigued now, Price leant forward, head tilted in interest, hands folded on his battered desk. He could detect no falsehood in the young Scot’s statement. He noticed Ghost’s interest too, in his tilted head and posture as he listened intently from his silent post by the door.
MacTavish laid it out for them. His clan’s history with WWII government sanctioned coercion. What he knew and suspected of Shepard’s plan, how he himself was a pawn (or more likely a Knight in the game) and exactly what his clan would do to him if he was discharged from the military because his family now considered him prime chattel–a handsome, decorated Combat Medic from a venerable clan in his prime was worth a great deal. Shepard made sure he knew this, a not so subtle hint of what was awaiting him if he disobeyed orders. He would be unceremoniously discharged and delivered right into his waiting maternal clan’s hands.
The topper to the whole batshit frosted crap cake came when MacTavish revealed that the Colonel showed him the personal files on every member of the pack and team—files that were supposed to be kept at headquarters under lock and warded key. Their personal information and medical records were no longer private and had not been for months. The safety of the 141st as well as their families was now compromised by a bigoted man whom they were expected to trust with their lives and who had ties with terrorist organizations throughout the world.
“Ye have at least two moles on this base already, Captain. Probably three. My guess is ye will find them in administration, communications and medical. That way when he makes his move he can choke hold and lock yer pack down on base until he has ye all secured and collared. He will use both orders from command and binding spells to do so. I suspect he is trying to find coercion spells to use to bind yer pack as well.”
He didn’t recoil at Ghost’s angry, deep bass rumble and met Price’s eyes unflinchingly. Back ramrod straight he spoke firmly.
“Ah ken ye dinnae believe me. So take me to trial, I will drink the Truth for ye and stand by it. My word as oath and bond to yer pack.”
Impressed despite himself, Price sat back and regarded the young man with interest. According to the file he was given, young MacTavish has been in the military since he lied to enlist at age 17. He was only 23 now and his scores were superb. He could have easily gone for sniper or demolitions training, he excelled in both, but chose combat medicine instead because he still has a minor talent for healing left after his mother stole his magic, and he wanted to serve his comrades in arms as best he could. Price could and would check the authenticity of that file, but it rang true. He also had problems with authority and was written up for insubordination more than once, even to the point of costing him a promotion to lieutenant.
John “Soap” MacTavish was an honest man, and he didn’t take well to being used against his fellow soldiers. He has already lost his chance at promotion because of that altercation with a superior officer. Price made a mental note to check and see exactly what that entailed as well. Ghost, he noticed, had not taken his eyes off him, but there was no menace in his Lieutenant’s heavy lidded gaze. MacTavish intrigued Ghost as well.
“Alright. The trial will be tonight, when we have the building to ourselves, any civilian well off base. Best grab a meal and rest before then. You’ll need your strength. Alejandro will show you to your quarters.”
“You’re rooming with me.”
Ghost suddenly added, in his deep baritone rumble, knowing the Wolves outside would hear and scramble to move MacTavish’s gear from the room he had originally been assigned with Gaz. Ghost wanted to keep a close eye on this man.
Instead of being frightened MacTavish merely nodded in relief and saluted again as he took his leave. With a sunshine smile that lit the room, he thanked them quietly and sincerely for hearing him out and giving him a chance as he left. The man either has brass balls or he is mad as a hatter.
Price arched an inquisitive brow at his SIC.
“Truth.” Ghost rumbled reluctantly. The witch boy baffled him, though he was reluctant to admit that.
“You’re rooming with me?”
He quoted, in his best imitation of a gruff Manchester accent, biting back a smile behind his mustache.
He got the distinct impression that Ghost curled his lip at him and flashed teeth under his mask, as the hulking wolf chuffed irritably and slunk out of the room. No doubt to shadow the Scot. This was interesting, interesting indeed, because this was a personal interest and Price could not remember the last time Simon Riley took a personal interest in anyone. The man lived like a monastic Knight Templar of old, chaste and devoted to battle. Price couldn’t wait to tell Laswell, who would be delighted.
He picked up his personal cell, mindful of his now compromised communications and activated a heavy duty privacy charm before he called Laswell. Laswell might be American, but she was married to a Welsh woman who was a sworn and blooded member of a covert intelligence service, the Queen’s Own Guard, a Dame of the Realm, that answered only to the Queen herself (who wielded a great deal more supernatural power over the country than the modern day British people suspected). Her Majesty was not amused by those who presumed to threaten those dedicated to her service and to the safety of her people. Colonel Shepard was in for a rude surprise once Elizabeth the Steadfast set her ‘hounds’ on his trail. After all, a Queen raised during a world war knew the value of her country presenting a strong military presence.
3
Farah squinted at the page of the old, leather bound book she held, a puzzled wrinkle between her brows. Alex thought it was adorable but knew better than to mention that. Instead he stared at the witch book, or ‘grimoire’ as Farah called it, too and sniffed at it suspiciously.
“Is it a hex?”
He asked uneasily.
He hated hexes. The last one hurled at him gave him an infestation of fleas and the mange and it took forever to get rid of it. He resisted the sudden urge to scratch his head. Beside him Roach perked up with interest and Gaz looked up from where he was meticulously rifling through the witch’s duffle bag.
This guy wore kilts a lot. The plaids included his clan pattern, his dress battalion Black Watch plaid and even a few patterned camo weaves, casual blacks and innocuous browns. He at least had the sense to wear boxer briefs or under armor leggings beneath them depending on the weather. He also had a couple sets of regular BDUs, his Number 1, and a few pairs of well worn jeans, and workout clothes, so the guy wasn’t entirely hopeless. His shaving kit contained only the expected grooming items, as well as a jumble of hair sticks, ties and clasps. Gaz hissed and stuck a blistered finger in his mouth when he touched one made of silver. Both his gear bag and his medical kit were impressively stocked. The sheer amount of knives rivaled LT’s collection.
“No…” she answered slowly, licking her lips. “It’s a recipe for lamb stew that looks really good.”
Her tummy rumbled in agreement and she flushed and scowled. Dammit, she was hungry again. Breakfast was less than two hours ago. Pregnant wolves were always famished. She made a mental note to swing back by the mess hall later. The cooks always set an extra plate aside for her.
She hastily paged through the rest of the book, but all she found were recipes and formulas for herbal medicines. This guy took his job seriously because there were mixes geared towards healing wounds from silver and aconite as well. She was impressed. The wolves seldom bothered to visit the base medical center because it generally never bothered to stock anything for the wolves, so they usually just toughed their wounds out in the midst of a puppy pile of pack members until they healed, with the exception of Alex who still suffered from chronic pain due to his severed leg.
Carefully she closed it and placed it back in the leather book bag and opened the smaller book. This one was a personal journal and sketchbook of sorts and it contained mission notes, lists and some lovely landscapes and portraits as well as some silly doodles. Sergeant MacTavish was a talented artist. She chuckled at a caricature of a squinty-eyed, lantern jawed man in uniform with an American Colonel’s rank with ‘fuckwit’ scrawled below it. She admired the sketches before replacing it as well. The only other thing the bag contained was a spare phone charger, a pen roll of pens and drawing pencils and a tiny tin of watercolors and a couple of battered paperback books and a few snacks. There were two Clan brooches pinned inside the inner flap of the bag, one was of a wild boar and the other a fierce, snarling cat. Both pieces looked very old. Presumably the sigils of his maternal and paternal clans.
“Hey guys, look at this.”
Gaz said softly as he tilted a small box he had taken from a pocket in the garment bag holding MacTavish’s dress uniform. Apparently he didn’t display all of his honors on his plate carrier.
Alex tilted his head.
“Is that the Victoria Cross?”
“Yeah. Our lad has been a busy boy. I wonder if Price knows what he got it for?”
Before he could answer they heard light footfalls and Rudy skidded around the door, a sharp grin on his handsome face.
“Move his gear to Ghost’s quarters! He’s on his way now, unless Alejandro can persuade him to stop at the Mess for a meal. Price is putting him to Trial tonight! The man flat out told Price he was sent as a plant. And get this hermanos, Ghost ordered him to bunk with him.”
Agog at the news, the pack scurried to put the Scot’s things back in order and hastily carried them down the hall to the isolated end of the corridor where Ghost resided. They could hardly believe their ears. Their aloof LT had ordered the human to move into his den? After some thought, they decided it must be so the LT could keep a close eye on the admitted spy in their midst. They lingered as long as they dared peering curiously around at Ghost’s den (they were never invited in) but were disappointed to find it as pristine and bare as a monk’s cell. The man didn’t even have any photos on his walls. Other than his lingering scent, there was little indication that he bunked here. They placed MacTavish’s possessions on the empty bunk close to the back wall and crept out to scatter to report to Price and return to their duties.
4
Soap stepped hesitantly into the quarters he now shared with the legendary Ghost, and thanked the Wolf, Alejandro politely, noting the flash of surprise on the man’s face before it was quickly hidden. Did no one on this base treat their Wolves with respect? For fuck’s sake, Vargas held a Colonel’s rank in Las Fuerzas Especiales. He was relieved to discover his belongings placed neatly on the bunk on the far side of the room. He was also pleased to find that while his bags had been searched, it was done respectfully and nothing was taken or out of place, even his beloved grimoire and sketchbook.
Soap owned little, he moved too much with his deployments. What he acquired in nourishing a comforting daydream of retiring to a small cottage someday, he kept in a secure, warded storage unit in London along with his filled sketchbooks and professional art supplies, which he seldom had time to use. He periodically added professional grade art supplies or books that caught his interest to his hoard, hoping to actually live long enough to actually enjoy them one day.
Glancing curiously around he felt a pang at how impersonal the other side of the room was. There was no disorder at all, the only personal objects in view were a set of throwing knives with a sharpening stone and oil, and a half-finished mug of cold tea on the battered desk. Walking curiously over, he took a sniff, recognizing a pricey brand of Earl Gray. Probably one of the few luxuries the Lieutenant allowed himself.
Sighing, he quickly dug an old, threadbare set of joggers and a worn tee out of his bag and changed out of his uniform kilt and gear. He wore kilts often, simply because he was a loyal highlander and proud of his Scottish heritage as well as to spite his British superiors, who were unable to deny his right to wear traditional dress, and because he knew he looked damned fine in it. They came in handy for sparking a pub fight or attracting a hook up if he felt the need to burn off excess energy. He had no trouble finding a night’s company when he needed to let off steam. His one rule was that he never fucked military men or women. Best to keep relations among his fellows tactical. He also kept to one night stands. He wasn’t about to entangle some innocent mundane in his complicated life.
He seldom slept with women at all, wary of the way so many of them, whether witch blood or not, persisted in trying to charm a man with purchased ‘love’ or carnal spells. More than once he witnessed a man baby trapped because a woman used a fertility spell to get pregnant, after a hook-up hoping for access to a steady paycheck. To Soap this was a rather archaic way for a modern woman to gain a man, but he has seen a few men use attraction spells as well, a kind of magical roofie, to get the woman he wanted in bed. Considering his own clan’s ideas of ‘courtship’, he was wary of the entire complicated mess. Courtship rituals baffled him.
Soap was fortunate in that his beloved granny had secretly taught him how to recognize and avoid entrapment spells, and the protective sigils he inked on his skin caused them to slide off like water on a duck’s feathers. He missed her horribly, her fragrant kitchen was his classroom, but it was too dangerous to try and contact her beyond his usual cheerful letter sent at Yule. Gran understood his situation though and kept him supplied with care parcels and loving letters from home, and he received a new Yule jumper from her every year, love and protection spells knitted into every careful stitch.
He lay down on his bunk, and tried to relax. He was exhausted and would try to sleep until the Trial tonight. He’d changed into his oldest work out clothes in preparation because he is in for a rough interrogation and didn’t want to soil his kilt if he disgraced himself later. Nothing like vomit or shite to spoil a good outfit and he had worn his best battalion kilt to impress his new squad, determined to show up at his best. Despite his determination to eventually return to the 22d, he was already intrigued with the pack and wanted to learn more about them. Werewolf or not, they were the most elite squad currently in service. They seldom accepted humans and only a few wolves made the cut.
Mind racing in dizzying circles, he yawned and finally drifted off, noting as he relaxed that there was a pleasant, musky comforting masculine scent in the room. He has been hypervigilant since Shepard pulled him in his office and this is the first place in days he has felt safe enough to relax enough for a kip.
Ghost opened the door to his room and strode in, intending to begin intimidating the hell out of the latest threat to his pack, only to stop short at the sight of the young man curled peacefully asleep on the other bunk. He was unsettled and irritated at his own reaction to the handsome young Sergeant with the beautiful eyes and sunshine smile and the fucking delicious scent. Ghost has never wanted to cover himself in a scent more in his life. He wanted to roll in it, and he couldn’t help but be suspicious. The man had admitted his clan specialized in Beguilement. No doubt the witch was already working his wiles on the pack. Hell, Gaz and Roach were already snared, with Alejandro and Rudy not far behind. He glared down at the sleeping man.
Now that he is unaware of scrutiny, MacTavish has visible signs of stress on his youthful face. There are dark shadows beneath his eyes and a faint worry line between his dark brows. The left has a scar slicing neatly down through it. It’s a wonder he didn’t lose the eye. He also has a wicked curved scar on his chin, and Ghost can see others on his big hands and well muscled arms. He tilted his head with interest. Those were knife scars. The Scot wore a really odd, traditional clan haircut, a sort of modified faded Warhawk with slender plaits that led to the long mare’s tail neatly braided and knotted up at the nape of his neck, a hair stick thrust through to hold it. What other mysteries does he have hidden on his sturdy body?
Speculatively he runs an accessing eye down the man’s broad shouldered torso, noting the dark treasure trail where his thin tee shirt is riding up and bends low and takes a deep breath to greedily inhale the heady scent that has intrigued him from the moment he caught it. Rich male musk, the peppery scent of clean male sweat overlaid with notes of sandalwood and citrus from his grooming products with sharp notes of cordite and antiseptic. Horrified at the sudden lascivious turn his thoughts have taken, he starts to turn to leave as abruptly as he entered, when he notes the slight shiver the sleeping man gives.
Used to sleeping in his wolf skin most of the time, Ghost keeps his room quite cold. He hesitates only a moment before closing the window and silently draping a blanket over the sleeping man’s shoulders and leaving. It’s only later that he realizes that he covered MacTavish with his own spare blanket instead of the one neatly folded at the foot of the man’s own bunk. He leaves hurriedly to interrogate Price and demand to see the medic’s real file. The witch man unnerves him in a way he doesn’t understand. Every nerve he has is sparking in a way that makes him uneasy in his own skin.
To his intense irritation he discovers Price appears to be expecting him, Farah is seated across from him, reporting that she found nothing dangerous in MacTavish’s gear. Price thanks her gently and dismissed, she heads off to the cafeteria for a second breakfast. Apparently unborn werewolf pups need a lot of protein. Both men sniff discretely as she exits, checking that her scent is relaxed and healthy. Farah is the only female wolf on their team and they are all extremely protective of her, much to her exasperation. Tiny as she is, Farah has taken larger wolves on in close combat and won and she is a superb sniper, giving Ghost a run for his money. Ghost notices with approval that Price now has a much thicker file on his desk. As always, Laswell came through with the necessary information. She probably already has a good idea who Shepard’s moles are.
“Ah, good you’re here. Sit down and read this.” Price leans back, cracks the window and lights one of his least offensive cigars, sharp eyes on his SIC’s masked face. He sees the outrage that matches his own, widen the man’s dark eyes as Riley rapidly reads through the file.
“Fucking hell, Price. He’s still a pup! He’s barely 23!”
“You caught that then, good. Poor lad has had to raise himself since he escaped his so-called family. Spent a few years homeless on the streets of Glasgow before he could enlist. The bloody bint who claims to be his mother keeps filing petitions to have him discharged, back to the clans, claims he’s her only son and needed at home. He’s a smart pup, youngest SAS recruit to ever score that high and he can give you and Farah a run for team sniper. Got his call sign not just because he is a meticulous medic, which he is, but because he can clear a room so damned fast. He’s broken most of the records. Also, Major Metgar over in the 22d is raising bloody hell about his best combat medic being stolen away. He wants him back asap.”
“You mean his worth as a stud to the clans has quadrupled with his medical experience and honors, yeah? He got the fucking Victoria Cross at age nineteen. She can’t have him! He’s no bit of chattel to be sold to the highest bidder. He belongs to us now. And that incompetent ass, Metgar certainly can’t have him back. He’s already lost two good medics in combat. He can’t strategize effectively at all in a firefight and his men pay the price.”
Simon wasn’t aware of the possessive growl underlying his words, but Price noted it with carefully hidden surprise. It was utterly unlike the man to take such an interest in a new squad member, especially a human. He blew out a satisfied stream of smoke and watched placidly as Ghost finished the file. He saw him still as he read the last couple of pages of personal intel Laswell had inserted, and slowly closed the folder. His dark eyes were blazing and Price noted flecks of ruby red in the amber.
“You read the part about the natal Drawing ritual then.”
“I can’t believe his own mother would do that to a newborn baby. She nearly killed him less than an hour after he was born.”
“Aye. Apparently the ritual is more potent if he is still attached to her with his umbilical cord. If not for his gran stealing him and whisking him away to a hospital and the NICU unit, the poor lad would have died. The bloody cunt nearly drained him dry of his life force minutes after his birth to give herself a power boost.”
Ghost sat back and took a few deep breaths to calm himself, grateful for his mask. His fangs have dropped and he was sure his eyes were shining golden amber with rage. Inside his wolf is howling to take a blood trail. He wanted to travel to Scotland and eviscerate every MacTavish witch he could find. This sudden intense, emotional involvement on his part unsettled him and he was both glad that Laswell confirmed that John MacTavish has only a minor healing gift and a bit alarmed because it meant the emotional attachment he already felt for the boy was of his own making.
The Ghost did not do attachments. He kept things tactical on all levels of his life. He has to tamp this emotional shite down quickly and regain his legendary control. After all, he was almost fifteen years older than the witch pup. He ignored his inner wolf’s grumbles at this decision. It was the correct choice to make. The only honorable choice.
“Ghost, your job will be to shadow him now, until we’re certain he is sincere-“ he raised a hand at his lieutenant’s sudden sharp look.
“There is no reason to believe he is not, but better safe than sorry. Also, you know as well as I that once Shepard realizes the lad has cut his strings and thrown in with us, there will be attempts at retribution and the boy is only human. I can think of no one better to have his back. So, you will take him under your wing and show him about the base and how things work for the 141st. We’ll see if he has what it takes to be Pack.”
Price bit back a smile as he watched Ghost sit back, mollified, no doubt planning on how to run this new recruit ragged to see if he has the stones to run with wolves. He couldn’t think of a better bodyguard for the vulnerable pup. And vulnerable John MacTavish was, until he and Laswell figured out a way to keep him safe from the machinations of both their superiors and his maternal clan.
He reached into his desk drawer and withdrew a small locked metal box engraved with runes and keyed it open to reveal two glass vials that he set out on the desk. One held several ounces of an emerald green liquid, the other a few drops of a deep violet, viscous fluid. He saw Simon’s eyes widen under his mask.
“Bloody hell, Price! Are you trying to kill him?”
“No, of course not. But with Veritas there will be no doubts and the Pack will want that proof before they begin to accept him. You read his medical file, the lad is going to have a very rough night after he drinks this shite. Hence the hyacinthina nocte, afterwards as antidote and to ease the pain, heal and let him rest. You will oversee him afterwards and administer it. Since he is a human, it will probably take him at least 24 hours to recover.”
He pushed the tiny vial of purple liquid over the desk and indicated he take it and the big man pocketed the antidote reluctantly, internally fuming. Bad enough that the pup has to poison himself to prove his alliance by ingesting a herbal formula that contained carefully calculated ingredients deadly to humans, but the antidote itself was going to knock the lad on his arse. Deeply put upon, the lieutenant stood to leave at Price’s nod.
“Bring him to the sparring arena at ten. I’ll make sure the pack barracks is clear of civilians and recruits.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, Ghost departed, leaving his Captain looking after him thoughtfully. The sheer protectiveness the man already radiated regarding MacTavish was unexpected and intriguing and he didn’t think it was merely because of the medic’s youth. Ghost, while tolerant of youngsters, showed little interest in mentoring them. But again, young MacTavish was a special case and even Ghost has a soft spot for the vulnerable and the outcast.
Granted, the lad was in for some coddling from the pack if they accepted him, because to the long lived werewolves the young man was still considered little more than a gangly, half-grown pup, barely out of the den, and in need of mentorship, although in reality he is a sturdy, well-muscled young man who has lived an independent life for almost a decade and thrived in a dangerous profession. They will consider him a fragile pup at that, since he was human. He would have to keep a close eye on their newest team member. Then he rolled his eyes and snorted in amusement as he realized his own protective instincts were already kicking in about their potential youngest member. It was the natural instinct of wolves to nurture and protect the younger members of the pack. Gaz was going to be ecstatic at no longer being the youngest.
5
Although he walked into the sparring ring with head high and a winning smile, nodded politely to the seated pack, drank the vial of bitter Veritas draught unflinchingly, and truthfully answered every hard question thrown at him, roughly an hour later, a very ill John “Soap” MacTavish found himself on his knees in the team's communal bathroom being fussed over by the entire 141st pack as his innards attempted to vacate his body.
He was only semi-aware of this, being too busy boaking in the toilet bowl and trying desperately not to shit himself at the same time. Mere seconds after the intense questioning ended, he found his swaying, nauseated, dizzy self being cradled against his lieutenant’s broad chest as the man ruthlessly poured the vial of nocte down his throat and rubbed it hard to make sure he swallowed every syrupy drop of the precious serum. While it only took seconds for the healing elixir to sink in his tissues and begin to work, he was very glad he had the foresight to not eat dinner that night because everything in his stomach was being forcibly ejected from his body via any available orifice at warp speed.
Now only Ghost’s big arm across his torso kept him from falling face first into the loo, while his free hand cradled John’s forehead to keep him from braining himself on the porcelain as he violently hurled. Farah was cooing in sympathy and attempting to wipe his face with a cool cloth, Gaz was hovering with a cup of ginger tea so he could rinse his mouth, and the others milled about in agitation at his distress, while Price glowered worriedly in the background burly arms crossed over his broad chest. John sank back against Ghost’s chest with a gasp, then whimpered involuntarily as his gut cramped viciously and he involuntarily tried to curl up like a pillbug. It felt like his middle was being squeezed like a tube of toothpaste.
Realizing what was about to happen, he weakly thumped his lieutenant’s brawny forearm in warning and face flushing with humiliation, gasped out,
“ Watch yersel sir, ah got the skitters coming on!”
The thought of shitting on his lieutenant as well as himself horrified him.
Instead of the man dropping him on his arse like a hot tattie and recoiling, he found himself being scooped up, Farah briskly yanked down his joggers and pants, and he was carefully plopped like a wee toddler on the bog. Just in time too, because the result was both explosive and foul and he groaned and cringed in humiliation and buried his hot face in his lieutenant’s chest, as the big man knelt close, still holding him up and solicitously rubbing his back. The humiliation only increased when after what felt like an eternity, but was only a few minutes to insure he was finished, he was lifted, someone (and God he prayed it wasn’t Price) wiped his behind, and he mumbled thanks and thankfully proceeded to pass out in his lieutenant’s arms.
The next eight hours were vague and dreamlike as the Nocte began to work, relaxing his muscles and soothing him into a healing sleep after removing the toxins of the Veritas from his body. He woke occasionally to one of the pack tending to him, rubbing his back, sponging him off as he dry retched, checking his temperature, making sure he was warm, urging him to take small sips of ginger tea or electrolyte filled vitamin water. When he finally regained full consciousness, other than a sore abdomen and a pressing need to pee, he felt quite well, if a bit groggy. What he wasn’t expecting was to wake tucked snug and warm under a blanket, in the middle of a puppy pile of shifted, snoring werewolves. The pack had tucked him in their midst and kept him close all night.
Sitting up, he realized that his pillow was a huge, white Arctic wolf who was regarding him with calm, familiar amber eyes, his face marred with slashes of silver inflicted scars. Soap was gently stroking that striking face, tracing the scars with tender fingertips in painful empathy before he realized it, and blushing, he mumbled an apology as he worked his way out of the pile.
Soap groggily untangled himself from the sleeping wolves bracketing him, Gaz? Roach? He wasn’t sure, but he is fairly certain that the small black wolf sleeping next to the burly red one at his feet are Farah and Alex. A part of him clinically notes that Alex is missing a left hind leg below the hock. As he watches, two matching, lean dark wolves curled together yawn and begin to wake. Alejandro and Rodolfo, then. It’s near dawn, he can hear the base begin to stir.
He is a bit wobbly on his feet, and sways dangerously until Ghost sighs, stands and shoves a furry shoulder under his armpit to brace him (the wolf is fucking huge) up and walks his groggy, peely-wally self down the corridor to their quarters, where the wolf nudges him to his desk, where he finds a note from Price ordering him to take the day to rest and recover. He is relieved to be able to sink down on his bunk after a brief trip to the bog, noting it's now sporting a plump new pillow and a thick blanket.
“Thanks, LT, let us never speak of las’ night agin, aye?”
He slurs gratefully as the wolf lets out an amused chuff and he sinks back onto his bunk, exhausted by the short walk through the building, vaguely aware of the wolf tugging his new blanket up over his shoulders. As he dozes off again, a big muzzle and cold nose is shoved into the curve of his throat, and with a deep huff the wolf scents him carefully before leaving the room.
When he wakes again it's well past noon, the room is empty but fragrant with the odor of food and there is a tray containing a bowl of still hot stew, a cup of hot coffee and bread rolls and butter waiting on his desk. After he ate hungrily, showered and dressed in fresh workout gear, he actually felt human again. A smiling Gaz showed up to give him the tour of the base. Soap found himself making fast friends with the charming young Sergeant as they shared the same taste in brews, music, film and horrible memes.
Gaz gave him the grand tour, including a couple of hiding places where he could find a few minutes of privacy if necessary without getting reamed out by Price for slacking. As they approached the training course where Ghost was giving the recruits hell, Soap was responding to Gaz’ worried inquiry as to his health and Soap attempted to reassure the man that he was fine, because apparently the entire pack was convinced as a frail human, he was at Death’s door last night. He was surprised at the genuine concern the wolves displayed for his well being.
“Och, ‘twas nothing mate. I’ve had worse after a night at the Pub or bad Thai takeaway. Though I will admit ma body feels as pure as virgin snow after that particular cleanse. I could enter a nunnery now, ah’m just that pure inside, I swear, it felt like violating a temple to eat again.”
Gaz laughed and they paused to watch as Ghost bellowed at a lanky unfortunate who had somehow managed to entangle himself in a climbing net and can move neither up nor down. As they watched, the young man suddenly slipped loose, flailed aimlessly and fell, landed on his head, and didn’t move.
In seconds Soap was at his side carefully checking his head, neck, and airway and straightening his limbs while Gaz eased him out of his kit. The medic ran an accessing hand over his scalp and discovered a small bump, just as the recruit groaned and opened his eyes. They widened at the sight of the two sergeants tending to him and he cringed when Ghost suddenly loomed over him as well, sniffed once, snorted disdainfully and ordered him to medical after MacTavish cheerfully proclaimed he would live and probably have a splendid headache as well, even as he carefully tilted his head and examined the pupils of the dizzy man’s eyes for signs of concussion.
When MacTavish announced he would escort young Halsey to medical, the young man looked like he just won the lottery. That faded as soon as he caught Ghost’s nearly subvocal growl and he flinched as the lieutenant glared after them. He straightened in the young sergeant’s firm grip and made a valiant effort not to lean dizzily on the man as they walked away, very aware of the narrowed, wolfish gaze burning into his back. Behind them, Gaz hastily snapped his jaw shut, nodded at Ghost and hurried after them. Inside, he was almost gleeful. Had he just seen Ghost getting jealous when poor Halsey touched Soap? He couldn’t wait to tell Farah and Roach. Maybe it was time to start a betting pool.
Behind him, Ghost watched them go with hooded eyes, the young medic solicitous of the clumsy ginger beanpole of a recruit, carefully guiding his wobbly steps. The wolf could still feel the phantom touch of Soap’s fingers gently stroking his face, soothing the constant low ache of the silver inflicted scars. No one touched Ghost willingly. No one dared. Yet John MacTavish, still ill himself, had fearlessly, unthinkingly reached out and soothed the ugliest part of him, then immediately apologized for inadvertently crossing Ghost’s personal boundaries.
Ghost’s skin still tingled. He stood in the bathroom later, willingly staring at his unmasked face for the first time in years, his own hand haltingly retracing that tender touch, listening to John MacTavish breathe as he slept in the other room. Inside himself felt something he had no name for begin to slowly unfold. It vexed him, and he shifted and set out to run the uncomfortable feeling off.
Soap was surprised how quickly he merged into the 141, and how very welcoming the pack was. He knew from the wolves he grew up with, that Weres were very tactile and affectionate, but he hadn’t expected to be drawn into a tightly knit pack that was as much family as combat unit.
Farah was both motherly and how he imagined a protective older sister was supposed to be (his own sisters were horrors). Gaz and Roach, who were only a few years older than he, reminded him of playful, energetic pups. Alé and Rudy were like doting older brothers. Even Price often came across as a paternal figure instead of a stern commanding Alpha. And Ghost? The legendary Ghost he has heard so many stories and rumors about?
Ghost was the total surprise. He had suspected the big Lieutenant to be suspicious and downright aloof with him, knowing how the cartel brujas had tortured him years ago. But instead of being put through a series of hoops to prove himself and harsh orders barked until he was harried out of the unit, he got rumbled encouragement, big, gentle hands, and a protector whom he trusted the moment he met him.
Yes, the big lieutenant expected to be obeyed instantly without question when he barked out his commands, but Soap was firmly convinced that underneath the fierce exterior, there lurked a shy, quiet man. Ghost intrigued him and lit him up inside like no other because Soap suddenly realized that his type was towering, built, and scarred with a deep baritone voice that made his insides clench with want. He needed to figure out how to hide his arousal fast, because wolves could scent that shit. The big wolf drew him like honey did ants. It was a problem, because wolves could sniff out revealing scents, like arousal and that could prove embarrassing. Time to dig out Gran’s grimoire for a heavy duty scent camouflage charm. He was always grateful that her charms and spells worked for him.
6
Over the next few weeks Price sat back and watched with great satisfaction as Soap slipped seamlessly into the pack and the 141. The wolves adored him and half the recruits had a crush on the cheerful young sergeant. He often joined Gaz and Ghost on the obstacle course and shooting range to heckle and encourage the recruits and any surly recruit who got in Soap’s face or gave him any grief eventually found a snarling werewolf in their face. Demolitions loved him, Price already had to fend off Lieutenant Jenkins' fervent request to transfer him over with a firm denial. Soap did enjoy making things go boom and he was very good at it. Jenkins had to be satisfied with having him occasionally assist with teaching the recruits who showed actual promise with explosives.
He loved sparring with the wolves. Instead of being irritated or put off about the fact that he had little chance against their strength and speed, he took it as a challenge and then proceeded to learn their every tell and weakness to the point that he actually could hold his own with the youngest wolves. He got pissed if they held back, cursing and exclaiming that how the hell was he supposed to learn if they coddled him? He emerged from every spar bruised, scratched and grinning like a maniac.
He admitted that he knew several wolves growing up and played with them and his medical skills gave him a definite edge. He knew the few weak spots that wolves sported, the pressure points and the location of vulnerable clusters of nerves. He fought dirty for a human, biting noses and ears, gouging eyes, viciously kicking and punching soft bellies and genitalia and the wolves quickly learned to proceed cautiously because he was fearless, gave as good as he got and when they postured and growled, he just grinned and growled back. He very much reminded Ghost of the fabled Scottish wild cat, small but utterly vicious, sporting sharp teeth and claws.
When he sparred with Ghost for the first time, he actually took the huge wolf by surprise by immediately charging at him and climbed him like a tree in a determined effort to take him down. Surprised, Ghost found himself laughing aloud with delight, even as he teased MacTavish about his squirrel-like tendencies, and peeled the determined young Scot off his back and carefully pinned him, holding him easily until the squirming, cursing Scot exhausted himself and tapped out. Inside his blood was singing and he was glad his mask hid his broad smile at the pup’s courage and sheer determination. It didn’t occur to him to wonder why he felt the sting of every bite or scratch or bruise the man gave him for hours after sparring when tiny wounds inflicted on wolves normally faded in seconds.
He sparred with the pup in both full and half shifts, determined to teach him as much as he could so he would have that slim chance of surviving a close combat encounter with a werewolf. The cold fact was, few humans did. Unlike werewolf film lore, if bitten, 97% of victims died of rapid onset sepsis within 24 hours. The 3% that survived to shift usually went mad at the next full moon, totally unable to control themselves as the wolf took over. That small percentage was the source of most werewolf lore that portrayed all wolves as murderous, rabid monsters, ruled by a full moon. In reality a Born wolf has full control and can shift effortlessly at any time unless ill, hexed or grievously wounded with silver. The tiny percentage of bitten humans that survived never gained full control of their shift. As a result they had to have a pack to monitor them full time or, lacking that, submit to being put in a silver warded cell each month until the full moon passed.
The one arrogant human recruit who managed to draw blood with a deliberate elbow to the mouth during a demonstration while sparring (Soap won the bout anyway, with a return elbow to the nose, he fought dirty) and repeated attempts to hammer his face in, mysteriously chose to drop out of the SAS and move north to Yorkshire to care for his aging mother shortly afterwards. This didn’t stop the rumors that claimed Ghost had eaten him at the last full moon and buried the bloody, splintered bones on the heavy artillery range. (Ghost smirked beneath his mask every time he heard that one.) Maybe he would salt the area with some fresh beef bones to feed the rumor. The artillery range was actually a very good location to bury a clandestine corpse and he took note of it.
Just in case.
Price regularly held Full Moon Runs for the recruits.
He was determined to teach them how to survive out in the field if they ever found themselves hunted by enemy shifters. Also, it gave them a good taste of healthy fear and respect when they realized that being stalked in the dark by a hulking, toothy werewolf was a pants-soiling experience, even for career soldiers. A lot of international elite military personnel were sent to Price monthly for that exact training exercise, as well as the humbling experience of not passing the test. It was always a sobering experience for men accustomed to excelling in their chosen profession to realize that they were not the apex predator on the top of the food chain.
The recruits were taken out armed with paint guns and regular knives into the middle of acres of dense old growth forest at noon, given water and compasses and told they had to find their way back to base and elude the pack of wolves who would be stalking them. Farah usually went in unshifted with her sniper rifle (a reminder that enemy wolves often had human handlers) loaded with paint balls, while the others either went in half-shift (for the full cinematic scary werewolf visual effect) and Ghost usually opted for full shift since he was huge and terrifying enough in that form. To this date not one of the recruits made it back to base without being caught and ‘killed’.
Soap took the challenge with fiendish glee, informing the wolves that now they would get a taste of what hunting a witch was like, and reminding them he fought dirty. When dropped into the clearing in the forest, he actually rubbed his palms together with anticipatory glee, before winking at them and bounding off into the trees, leaving the startled recruits to fend for themselves. Ghost bellowed out a reminder that it was every man for himself and that the hunt started at dusk, so they hastily dispersed and followed the medic. Many would make the rookie mistake of trying to outrun the wolves in a desperate attempt to reach base instead of conserving their energy. That tactic never worked, even if a recruit was a skilled cross country marathon runner, because wolves were fast, tireless persistence predators.
As always, some teamed up (which made easy stalking, as they made so much noise as they moved) and others spread out and went solo. Price sighed deeply as young Halsey tripped over a log before he even made it out of the clearing. Bless, he was all feet, but the lad tried hard, had a lot of heart and was a cheerful soul. The wolves sat down and Gaz pulled out a deck of cards as they waited for the sun to drop behind the trees. Price sat back and smoked, watching with interest as Ghost stood, head cocked, as he listened intently. The Alpha had no doubt he was focused on the young Scot, and indeed, the second the sun sank out of sight, he growled;
”Soap is mine.”
He stripped and dropped seamlessly into full shift and bolted into the forest, intent on his prey. He was so focused on his hunt that the usually meticulous man left his clothes in a discarded heap. Gaz tsked as he folded the uniform and tucked it and Ghost’s enormous boots in the duffle they brought along for that purpose. Price snorted in amusement at his lieutenant’s enthusiasm as he stripped at a more leisurely pace and Farah laughed softly.
”Do we need to remind Ghost that this is not a Mating Run?”
The others laughed, and Alé nudged his shoulder against Rudy’s and murmured something in Spanish that had the man blushing, as they put their neatly bundled clothing into the pack, then shifted. Farah climbed astride her husband’s broad back, duffle and rifle slung over her shoulder and they were off. Admittedly they started slow to give the recruits the illusion they actually stood a chance for survival, but when full darkness fell, they very much enjoyed tipping their heads back and howling a greeting to the beaming moon. Especially when they heard Ghost join in with his deep, booming, sonorous bass and the audible chagrin of the rapidly thudding rabbiting heartbeats of the recruits when they realized he was ahead of them. Ghost had indeed silently bypassed them all, intent on tracking one cheeky Scot.
Ghost was having the time of his life. It was seldom that he found stalking the recruits interesting, much less challenging. Soap was a slippery little shit, living up to his callsign. He backtracked, looped his trail, left false scent trails, climbed trees and even left a noxious odiferous powder that took Ghost’s keen nose out of the equation for several hours. Tail wagging happily he snorted when he found a boot scuff in the undergrowth and set off again.
As usual they caught more than half the recruits before midnight. Some panicked and made it easy, and a few were easily picked off as they had managed to injure themselves in the dark. They had two sprained ankles and a broken arm this run. Surprisingly, young Halsey eluded them for quite a while, once because the clever lad covered his trail with cayenne pepper and again because he tripped, rolled under some shrubbery and face planted into a lush, thriving clump of Herb Robert, or ‘Stinky Bob’, and they overlooked him, intent on chasing down one of his noisier companions. Still, not one of them escaped so the Wolve’s ‘kill’ record was intact.
When the sun rose, they were only a few miles from base and everyone was rounded up and accounted for except Ghost and Soap. As they waited, the wolves shifted, dressed and Gaz lectured the recruits, pointing out their mistakes and how few paintball hits there were on the wolves and reminding them that even if it was silver ammo the location of those hits wouldn’t even slow a hunting wolf down, and no one had even had a chance to draw their knives. He was winding up his lecture when Ghost trotted out of the woods, a grinning Soap astride him. The recruits gaped at his size. In full shift Ghost was the size of a Fell Pony, his coat pure white with his silver inflicted scars on full display on his face and muzzle. His thick fur hid the ones on his body, including the gruesome Y shape of the vivisection scar that Roba had carved into his living flesh, and the grotesque scar under his rib cage from the meat hook they hung him on.
The young man was covered from head to foot in moss and mud, only his bright eyes and white teeth visible, with his camo trousers ripped and tee shirt nearly shredded. He looked like he had taken cover in a bog. It turns out he evaded Ghost all night, using all sorts of tricks, ranging from sprinkling a witchy powder in his tracks that caused the big wolf to sneeze like crazy and lose his sense of smell for hours, to scattering bits of his sweaty clothing to throw him off the trail, to climbing and hiding in trees. The only reason Ghost was able to locate him at all was that he accidentally startled a rabbit as he took cover in a hollow log and she revealed his hiding place to the stalking wolf as she leapt away, because Soap had been cleverly using a mist charm to hide his scent and heartbeat. Ghost took deep pleasure in pouncing on his sergeant and rolling him around on the damp, leaf littered forest floor, thoroughly scenting him from head to toe and dragging him around in the dirt by the ankle while he squeaked and laughed in ticklish protest.
Ghost took his pack’s teasing comments about ‘slowing down’ good naturedly as he shifted and dressed, while Team Human congratulated Soap for holding out for so long, and tried very hard not to gawk at Ghost’s nude body and scars. His huge body was covered with them, slashes of silver scar tissue marring pale skin. Price took it easy on them as they hiked an easy trail back to base and the wolves gave the injured piggyback rides.
He also noticed that Ghost and Soap walked together, the big lieutenant sharing his water with his sergeant as they chatted. Simon’s head was bent attentively, mask pushed up to his nose, a tiny smile curving his scarred mouth, as Soap, hands flying to pantomime, laughingly told him of how he nearly clotheslined himself on a tree limb while sprinting downhill as fast as he could when the pack started howling, because it startled him so much his flight reflex kicked in so fast he was fleeing before he could think. The pair was so engrossed in each other, they never noticed both the pack and the recruits watching them avidly, and money exchanged between Alex and Gaz.
Later, that night Simon would wake from a very erotic dream of an entirely different sort. Slipping from his bunk, he would pause only long enough to inhale Soap’s sleeping scent, rich and musky with lingering hints of petrichor and loam, and listen to his steady breathing before shifting and padding out for one last night run in a vain attempt to clear that heady, intoxicating scent from his nostrils.
Soap endeared himself to the wolves thoroughly, especially after they caught him reaming the quartermaster out, livid over the poor quality of the wolve’s chest plates and armor. He hung one of the faulty plate carriers up and shot it to pieces, shoved a shard of cheap, shattered ceramic plate under the man’s nose and informed him that as quartermaster, from now on he would be personally testing the quality of any new armor he ordered by donning it himself and playing target on the firing range while Farah took potshots at him with her new sniper rifle.
The refits that arrived within the week for the pack were the finest quality available and Soap took pains to show the pack the best protective sigils to paint, glue and sew on their gear, explaining earnestly to the avidly listening wolves that their intent alone and the magic of their pack bond would be more than enough to charge them. The wolves were stunned to find that his sigils worked far better than the generic protective charms provided by their base military warlock. Ghost later found others slyly painted on his own armor and chest plates and a carefully carved amulet tucked deep in a vest pocket and chuffed in amusement. Apparently the pup felt he needed extra protection.(If he kept the meticulously crafted little bone amulet tucked in the pocket over his heart that was no one’s business but his own.)
He also carved out time to teach them (and the gullible recruits) how to spot and avoid any witchy beguilements, ‘love’ potions, or the shoddy but potent aphrodisiacs that some pub crawling slags thought would snag them a soldier and meal ticket. In return, the unwitting Soap acquired a 24/7 set of werewolf bodyguards, who took great pleasure in cockblocking the young sergeant when they went pubbing.
As far as the pack was concerned none of the skivvy humans who approached their pup was good enough for him and until his mate grew a brain and claimed him, they would keep his virtue safe. Needless to say, Soap now hooked up rarely and took quite a few cold showers or spent extra time in them and scrubbed it scrupulously afterwards because he was always aware of his LT’s sensitive nose. Unknown to him, Simon did the same and took a lot more longer runs than usual. What neither of them realized was that the pack was well aware of their intense attraction to each other (and marveled at their dimness) and already had a lively betting pool set up.
He brewed a tasty lemon and honey ginger tea that cured Farah’s horrible morning sickness almost immediately, allowing her to eat healthily again, then although he gave her the exact recipe, no one else could mix it to her satisfaction. He also ‘prescribed’ daily prenatal vitamins and beef ‘tea’ and she almost instantly regained her energy and glow. Soap had a firm word with the base physician who was supposed to monitor Farah and the man sheepishly admitted he knew little about werewolf pregnancies, even as he hastily wrote her a prescription for the vitamins. Soap dryly advised Farah to switch to a female doctor because at least a woman had a clue how a female body actually functioned. Farah did, but it was disheartening because the woman, although competent, was obviously fearful and hesitant around shifters.
Alex decided immediately that the tea was magic and swore to the others that he heard Soap chanting spells over his concoctions (not realizing that Soap muttered and cursed and talked to himself in Gaelic as he brewed, especially if he messed up or forgot an ingredient) and insisted Soap be the one to brew it each morning. The bribes of fresh, hot blueberry scones from the village bakery, the young Scot’s favorite, probably helped.
Alejandro was searingly jealous when Rudy began to spend time in Soap’s makeshift infirmary until he learned that Soap was working on an herbal formula to relieve the vicious cramps that Rudy (who was a rare intersexed wolf) routinely suffered from, especially during the full moon. When Soap finally came up with a soothing tisane that worked, the Mexican wolves celebrated by dragging Soap to the pub and got him so blindingly drunk on tequila that Ghost ended up having to carry the caterwauling Scot home while he sang mournful, incomprehensible Gaelic ballads, before passing out over Ghost’s shoulder and snoring all the way back to base.
No one could see the lieutenant's broad amused grin under his mask, or later witnessed the care with which the big wolf removed his boots and tucked his snoring sergeant into his bunk, affectionately ruffling his unruly hair to scent him as he did, and solicitously leaving water, painkillers and a bucket by his bed. Werewolves seldom suffered hangovers, their systems burned through the alcohol too quickly, so unless the brews and liquor were infused with wolf bane they suffered no ill effects.
After being appalled at the total lack of the most basic medical supplies available for the wolves, Soap wrote and filed a blistering formal complaint with the Brass calling them out for shoddy treatment of an elite squad, and took over an unused room in the pack barracks and set up a mini clinic of his own, with Major Rice, the head medical officer’s full approval. Rice was happy to have someone on staff capable of dealing with the shifter’s ailments, few that they were, as most of his staff were wary of treating werewolves. Many of the nurses and doctors actively feared contact with wolf blood, wary of infection although it was a proven fact that it was the saliva that carried lycanthropy.
Colonel Shepard, still blissfully unaware that Soap no longer answered to him (he was having unforeseen difficulties managing Graves and his unruly Shadows), immediately signed off on any requested medical supplies (no doubt thinking Soap was busily brewing coercion potions for the wolves) and he took full mercenary advantage, ordering not only essentials like pressure bandages, suture and sterile instrument kits, wound clot and glue, burn creams and painkillers, but also boxes of fresh medicinal herbs from a witchy herbalist friend to mix up and compound his own tisanes and salves. It was a proven fact that natural medicines worked better than commercial chemicals on werewolf injuries.
When he wasn’t working at the base medical center, he was busy there, compounding medicines that were wolf friendly and actually worked. As he worked he diligently took detailed notes of formulas and compiled a fat werewolf emergency medical manual, which he shared with the base medical staff. Major Rice took note and encouraged him to have copies printed and dispensed across all the military bases and made a point to compliment Captain Price about his medic’s intense dedication to his pack. They both sent commendations to their superiors.
He usually had a pot of something tasty brewing in the small kitchen as well because he missed the comfort of his gran’s cooking and found the bland, if nourishing food in the mess hall substandard. This further endeared him to the wolves because his recipes for stews, keemas and curries were superb and he always shared, not realizing that his concern for the pack’s wellbeing, in feeding and healing them, he was unconsciously easing into the position of the pack’s den keeper. His small, battered thrift store crockpot mysteriously disappeared (Roach may have buried it in the woods) and a buffet sized, fancy slow cooker took its place and the fridge was suddenly constantly restocked with fresh produce and meats for him to choose from.
More than once a chuckling Price heard an outraged bellow from the kitchen as a cursing Scot chased a hungry Gaz, Roach or Alejandro from the kitchen after he caught them raiding the stew pot before he deemed the meal finished. Gaz and Roach made the mistake of stealing all the freshly baked shortbread exactly once (it was Ghost’s favorite) and found themselves running endless laps around the recruits all afternoon while a scowling, steely-eyed lieutenant watched, arms folded. He was only appeased after Soap took pity on them and baked him a tray of his very own.
He was blindingly efficient in the field, and quickly removed bullets, sealed dangerous wounds and coaxed silver coated iron shrapnel splinters from wolf hides with his own clever, improvised kit holding a strong, spell enhanced magnet and needle nosed tweezers, before they could burrow in deep and fester after vicious firefights with nasty insurgent groups who used bouncing, silver shard ‘spider’ bombs specifically designed to cripple and kill werewolves.
He saved Roach from a direct hit to the head from one of the small, deadly bombs, by pushing him aside and taking the brunt of the hit himself to the back plate of his vest. His sigils, helmet and armor protected him, other than bad bruising, small cuts and ringing ears, but Ghost who was on overwatch with a sniper rifle nearly had a heart attack when he saw Soap go down. Only when he heard the Scot cursing over the coms, and saw him smoothly moving again to aid the wolves, did he cool down and calmly work out his rage by rapidly sniping most of the insurgents and clearing them out even faster than usual.
Rudy swore that the special anesthetic topical salve he made was magical. Soap had quite a few things to say in an increasingly incomprehensible Scottish brogue the angrier he got, when he realized the wolves were used to having to tough it through their many injuries without proper medicines, including those for basic pain management. They were so accustomed to doing without, the idea of not actually having to hurt while healing was something novel to them. Just because they could heal rapidly from most injuries didn’t mean they didn’t hurt while doing so. Granted, they had extremely high pain tolerance, but they still felt pain like any normal human being.
Soap spent a patient hour rinsing Gaz’s blistered, abraded palms and smoothing a thick layer of his ‘magic painkilling’ cream over them. He then slipped a pair of sterile cotton gloves on his hands and sternly warned his friend not to remove the soft gloves until after he felt the itch of healing kick in, after the young sergeant accidentally grabbed handfuls of wild monkshood while sliding down a steep slope during an exercise with the recruits. The nasty blisters healed within an hour, much faster than when left untreated and Gaz excitedly told the pack “and it didn’t hurt at all!” After that the young medic provided each wolf with a basic first aid field kit containing several wolf friendly medicines, including painkillers, wound clot and pots of the simple topical anesthetic with firm instructions on how to use them. The kit was a small blessing for overly curious, accident prone Roach.
The realization that their stoic lieutenant had a soft spot for the young Scot came when Price (who stopped by Soap’s clinic every evening to chivvy the hardworking young man to bed) discovered a bare faced Simon seated on the exam table, eyes closed and big hands clenched on his knees, head tilted trustingly back, while the young Scot stood between his parted legs and gently scolded him for not coming in sooner, even as he carefully massaged his blue tinted ‘magic’ cream into the deep scars slashed into Ghost’s face. The look of slack jawed bliss on the big man’s mutilated face at the sudden lack of chronic pain was a poignant sight, and hearing the Scot’s gentle, lilting tones as he scolded the big man for being a ‘great dafty’ and a ‘eegit’ for not coming in sooner made Price feel he was about to interrupt a very private moment, so he slipped silently away. Price has never witnessed his SIC willingly seek medical aid before and this felt too intimate to witness.
Simon Riley to his knowledge, never showed his bare face to humans. Ever. Later, they all noticed that Soap provided Ghost with fresh pots of the soothing balm and with daily use, the silver inflicted scars faded to pale, supple, painless lines, almost like white ink tattoos. The effect of his facial scars was now more striking than gruesome. The full Glasgow smile, the thick scar across the bridge of his nose, the slash notched through his full lips that revealed a canine, the old snake bites peppering his lips now accentuated his handsome features. They also noticed that the big wolf was diligent about his weekly check-up on the scars, content to have the medic examine, massage salve into his face and warmly comment on his progress. It was clear to anyone watching that the big man was touch starved and craved the touch of one person in particular.
The day Ghost sat down with the pack at mess and nonchalantly removed his balaclava to eat had the entire pack beaming with pride, even when a passing recruit dropped his tray in stunned surprise at the sight of what Soap proudly proclaimed was a very braw face, which caused the big wolf to blush scarlet to the tips of his ears. After that, Ghost was more apt to leave his face uncovered when on base. After all, his private information (including photos) was already in the wind, sold to any interested terrorist, thanks to Shepard. He still wore either a simple black medical mask or balaclava off base simply because he found comfort in having his face covered, his shy wolf nature was something innate that surfaced when he was among crowds of humans.
In the meantime Laswell expertly inserted a few people of her own onto the base and suddenly one by one, an ambitious administration clerk and a greedy IT tech found themselves quietly removed and replaced with people who could be trusted, two of which were wolves. Laswell was meticulous in adding staff who would be alert for future plants. It would be some time before a certain Colonel realized two thirds of his people were now off being interrogated (and gladly giving him up for plotting treason), as he only deigned to communicate with them via email, which Laswell’s techs easily hacked and manipulated to record and gather further evidence against the man.
7
Price and Ghost were on the way to his office when they heard Farah’s voice from Soap’s ‘clinic’. She sounded upset, so, immediately on high alert, they stopped to stick their heads in and found her nearly in tears. Alex was seated silently on the exam table, his prosthetic leg off, while Soap sat on a stool and examined the site of the amputation, a grim look on his face. As they watched he pulled a tiny pencil flashlight from the pocket of his scrubs and shone an ultraviolet light on the end of the stump and whatever he found there, caused him to curse viciously in both Gaelic and English.
“Hand me the wee wooden box in yon cabinet, hen. I need to cleanse this shite off his skin and do a bit ‘o surgery.”
Farah scrambled to obey and invested now, the men entered the room, noting that Alex was in pain, face pale and drawn, which explained Farah being so upset. As they watched, Soap opened the wooden box and removed a squat, very old, carved quartz crystal bottle set in a protective, crushed velvet nest. Handling it gingerly, careful to wear fresh gloves, he uncorked it and poured a few drops of the pale green liquid inside (it smelled deliciously of fresh green apples) onto a cotton pad and carefully swabbed the end of the stump, which ended a few inches below his left knee. Glancing up, he caught his patient’s eye and spoke gently, apologetically.
“Ah cannae give ye a painkiller for this, it interferes with the healing, but Ah will be quick.”
Alex nodded in understanding, teeth gritted.
Then Soap braced Alex’s limb across his lap on a sterile cloth and opened a sealed tray of instruments, used a scalpel and one of his clever high powered magnets and needle nosed tweezers to deftly coax, draw out and remove a long, slender black iron needle from the end of the tibia, causing the wolf to grunt and grind his teeth, eyes flashing golden with pain as the wicked sliver of iron was removed from the marrow. Price immediately clasped a comforting hand on Alex’s shoulder and he shuddered and relaxed a bit, taking comfort from his Alpha’s strength. Farah snarled, eyes flashing and clasped his hand, as he squeezed hard. The other hand was putting a deep dent in the metal of the exam table.
Soap held the three inch long, sharp bloody needle up for them to see, with the forceps, careful not to touch it with his gloved fingers.
“Aye, this is the wee bastard. I wondered why yer leg was takin’ so long to regenerate! This be some dark witch’s doing. As long as this hexed bit ‘o iron was in yer bone, ye would never heal. The cunt was clever not to use silver or aconite, ye could smell those too easily, plus she used a concealment sigil dabbed over it.”
He placed the needle into a glass vial of blessed spirits, scrawled a containment rune on the label to null it and stoppered it firmly. Then turned a feral grin on Alex as he cleaned, disinfected and smoothed his ‘magic’ salve on and taped a waterproof dressing over the already healing wound, before he removed and tossed his gloves away in a bin.
“Now tell me, wha’ jackass was in charge of yer wound care after the surgery, so Ah can go an kick their arse for malpractice and use of the Dark Arts to harm a patient.”
“It was Dr. Washbourne at the base med center. She said I would always have chronic pain and that it wasn’t going to heal…”
Alex stammered, staring at his injured limb, stunned to realize that it no longer pained him, and was already tingling in that familiar pins and needles way as the nerves began to regenerate. He tightened his grip on his wife’s hand and she squeezed it back just as firmly as they suddenly realized Alex could heal now. It has been almost two years since his injury. It was Price who asked the question they feared to.
“Does this mean his leg will…”
“Oh, aye. Yeah, it should start to regenerate almost immediately. Best ye go to a Wolf orthopedic specialist and get it checked though, because as it grows, ye need yer prosthetic regularly adjusted to fit. It will take a few months, ah think, but it should be just fine in time. Ye may have some growing pains though as the nerves, tissue and bones regenerate, but I have a wee salve for that and with a bit o’ daily massage…”
Soap squeaked as tiny Farah wrapped her strong, slender arms around his waist and scooped him up off his feet and enfolded the young medic in an exuberant hug shared with her husband as they laughed with relief and joy. Alex’s handicap was something Price fought constantly with the brass about, to keep him from being discharged from service and separated from his pack and Alex always pushed his limits on missions, desperate to prove he was still combat fit. The Captain chuffed with satisfaction, beaming at the happiness radiating through the pack sense (he could feel the others’ curiosity already). Their clever medic came through again and incidentally discovered Shepherd’s third mole. Turning a sharp grin on Ghost he asked,
“Shall we go and have a word with Dr. Washbourne, Lieutenant?”
“We shall.”
Ghost eyes were gleaming with feral anticipation and he held out his hand for the vial holding the evidence. Soap handed it to him, as well as a fat brown envelope of coarse greenish powder.
“If it looks like she is about to cast upon ye, toss this in her face. It will cool her jets long enough to take her in custody. Take the MPs with ye, though. They can contain her properly for interrogation, they have special training for that shite and can null any hexes she tries.”
Ghost lingered for a moment, pride in his hooded, dark eyes as he held Soap’s bright gaze.
“Clever lad.”
He rumbled and hid a smile behind his mask as his Sergeant blushed to the tip of his ears and stoutly resisted the urge to run his fingers through his dark hair and scent him.
The pup was adorably modest and totally unused to genuine affection and praise. Further proof that his former squad had not appreciated him enough. He had recently overheard a seasoned 22d marine passing through the base complaining bitterly about the loss of their medic, a man who handled a sniper rifle and block of Semtex as easily as he held a scalpel. Soap has a well deserved reputation, it was his ability to ‘clean house’ that earned him his call sign. He pondered just how far down that rosy blush reached as he followed Price to the Med center, collecting the burly MPs on the way, both who were all too familiar with witch containment, as they activated protective sigils on their gear and donned face shields and thick gloves.
Appalled at the corruption of his medical staff, Major Rice, the Head medical officer of the base med center made a furious call, and less than two hours later, a silent squad of grim-faced women, wearing the royal sigil on their tidy uniforms that marked them as Queen’s Own arrived and took the clearly terrified woman into custody. The Dames would be interviewing the remaining medical staff as well. Dr. Washbourne’s career was now over and the time she spent confined in the tower at the Queen's Leisure would be determined by her readiness to cooperate.
After that incident (and the fact that Price may have ‘accidentally’ revealed Soap’s age to Farah) the young medic found himself firmly yanked into a doting adoptive family. Farah was determined to mother him and Alex happy as always to follow her lead. The entire pack closed around him and fussed over their human pup. Gaz and Roach acted like litter mates, Alejandro and Rudy older brothers, and the touch starved young man, who was tactile by nature himself, reveled in their friendship and affection.
Ghost became even more protective as it slowly dawned on the older man that his wolf had no intention of letting Soap go. His long repressed emotions were slowly blooming under a pair of clear blue eyes and a sunshine smile. Behind the scenes Laswell and Price worked diligently to enfold Soap officially into the Pack. That way, no one could take him from them, neither the military by trying to transfer him out of the squad nor the witch clans with a familial claim. Ghost took great pleasure in teasing his sergeant with horrible puns until he groaned and burst into incomprehensible Scots Gaelic rants which thickened his accent delightfully.
****
Several of the latest batch of recruits were plopped by the obstacle course wall taking a much needed rehydration break when Julie Danvers nudged her best mate Dan Potter and hissed,
“Here he comes!”
All across the training field, heads swiveled to watch dreamily as Sergeant MacTavish strode over the grounds, kilt swishing around his thighs, sunshine smile on his handsome face, making a beeline as usual for Lieutenant Riley who stood, arms crossed on the observation platform, watching him come.
It was a treat to watch him move.
Drop ins for minor ‘accidents’ at the med center had tripled after MacTavish joined the squad, until a fed up head nurse started screening them, a box of plasters already at hand for the minor boo boos they usually sported. He tossed a bottle of cold water up to the big man, then climbed easily up to join him, muscles flexing beneath his thin green scrubs top. They stood and chatted together, very little personal space between them. MacTavish was explaining something, hands flying, while Riley listened, head tilted attentively. He has pushed his mask up, his scarred mouth and cheeks on full display while he drank the provided water.
“I don’t know what he sees in him.”
Dan muttered peevishly, swallowing the last of his own bottle of water. He was horribly jealous although the Scot has never looked at him twice. Dan was not half as attractive as he thought himself to be.
Julie shot him an incredulous look. Dan’s crush on the handsome Sergeant was painfully obvious, but surely he wasn’t that blind. It was clear to see that the big lieutenant doted on his sergeant and the smaller man was utterly fearless when it came to the big shifter. Plus, she has seen Ghost in work-out gear in the gym and sparring. The man is built. As in brick house built. Who cared about his many scars, with that magnificent body?
“Maybe because he’s hot as fuck?” she said dryly, savoring the last mouthful of her own water. “Give it up, Dan. You put a hand on Soap and Ghost will break it off and toss it in the trash.”
Potter huffed in sour agreement. No one in their right mind dared to flirt or try to lay hands on MacTavish.
“Maybe I should try it on anyway. Who dares wins and all that.” he said rebelliously, eyes lingering on MacTavish’s strong, tanned legs.
Julie snorted at his sheer, obstinate idiocy.
“Right…remember what happened at the pub that night when that American marine put his hand on MacTavish’s thigh, slid it up under his kilt and asked him what he wore beneath it? The wolves nearly started a riot. Do you really want to end up concussed and locked in a dustbin in an alley all night? Or to play Wolf Bait on the next full moon training run?”
They watched as MacTavish swaggered jauntily away, kilt swishing enticingly. Julie sighed and forced herself to concentrate on her stretching out her aching hamstrings and tightening her boot laces. After all, it was unwise to stare for more than five seconds at that sassy swish. Dan apparently forgot that bit of wisdom.
“I’d like to see what he has under that skirt.”
He muttered, eyes still glued on MacTavish’s arse as he walked away across the field towards the med center.
They both froze at the sudden deep, bass bellow from the observation platform behind them.
“ Danvers, Potter! Stop lolling about! Fifty laps! All of you lazy sods! Move you Muppets! Now!”
Furious, Julie hissed at her friend as the entire squad groaned and shot them the evil eye.
“I see you forgot LT is a wolf, again. I swear, Dan, if I end up with tooth bruises on my arse and calves again, because you can’t keep your gob shut, I will end you myself!”
She jogged angrily off, picking up speed and moving deeper into the group of recruits when she saw the toothy grins of Gaz and Alejandro, as the wolves perked up, shook themselves and trotted from beneath the platform, break ended and ready to spice up the recruit’s laps by literally nipping at their heels.
Dan groaned, knowing he was quite literally in the doghouse now and they dutifully set off around the course. He would buy Julie a pint tonight and hopefully she and the squad will forget and forgive. God knows Ghost won’t. He yelped involuntarily as Alejandro slyly nipped his calf and picked up speed to avoid getting his arse bit.
****
Singh checks his clipboard and glances at the sky. The transport is due in any minute now to exfil the squad who just spent a month in *redacted* Syria, hunting down a notorious arms dealer. He glanced uneasily over at the Wolves, wondering if he should wake them. Werewolves really, really freak him out, especially when shifted, which is why he can’t help but admire the bloke who is currently sprawled napping on top of a pile of them. He would wake him, he’s the only human in the lot, but the guy looks rough, he has a bloody bandage wrapped around his head and another with a cold pack around his knee, which is handily propped up on a wolf shoulder. Tough, because from the sigil on his vest, he's the team Medic. He must be a witch as well, because he sports a desert camo kilt and his hair is in one of those odd, traditional braided styles that Rania tried to explain to him once.
The matter is decided for him when the big white wolf twitches an ear and wakes, and growls something that has the rest yawning and stretching awake. The wounded Medic sleeps on and Singh watches curiously as they move seamlessly around and beneath him, working not to wake him as they shift, quickly gearing up. As the plane glides down, the huge white wolf, now shifted into an equally large soldier, stoops and gently scoops the injured man up, off the warm, furry backs of the remaining unshifted wolves as easily as Singh picks up his infant son. The man sighs, buries his face trustingly in the wolf’s throat and sleeps peacefully on. He never wakes, even as the wolves load up, circling back and around, protective and solicitous of their human friend.
Observing that, Singh can’t help but think he needs to make more of an effort in his interspecies communications. The next time a wolf is assigned to his crew, he makes a point of welcoming him and as a result gains a lifelong family friend.
****
Gaz is just starting to feel really, really good and he smiles at the laughing young woman next to him, she is a lot prettier than he first thought when he and Roach came into the pub earlier, speaking of Roach, where is he? Oh, he said something about the bog earlier. He starts to take a sip from the fresh pint the girl just bought him, when a tanned hand covers it and he looks up to see Soap, glaring at the girl, who is glaring right back. Ghost looms behind the sturdy young sergeant, golden eyes fixed coolly on the woman.
“Soap! LT! Do you want to join us?”
Soap gives him a gentle smile and clamps a brotherly hand on his shoulder and gives him a little shake.
“ Gaz, ye bampot. What did I tell ye about witches?”
“Not to get involved with one.”
Gaz answers promptly, very pleased with himself for remembering. He grins happily up at his friend who snorts and grins back.
Across the table, the girl (who doesn’t look half as attractive now as she did) hisses something at Soap in a spiteful tone that sounds downright rude. He squints, Did she just tell Soap to fuck off and mind his own business? Soap responds by leaning over, teeth bared and hissing something in return that makes her pale and flinch. She snarls at him, and suddenly she doesn’t look at all like she had a few minutes ago, her face was older, more lined, her teeth crooked. Soap stands his ground and makes a complicated gesture, still standing protectively between her and Gaz and the woman flinches again, then abruptly stands and shoves past them and leaves post haste. Neither she nor Gaz notice that Alejandro and Rudy follow her out.
Gaz shrugs and reaches for his pint again, only to have Soap whisk it away and tug him up. He protests blearily. The last thing he sees before passing out as Ghost tosses him over his shoulder is Roach’s worried face. He wakes up in a puppy pile with a throbbing head and a scolding from a worried Farah, and Price in his face, reminding him how to spot predatory witches at the pub. He decides that the magical hangover he gets from the magical mickey she slipped into his drink was deserved for being so clueless. Luckily his pack had his back. Later he learns the woman was arrested for trafficking in harvested werewolf parts for spell work, and got her throat ripped out by a wolf in prison. Gaz would have been her third victim.
****
Clive huddles against the wall he is chained too, trying to shield his sobbing models from the pacing madman monologuing into the phone at the police outside. Maeve is wide-eyed with terror, Yvonne huddled in a silent knot, and Christa sobbing her eyes out, totally ruining her make-up. Why on earth are there actual terrorists here during Fashion Week? This year's designs are certainly not that cutting edge, although he certainly wouldn’t mind seeing that French twat, Antoine’s atrocious racks of tulle and sequined designs go up in smoke. Yuki huddles against him and he tries to shield her slender body from the balaclava masked oaf eyeing her half nude body appreciatively. The girls were in mid change for the runway when the squad of imbeciles attacked and tiny Yuki is his youngest and shyest model, not yet spoiled by being in the limelight.
He counts three men in this room, but there are several others down the hall guarding the entrances and exits. They are all armed with large, automatic weapons and from their mutters to each other, it sounds like they are Russian. The leader is currently ‘negotiating’ some preposterous deal and Clive knows damned well the British government is not going to hand over several million pounds and a sodding helicopter to these morons.
Something flickers out of the corner of his eye and he stares as a couple of large dogs slip silently into the room and separate to slip behind racks of clothing on opposite sides of the room, unseen by their captors. Dogs? No, those are fucking military wolves. Things are about to get interesting. There is a muffled thud from the hall, and the leader motions impatiently for his second to check it out. He does, striding into the hall and taking the other man with him.
The moment they are out of sight, the leader is focused on his phone again. Clive can hear the dry tones of a woman with an American accent, who sounds well fed up with the man’s verbal posturing. There is another thud from the hallway and Clive stares open mouthed as one of the most handsome young men he has ever seen strolls in, a sunny grin on his face, rifle held easily in big hands.
Clive immediately notices he is military, but he is wearing a chest plate with a Medic’s badge over an olive green kilt and no military man he has ever seen has hair like that. Since when does the army recruit models?
”Oi, mate, ye done with tha phone yet?”
The leader whirls, eyes wide, and drops a hand to his holstered gun only to have something huge, furry and white with a lot of sharp teeth silently drop from the skylight above and drop him like a stone, with one blow from a massive clawed hand. The half-shifted wolf snorts with contempt and rolls the unconscious terrorist over and nudges him, half-heartedly checking that he is still alive, then chuffs and grins at the approaching Scot, before seamlessly shifting into full wolf. He is fucking enormous. Clive nearly wets himself and Yuki squeaks in surprise.
“Good job, LT! Gaz and Alé are hauling the rest of these eegits out of the building. Price is outside with the police.”
He picks up the dropped phone and speaks casually,
”Bravo 7-1 here, Laswell, mission accomplished, hostiles neutralized. No casualties. The lads are hauling the bampots out to ye now. Send up recovery personnel.”
As he speaks the other two wolves emerge grinning from the flanking clothing racks and watch as the Scot efficiently ends the call and zip ties the unconscious terrorist and they unceremoniously haul the man out of the room, one snagging his kevlar vest’s collar with sharp teeth, the other hefting his bound ankles. The handsome Scot then turns his attention to Clive and the girls, blue eyes softening at Yuki’s obvious distress. He stands and grabs a velvet evening cloak from a rack and carefully wraps her shivering form in it, patting her back gently with one big hand.
”There, there lass. All’s well naw. No one was hurt.”
He soothes her gently, even as he removes a pair of bolt cutters from the back of his plate carrier and proceeds to snip them all free from the cuffs and chains their captors bound them with. It takes a second for Clive to realize the man has asked him a question, he is too caught up in that set of devastating cobalt blue eyes and how can facial scars look so attractive? He greedily eyes the cut of that chiseled jaw, the braided hair, the tattooed muscular arms and golden skin until a low subvocal growl sounds to his left and he turns to meet a pair of cold amber eyes. The white wolf looks like it wants to rip his throat out for eyefucking his handsome companion.
Hastily he leans back and scrambles to answer the Scot’s question. Ah, yes he asked if any of them were hurt.
”No, erm, no. Just a few scrapes and bruises. They bullied and pushed us about a bit is all.”
The Scot nods briskly and stands up, just as a plethora of medical and police personnel bustle in and take over the scene. Before Clive, who is desperate to at least learn the Medic’s name, can act, the man and wolf step back and fade away in the crowd. Later there is no mention of them made in the media and Clive and the girls are taken aside and warned not to speak of them. Apparently they are covert SAS black ops. Needless to say, Clive immediately starts to incorporate kilt designs in his men’s fashion line. Months later after the Channel Tunnel incident, he will finally learn who his rescuers were.
8
Ghost stepped into their quarters to find Soap in their in suite bathroom, hastily re-braiding and knotting his long plait up, shoving a carved rowan hairpin in to hold it neatly. He was dressed in his formal battalion kilt, the Black Watch one, and he smelled stressed, face tense as he laced his boots, hands automatically checking his gear (like the wolves Soap was always armed). Ghost watched silently as the Medic slid a long, slender, sheathed ebony handled sgian dubh into his boot and felt himself shift to high alert. This wasn’t the small antique, stag horn hilted dress ‘black dagger’ that Soap wore in his hose for ceremonial occasions. This blade was the 12’’ hand forged Damascus steel one he wore in combat.
“Something you want to tell me, Johnny?”
He rumbled, easing into the smaller man’s personal space, and gently bumping shoulders with him. To his relief, Soap didn’t pull away, but leaned into him slightly and sagged a bit.
“Ah have a meeting in Price’s office with a representative from the Clans. Ma bitch maither finally got a bit of paperwork through, claims it's necessary to check on my ‘wellbeing’ or some such shite. I donnae ken if this person is neutral as they should be, or in her pocket and here to try and try and lay a bit of nasty spell work or no’.”
He was trying to keep his voice calm, but it shook just a bit and Ghost leaned in harder and slid a big arm around his sturdy waist, even as he gently nuzzled the top of the young man’s head, firmly rubbing his scarred jaw there to leave his scent. This was the closest the clans had come in years, Soap was diligent in updating and filing writs of protection to keep them away, which usually worked well, because the British government frowned upon child sacrifice, religious tradition or not. This meant someone higher up was now giving John’s cunt mother a helping hand. Probably that pillock Shepard, playing both sides as it gradually dawned on the man that Soap slipped his leash. He could smell his boy’s anxiety and he didn’t fucking like it. He nuzzled the soft, dark hair gently. It smelled pleasantly of rosemary and Johnny and he breathed it in.
“Well, it's a good thing your pack is sitting in with you, yeah?”
Soap gave a soft, choked laugh and tried for a smile.
“Aye?”
“Yes. The 141st isn’t giving up a valued pack member, especially for abuse. More importantly, no matter how hard your clan pushes, legally they can do nothing. Laswell and Price have made sure of it. So, no worries.”
Did the lad really believe his pack would give him up? Not bloody likely. The relieved smile he got for that nugget of information made him clasp a big hand on the nape of Johnny’s strong neck and squeeze gently, an intimate scenting gesture that brought a very pretty blush to his boy’s cheeks. Soap cleared his throat, and slowly stepped away, taking a deep breath and squaring his broad shoulders, ready to face down the witch.
Grinning now, he gave Ghost a cocky wink over his shoulder as he picked up two more wickedly sharp throwing knives from his bunk and tucked them under his kilt into the waiting custom thigh sheaths, giving Ghost a deliberate flash of a sturdy, hairy, well-muscled thigh and silky black boxer briefs. Ghost suddenly found himself clamping down hard on the need to bite and claim, his mouth watering as he silently followed the younger man out of the room. He was not a hormonal juvenile, he could control himself. Besides, he reminded himself, severely, Johnny was a pup and there was a power imbalance involved, no matter how hard the little shite flirted.
Still, he was glad of his mask as he found very sharp incisors worrying his lower lip as he followed Soap to Price’s office. Passing personnel took one look at his protective stance looming at his sergeant’s shoulder and stepped out of the way and he wasn’t surprised when the other pack members fell in around them, instantly picking up on the intense combat ready protectiveness their LT was broadcasting in the pack sense.
Price sat calmly back in his chair, cold eyes on the three middle aged women seated across from him. The one on the left has neatly coiffed blonde hair and soft, pleasant features, a fading upper class English rose. She wore a plain, dove gray jacket with a discreet sigil brooch and was the so-called government appointed arbitrator. The other was a hard-faced redhead with pale blue eyes set in a narrow freckled face, who wore a large, gaudy MacTavish clan brooch on her tartan jacket lapel. An aunt perhaps. She reeked of pungent bitter herbs, including a whiff of wolfsbane that burned his nose and eyes. That it was deliberate on her part, he had no doubt.
The third really had his hackles up. She was silver screen, classic film star beautiful, all soft, dark hair and wide, doe eyes and dewy skin, utterly flawless on the surface, but she stank of magic. She reeked, even to him. The woman was so heavily glamoured that it almost rippled the air around her. He has no doubt that it served her well for fooling human men. She wore a clan sigil he didn’t recognize (he came through Basic with a McConnell wolf and this was not the same sigil), that of a sprig of holly clasped in an owl’s sharp talons.
Why, he wondered suspiciously, if John’s mother was so concerned about her only son’s well being, had she not come herself to check on him? His own mother would have plowed through a regiment of marines and beaten the door down to get her to her son if she caught a single whiff of distress from him (Price was the youngest, much cherished pup of his aging Liverpool natal pack, a secret he carefully hid from his squad).
The redhead was growing impatient, but forcing herself to stillness. She was so wired that she visibly startled at the clear rap on his door. Price inhaled, not liking the chemical undertones of her scent. There was something wrong with her, even his weak sense of smell could detect that.
“Enter.”
Price nodded encouragement at Soap as he entered, not surprised to find Ghost looming silently at his sergeant’s back. He could hear the rest of the pack waiting in the hall, ready to step up if needed and felt a burst of pride at how finely tuned their pack sense was. They were already shifted and ready for action. He hadn’t needed to call them, they simply felt the urge to protect their pup and came.
“Captain.”
Soap saluted briskly, then turned cold eyes on the seated women, all of whom were now eyeing him avidly, the dark woman with a hunger that already had Ghost dangerously silent, tense and ready to pounce. That’s when Price realized that she was probably one of Soap’s ‘suitors’, shopping for a stud with strong, magical genes to pass on to her clan and she has absolutely no business here. Soap confirms it a moment later, turning hard eyes on her and stating harshly.
“Morag. Get out. Ye have neither right nor claim to be here. If ye persist in inflicting yersel, then ye can consider this meeting over.”
“John MacTavish, mind yer manners about yer betters!”
This from the redhead, she looked furious.
The blonde merely raised an inquisitive brow and spoke mildly.
“Sergeant MacTavish has a right to speak his mind. And he has a right to a safe space, Iona. Morag McConnell, you did not clearly mention your involvement in this matter, when the counsel approved this meeting. State it now.”
The dark woman pouted, eyes wide and innocent, still beautiful, still hungry. Price could smell the lust from here and he wrinkled his nose in distaste, even as he caught a subvocal snarl from his SIC. Ghost was mere seconds away from ripping the witch’s head off her shoulders.
“I am merely concerned for John Laith’s wellbeing.”
The woman, Morag answered, her sweet contralto voice smooth as honey and just as sticky. She made a subtle gesture with a slender, bejeweled hand and smiled sweetly at Soap, eyes glinting.
Price saw the shudder Soap gave, and the hair on the nape of his neck rise. Incredulous, he realized the bitch was actually trying to cast a beguilement right here in his office, under his very nose. He inhales and sure enough, catches the faint whiff of ozone. He is abruptly grateful for the protection wards Soap and Laswell placed here to prevent exactly what the woman is attempting now. If he was human, he probably would already be well on his way to enthrallment and handing his young sergeant over into witch custody without protest. Ghost moved minutely, positioning himself and the arbitrator stilled and watched closely, her full lips thinning in disapproval, but it was Soap who spoke harshly.
“Get out, ye great hoore. Ah have no more more desire for ye now, than ah did when ah was thirteen and ye tried to rape me in the glen. Your castings dinnae work then and they won’t now. Ah don’t know how much ye offered for me and ah donnae care. Ah am free and clear of the clans now, and ah have been since ah enlisted, and for the record ah think it’s despicable tha a creature of yer advanced age preys on weans.”
He turned his clear blue eyes on the blonde woman, ignoring his scarlet faced clanswoman entirely, face earnest.
“This woman is over two hundred years old, and ye ken well how she maintains that youth. Ah think that life Drawing is against the Queen’s laws here. Ah dinnae think ye would tolerate the company of a Lich.”
“John Laith, shut yer mouth!”
Iona hissed, red-faced, pale eyes glinting with malevolence.
The blonde woman turned cool gray eyes on both clanswomen and spoke sternly, voice suddenly crisp, authoritative and bell clear.
“Sergeant MacTavish has the right to speak here and the right to a private assessment and he is correct in that you have no stake or claim here. Kindly remove yourself and wait outside, Ms. McConnell. I have taken note of your attempt at beguilement and John MacTavish’s witness statement regarding the nature of your craft and previous attempt at sexual assault upon his person when he was a minor.”
Her tone was frosty and held no room for argument.
There was a brief flash of shock across Morag’s smooth face, but she obeyed and stood silently.
Ghost pointedly opened the door behind Soap and ushered the witch out with a low bass snarl in her ear that had her stiffening her shoulders and quickening her pace. Alejandro and Rudolfo fell in behind her moving her out of the barracks, at speed, bared teeth snapping at her calves in warning. To Price’s surprise the blonde woman turned that accessing gaze on the redhead and stood as well, calmly gathering her attaché case and smoothing her scarf.
“Iona MacTavish, I can clearly see that you are here under false pretenses. That you ignored Sergeant MacTavish’s lawful boundaries and even petitioned to be here to harass him is the first offense. The second is that you willingly endangered him by bringing in a dangerous practitioner and sexual predator who attempted to molest him as a child to confront him in what should be his safe place. The third is that you watched and did not intervene when she attempted to beguile him.
I will allow you ten minutes to speak with Sergeant MacTavish, and state your business, then I will see you outside. Know that both you and Morag McConnell now face serious charges regarding Black castings against the Queen’s law. Captain Price, Sergeant MacTavish, my apologies for this waste of your time and the invasion of your den. It will not happen again.”
Her tone was final and Price realized suddenly that this quiet woman was no mere arbitrator. She was one of the Queen’s Own Dames and an Adept of some caliber herself, and by removing herself from his office, she was subtly giving him free rein to deal with the MacTavish witch, here in his den, any way he pleased.
She gave Soap a warm smile, nodded politely to Price and Ghost and stepped quietly out of the door that Ghost held for her, thanking him as she did. Outside, Gaz and Roach just as courteously escorted her out of the building.
Price turned his attention back to Iona MacTavish just in time to see her lunge at Soap, a small dirk in her hand and a snarl on her narrow, ferret-like face. He caught the nasty reek of poison even from where he sat. Shouting a belated warning he watched as Soap caught her skinny wrist easily, twisted and snapped it like a twig, causing her to drop the weapon with a shriek of pain, which immediately had Farah and Alex crowding into the office, fangs bared.
“Shut the door.” Ghost said calmly.
He watched alertly as his Sergeant coolly grabbed Iona by the throat and hoisted her up and slammed her back hard against the wall, body pressing her against it, his own razor sharp dirk now held tip up under her chin, as she choked and thrashed, heels drumming the wall, trying to escape his iron grip. She couldn’t cast now, he realized with a feral grin, not with a broken wrist, no breath and no voice. Having attacked them in their own den on what was supposed to be neutral territory they were well within their rights to kill her and send her head home in a box. He glanced at Price who nodded at Soap, allowing him to take the lead in whatever transpired now.
“Ah told ye years ago, Iona, ta let me be, but ye never listen, always have to push past a body’s boundaries taking what isn’t yours. The gear is eating up yer magic, woman. I can smell it on ye. Ye must be desperate to try that shite. Did Morag offer you a lifelong supply in exchange for me? For the chance to lay a geas on me? Do the clan matriarchs know about yer wee drug habit? Does Mam? Well, they will now, and let me give ye a wee remembrance to leave me be, since ye refuse to take me at my word. Next time I will take yer heid, Iona and leave yer corpse for the carrion birds.”
With that he brought his blade up and deftly slashed both her cheeks from the corners of her mouth to her earlobes giving her a wicked, scarlet Glasgow ‘smile’ and Price belatedly remembered that Soap was born and raised near there. The witch boys of that hard city fought with knives for sport as devoutly as they played football and Soap had spent several harsh years surviving alone on the streets.
Soap dropped her when she wailed and clutched at her bloody face, stepping back, dirk, still held at ready, face cold. The wolves could see that while deep enough to scar, the wounds didn’t seriously compromise the muscles of her face. He could have done much worse, dug the blade deeper had he chosen to, leaving her face a tattered, ruined mask of torn, gaping muscle and flesh. He kicked her dirk out of reach and motioned to the door, and at Price’s nod, an unsympathetic Farah lunged forward and grabbed her by the elbow and roughly yanked her out of the room and she and Alex escorted her away, clawed hands holding her elbows, as she clutched her face, trying to hold it together.
“No! Dinnae touch it!”
This to Ghost when he bent to retrieve the witch blade.
“It will poison ye, LT to lay a bare hand on it. It cannae be handled freely. It harms all but its owner.”
He reached into the leather pouch on his belt and removed a cloth hex bag stitched with containment runes, then used a pen from Price’s desk to gingerly rake the witch blade into it, before deftly knotting the drawstrings closed and handing it off to Price, who carefully laid it on the corner of his desk. He needed to make a call to Laswell and more than a few higher ups and raise hell. Maybe he would call Shepard as well, to keep up the ruse, the man remained annoyingly obtuse.
“Are you alright, lad?”
Price asked gently, laying a paternal hand on his Sergeant’s tense shoulder.
“Aye, sir. Ah’m glad those evil bats are gone.”
“Will they leave you be now, Johnny?”
Ghost rumbled, standing close enough for a comforting shoulder bump. He fought back an angry snarl as Johnny suddenly looked very weary and older than his years.
“No, LT. They will no give me peace until ah am in my grave. It is not their way. They hold fast and do not let go until death parts us. No one can hold a grudge as well as a witch.”
Price bit back a snarl at his pup’s bleak tone. He patted the lad’s shoulder and gave it a comforting squeeze, the need to comfort imperative.
“Take the rest of the day. Run off some of that tension. Tonight we’ll call for take-out and have one of those Bad Movie nights you muppets love so much. We can all stand to decompress a bit before the full moon next week.”
Before they could exit the office a breathless, wide-eyed Gaz ran in to report that Morag McConnell escaped the Arbitrator's custody by shapeshifting into an owl and flying away. Ghost growled and Price sighed. A pity no one had thought to blast her feathered ass out of the sky. Soap didn’t seem surprised.
“Aye, Morag is a sly, old cunt. Ah’m surprised she dinnae explode into a flock of bats. She is at least two hundred years old, maybe more. Ah would hate to see the face she wears under that one she stole from that lovely actress, Merle Oberon, ah think Gran said.”
Price huffed out a sigh. He hoped that John meant a glamour but he wouldn’t put it past the witch to steal the poor dead woman’s actual face.
9
Soap left Price’s office and immediately went to change into his joggers. He was going to take Price’s advice and run off his stress and get some fresh air. It was foolish to cut Iona. She would take retribution as soon as she was able, or his mother would. Once again his temper hijacked his common sense. He didn’t want to think about it. Jamming his airpods in his ears he trotted off, aiming for a long run around the wooded area used for training. It was a sunny, pleasant day, maybe he would even catch a kip in the meadow on the other side of the woods, well out of range of nosy, flirty recruits.
Price gestured for Ghost to stay after Soap left. After he spoke with Laswell, he sat back in his chair and reached for a cigar. He deserved a reward for not ripping the throats out of the predatory witches. He sent a stern look to his SIC as he lit up.
“Keep a close eye on our pup. Tell the pack to be vigilant. That bitch is old, powerful and dangerous. Laswell says she never gives up once she sets her sights on a consort. She lets her clanswomen use them for breeding, sells their stud services and then drains them dry after she is finished with them. It’s why she looks so youthful, she latches onto a strong person’s life force and feeds on it like a fucking lamprey, and our bright lad looks a right banquet to her now. The Dames have a royal warrant and will be searching for her, but she is back on home territory now and no doubt has a dozen bolt holes. The one good thing out of this mess is that dear Mother MacTavish has been issued a royal writ informing her that all her claims on her son are now null and void and no more petitions will be accepted, so to some degree our John is under the Queen’s own protection.”
He leaned back in his chair and took a satisfied puff from his Cuban, then flashed white teeth at Ghost in a proud smile.
“Did you know our lad got that Victoria cross after he put himself between a group of relief workers in Somalia which incidentally included a certain visiting royal lady, and a band of pirates? He took two bullets and rescued the lot. He wasn’t even twenty then. Her Majesty awarded it to him herself, along with sundry honors, she is not unfamiliar with the boy.”
The two veteran wolves exchanged proud, feral grins. Their pup was both courageous and fierce and a good fit for the 141st pack. Price waved Ghost out of the office and turned to the phone again. He had a very important call to make to the High Alpha regarding the harassment his pack was getting from the witch clans. He would file an official grievance so it would be on record for future encounters. With the pack lands at his back, the clans would do well to think twice before trying for their pup again. There was a reason the Scottish clans had not long ago swept in and taken Britain, and that reason has very sharp teeth and a certain resilience to magic.
Ghost trotted through the thickly forested area, the sound of Gaz heckling the recruits through training dying down behind him as he made a beeline to where he had homed in on the pack sense. At the northern edge of the patch of forest, Farah sat up with a yawn and wagged her tail at Ghost, before briefly touching noses with him and trotting back towards base. She was plumper now, her fur thick and glossy with good health. Both she and Alex were much healthier (Alex gleeful over his rapidly regenerating limb) thanks to the skill of their gifted medic.
Ghost slipped out of the undergrowth and chuffed in satisfaction at the sight of his prey. Slinking silently closer, he crept up to where Johnny was sprawled on his back in the sun drenched meadow, arm over his face, sound asleep. He could hear the tinny sound of the soft music he was listening to from his airpods. Good. His pup needed a good kip after the shite morning he had endured.
Carefully the big Were, sniffed his boy over, searching for any sign of distress. Finding none, he plopped down on his haunches to guard his sergeant. Remembering Morag’s escape, he made sure to keep an eye on the sky as well and made a mental note to carry a firearm with witchkiller rounds until the situation was resolved, because he had no compunction about blowing the flighty bitch out of the sky. He wondered if there was a way to tell if a bird or animal was a shapeshifting witch. He would have to ask Johnny when he woke.
Later that night, the Scot was in higher spirits as the pack crowded into the rec room, commandeered the TV, ordered a frightening amount of Indian takeaway, and watched several really horrible werewolf movies. He laughed and heckled poor Gaz because of his unfortunate resemblance to one of the film characters who transformed into a creature that resembled a demented poodle more than any respectable werewolf, until Gaz growled and pounced and the resulting wrestling match destroyed a coffee table. He was still chuckling to himself when they all finally turned in, and Ghost noted with great satisfaction that he slept soundly with no nightmares. Ghost himself now slept well, with few night terrors since Johnny’s scent now mingled with his own in their shared den and he could hear the steady beat of his heart as he slept. While he did still have the usual dark, intense dreams, his unconscious brain now recognised them as a mix of memories and past trauma and the paralyzing fear was gone. Night terrors held no sway over him now because his sleeping brain no longer confused them with reality.
Things seemed to calm down after the witches were sent packing and life carried on. A month later the pack found themselves wheels up to back up their own. Once again, the arrogant Major Metgar had nearly gotten the 22d killed. Coming in hard and fast the 141st wiped out the insurgents and exfiled the 22d team. There were more than a few wounded and Soap was kept busy as Metgar (who was about to lose his rank) had gotten another unfortunate field medic KIA. Despite them all being SAS, most of the 22d, which consisted entirely of humans (again due to Metgar) kept an aloof distance from the 141st wolves.
The species bias was blatantly obvious among most of the 22d, even though the 141st just literally yanked their asses out of the fire. Which was why the pack quietly kept to their side of the air transport. Most were taking the opportunity to nap, Alé curled protectively around Rudy who had a few deep chemical burns on his paws. Soap had quickly cleaned them, numbed them and wrapped them in protective gauze and set Alé to make sure he didn’t walk on them until the skin regenerated. (There would be a lot of foul Spanish language later when Alejandro proudly carried an embarrassed, cursing Rudy off the transport.)
Alex was snoring next to Roach, Price was up front with the pilots and Gaz and Ghost were the only ones still in human shape. Gaz was pretending to play a game on his phone while chatting with one of the 22d guys who he went through Basic with, while keeping an eye on Ghost because the big man, even though half hidden in the shadows of a stack of cargo crates, arms crossed over his massive chest while he pretended to doze against the bulkhead, was actually glaring daggers across the plane at the blonde communications tech who was laughing and chatting with Soap, one hand placed lightly on his arm as he checked the small flesh wound on her calf. Gaz thought it was a wonder the woman’s head hadn’t caught fire from the LT’s jealous, incendiary glare. The guy he sat next to suddenly snorted and shook his head.
“Man, she never gives up. Been after that poor bloke since he first arrived on base. Harassed him constantly even though he was right firm when he turned her down. Like a fucking pitbull with a bone. Soap needs to be careful around her, the bint knocks about with witches.”
Gaz felt his ears literally twitch, and he knew Ghost heard that because the big wolf slowly sat up straighter, murderous gaze still on the fool woman, who has no clue how close she was to literally having her covetous hand chomped off by a set of massive, jealous jaws. He tilted his head and answered casually.
“Oh, yeah. She witch blood too?”
There were many families with witches in their family and not all were bad. They often suffered from discrimination as well, and went missing under suspicious circumstances as often as wolves.
“I don’t know, mate. But she meets with a woman almost every month that makes my amulet sizzle against my skin, even across the bloody pub.”
The marine surreptitiously peeled his sleeve back to reveal a protective talisman knotted on a leather thong around his thick, tattooed wrist. Thanks to Soap’s informal lessons, Gaz recognised a very potent ‘dangerous witch’ alert rune carved on the old ivory bead.
“You a warlock, mate?”
He asked with interest, knowing male witches with any real magic were rare. The guy laughed. He had a nice laugh for such a beefy guy.
“No, bruv. I grew up near Pendle. Witch country. My mum made sure I was protected from day one. Spent a mint to have this charm specially made. She can’t stand witches, one deliberately broke up her marriage with my dad.”
Gaz nodded and gave a sympathetic hum and watched as Soap finally managed to detach himself from the blonde and make his way over to sit by Ghost. The medic has been high octane for more than 24 hours so it's only seconds before he dozes off, dark head slumped against his Lieutenant’s broad shoulder. Gaz bit a grin back when Ghost simply twisted and reached over and shifted his sergeant so that the smaller man was lying comfortably cradled in big arms across his lap, face tucked warmly in the crook of Ghost’s throat. Used to being manhandled by the pack, Soap barely stirs. This time it's the blonde’s turn to glare as Ghost smugly stares her down. Even under the mask, his smirk is obvious. If his face was bare, no doubt he would be flashing fang at her.
Gaz doesn’t think more of it after they touch down and head back to home base. Ghost was quick to whisk an exhausted Soap away, leaving the wounded in the capable hands of the base doctors. He did however notice when the blonde suddenly appeared later that week on base, allegedly to assist temporarily with the set-up of a new computer system in administration. Gaz dropped a word to the pack, Price alerted Laswell and they made certain she was never alone with their medic.
****
It all came to a head a few weeks later on a friday night pub crawl when Soap suddenly froze shortly after they entered and glared at the two women seated cozily in a corner. The blonde immediately looked guilty, but the pretty, dark haired woman with her merely raised her glass to Soap and took a casual sip, smirking over the rim. Every wolf immediately caught the tension their pup was radiating and moved protectively about him. Soap stoically ignored the women, but remained very aware of them, retreating with the pack to a couple of tables in the back near the rear exit, to put their backs to the wall.
Ghost slid into the chair by Soap, aware of the man’s sudden change in mood. A few minutes ago he had been laughing and flirting with them all, sashaying about in his shortest kilt (the one with the hem that hit well above his knees) making plans to bet on the football game they had planned to watch at the pub with the others. Now his mood was subdued, blue eyes watchful. Always aware of the women on the far side of the room.
“How copy, Johnny?”
Ghost asked quietly as the waitress passed out their pints. Before anyone sipped, they all quickly traced a protective sigil on the mugs.
Soap leaned back in his chair, wary eyes still on the women across the way.
“Solid, LT, but ye all need to know tha woman seated with Parks is very adept at beguilement, so keep sharp, mates.”
“You know her, hermano?”
Rudy asked in concern, while his novio glared across the pub, committing her face to memory.
“Yeah. The bitch is my youngest sister, Fiona, and the most skilled of the lot. Mam’s pride and joy. A real treat, she is.”
He took a long pull from his pint and unconsciously pressed his thigh against Ghost’s seeking comfort, which his LT freely gave. He bumped his shoulder close as well to reassure him.
“She here for a reason?”
“Oh, count on it. Probably finally realized her setting Parks on me as a honeypot isn’t working out like she planned, but she is a persistent bint.”
Ghost sat back, thoughtfully digesting the knowledge that Soap had somehow deduced that the Parks woman was a witch pawn. Still keeping an eye on his sister, Soap dug into his pocket (he was wearing one of his casual ‘utilikilts’ as he had loftily informed Gaz earlier) and quickly passed what looked like a handful of agate marbles around, one to each man.
“Put these in yer pockets and keep them close. She can’t beguile or witch ye then. My Gran crafted and charged these from agates gathered from our home place, so they can hold against a MacTavish casting. And remember she cannae cast on ye at all if ye go full wolf, but she probably will have aconite and silver laced hex powder in her bag or pockets.”
Each wolf carefully tucked the potent charms away on their persons, hoping they would not need them. As the evening progressed, the game drew in a raucous crowd of footie fans. And Ghost noticed that Parks had invited a group of the beefier, drunker men to share their table and even bought them a round. Soap leaned against his shoulder and murmured in his ear.
“Aye, watch now, ye can see her work them, the poor bastards.”
Ghost watched closely and sure enough, within a few minutes the attention of every burly man at the table was riveted on the vivacious young witch, totally ignoring a morose looking Parks, who sat quietly drinking her ale. Fiona, he deduced, was not one to share.
The waitress brought them another round, along with a large basket of chips, saying it was courtesy of Fiona’s table. The wolves eyed the tray of drinks and food, and as one, stood up to exit the pub, Ghost tossing payment and a tip on the table before leading the way with Soap tucked securely under his arm. The pack flatly refused to share food or drink with a malicious witch. As they left, Soap glanced into the mirror over the bar, watching their back and sure enough, Fi’s new minions were shoving back their chairs to follow, already radiating aggression.
“Sweet Creeping Jesus.”
He groaned, knowing it was all a set-up for a fight.
Those guys were neither military nor wolves. What was the point? Maybe his sister didn’t know he ran with werewolves now? Well, he guessed they would find out in the street. The only thing he could think of was that she might be trying to set the pack up and get them arrested for violence against drunken, incapacitated civilians. That could result in arrest, court martial and if convicted, immediate dishonorable discharge from service for the wolves and/or prison.
He said as much to his pack, and by the tense nods, they agreed. There was only one thing he could think of to avert that.
“If there is a fight to be had, it’s mine, boys.” He said firmly.
“If the others try to join in, see if a flash of fang enlightens them enough to break the geas, I doubt they even know ye are Weres or military. She may have them thinkin’ with their tadgers, but she hasn’t had time enough to cast a lasting beguilement.”
“ “Ware, Johnny, she may be angling to get you discharged as well.”
Ghost rumbled tensely, angry at the thought of Johnny being strategically separated from the protection of his pack and thus vulnerable to the machinations of his mother clan.
“Aye, sounds like the sly twat.”
John didn’t sound too concerned, so Ghost tried to relax. After all, his clever sergeant has been dealing with his clan for years without aid. They strolled casually down the street, careful to keep in full view of the busy street and CCTV cameras. They wanted full documentation if Johnny had to hand one or more of these cunts their arses. Sure enough, they got a bare block away before they heard the drunken yell behind, commanding them to stop. Turning and lazily fanning out, Soap in the center of the arc, they watched the group of drunken idiots approach. The man in front was built like a Samoan footballer, all broad, fat padded muscle and towered over Soap like a man mountain.
“Aye, mate?”
Soap answered mildly, hands in his pockets and rocking on his heels, nodding politely at a gaggle of pretty girls who flushed and giggled and slowed to a stroll as they passed, eyeing his strong, tanned legs and the handsome group of soldiers with interest. Gaz and Alejandro flashed flirty grins at them and the giggles increased. Good, witnesses. They would note that none of the 141 boys were drunk, unlike their attackers, if asked.
“You rude fuck. It's not polite to turn down a drink from a lady!”
The man bellowed, stepped forward aggressively, beefy fists clenched, face flushed and heavy jaw thrust out, already posturing for his lady fair whom Soap noted had trailed them and was standing in the shadows under a nearby awning to disguise her face. She probably has an activated mist charm as well. He couldn’t see if she was still actively casting. Guess it was time to find out.
Soap grinned, white teeth flashing wolf-like in the street lights, so feral that Ghost felt a tingle slide up his spine and a flush heat up his face, fuck, he was half hard. He loosened his stance, teeth and claws itching to slide free, keeping an eye out for hidden weapons, but so far, spotting none.
“Ah dinnae see a lady, mate and I donnae choose to consort with mind manipulating, cunt witches.”
At that, he noticed the man’s friends pause uncertainly and two of them on the side exchanged nervous glances, peered warily towards Fiona and casually stepped away and faded back into the shadows. Smarter than their mates, and a handy tell that her spell was already fading. She never could hold her castings on more than one person for long without a strong anchor. Far from home, she was out of her league here.
“I’ll have you eat those words, you skirt wearing faggot!”
Soap tsked, head tilted with a grin, sassy hands on his hips, deliberately taunting.
“Tis always ma kilt as the excuse for rude conversation. This garb is good for getting laid, mate, but ye donnae have the legs to pull one off, so ye must fancy what's beneath. Bring it on, ye great fuckwit and ah’ll get ye doan. Ah don’t have all night, me mates and ah have places to go.”
Snarling, the man lumbered forward, ham sized fists clenched and the fight was on.
Simon Riley learned three things that night.
One, his sergeant was an ace brawler, who took joy in a good fight, and two he looked fucking delectable with blood dripping down his chin from a split lip, as he danced lightly around Fuckface, who was a surprisingly adept fighter. Guy must do MMA on the spare. When his mates started to muscle up to flank Soap, all it took was a glance, a low bass rumble and a quick flash of molten eyes and sharp fangs from Ghost for the men to abruptly remember they had appointments elsewhere as common sense finally booted Fiona’s shoddy glamour out of their heads and it dawned on the fools that they were actually picking a fight with a pack of military werewolves. Three came when he realized Johnny was ambidextrous.
“Kev! Bob, Stuart? Where the hell are you going? Fucking cowards.”
Fuckface was swaying a bit on his feet now, as his mates left him to it, his smashed nose and mouth dripping blood, where Soap had clocked him with a boot to the face. The roundhouse kick was lovely. Apparently his sergeant kick boxed as a hobby and looked damned fine doing so in his little ‘skirt’. His opponent proved to be a sneaky, conniving twat when he suddenly jerked a switchblade from a pocket and slashed wildly at Soap’s midriff. Ghost had to bite his lip to keep from jumping in and tearing the moron’s head off and he could feel a snarl building as his teeth itched as they began to lengthen. He heard Alejandro and Rudy echo his growl as they edged near.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Fiona step closer, out of the shadows, eyes bright with anticipation as she watched her minion try to gut her little brother. Try being the operative word, because Soap was having none of it. He grinned through the blood trickling down his chin and danced lightly back, taunting Fuckface, in that thick Scottish brogue. The big man lunged at him wildly and narrowly missed stabbing Soap in the kidney, as he neatly turned aside a mere hair to avoid the blade. It slid by him and the big man stumbled as Soap gave him a deft shove back out of his space and he suddenly realized that he was no longer holding his knife. He blinked stupidly at his empty hand, then at the grinning Scot, who now held the little switchblade in his left hand and a long, gleaming dirk in his right. Soap had moved so fast, no one saw him pluck it from the man’s hand or unsheath his own blade.
The Scot spun the dirk lightly in his fingers, blade glistening under the street lights, the other held low, sharp edge up and stepped lazily forward, stalking the no longer drunk man.
“Well, now, which blade do ye fancy, mate? Ah’m going to carve ma initials on yer fat, slow arse.”
He was totally serious, that wet, red smile widening with anticipation as he took another gliding step forwards towards his prey. The big footballer suddenly shuddered, blinked and shook his head like a dog with ear mites, as he literally shook off the last of Fiona MacTavish’s fading glamour, and looked about, more than a bit confused. Realizing this, Soap stopped and cocked his head and held the big man’s wide, suddenly sober eyes, even as he absently spun the blade in his hand.
“Are we doan here, mate?” he asked softly.
“Yeah, yes, uh, I have to go. I have to go now.”
Turning, the man fled, stumbling away down a side street. They heard him pause to upchuck in a bin before staggering hastily on, his sense of self-preservation belatedly kicking in. The failed Beguilement would likely leave him with a nasty magical hangover for several days.
Soap examined his purloined knife, scoffed at the shoddy quality and tossed it away into a nearby storm drain, then turned towards his wide-eyed sister and strolled lazily towards her, as the pack followed, hemming her in and pushing her back into the mouth of the dead end alley behind her, a convenient blind spot on the CCTV. She has avoided the cameras a bit too well. Gaz stepped back to guard their flanks. Ghost grinned and snarled softly and his pack rumbled eagerly in agreement as they stalked their prey. The young witch stopped, fists clenched, as it suddenly dawned on her that none of her wiles worked on the wolves and her Mist charm failed as well. Her blue eyes were wide with fear now instead of anticipation.
Shakily, she spoke.
“Don’t ye dare lay a hand on me, John Laith! Mam will have yer heid.”
“Mam isn’t here, Fi. Ye stand in open trespass on wolf held and claimed territory and cast beguilement against the Queen’s law. Shall I ask ye the same question I asked yer poor foolish pawn?”
The knife still spun idly in his hand, but he never took his eyes off her pale face as he got close enough to loom over her, watching with great satisfaction as she licked her suddenly dry lips. She looked wildly around her as the pack moved forward, their eyes gleaming gold in the shadows. She would get no help here. Finally, she gulped and lifted her chin defiantly and glared into his eyes, her fists clenched tight.
“I…I ask the favor of my life, brother.”
“Why should I grant it? You would see mine spill out on the cobblestones and then lift a pint in celebration with that fool Parks.”
Smiling, he raised a big hand and delicately lifted a thick strand of her long, sable hair from her shoulder and the dirk flashed as he cut it off, casually looping it around his palm. Ever so gently he placed the needle sharp tip under her small, pointed chin and pressed until several beads of bright blood slid down the steel. He could read in her face that she was thinking of what he did to Iona and it frightened her. Fiona has always been vain of her pretty face, the single dark beauty among her fair, freckled sisters.
“It’s within my right to defend mesel, Fi. I could take yer heid now and send it to Mam via Royal Mail and she could do nothing. Remember what ye lasses used ta do for entertainment, Fi? Ye drained my pour Lassie and sweet Beauty for sport, while I wept and begged ye nae to. Do ye remember what ye did then, sister?”
He abruptly pressed the blade harder, making her tilt her chin up high to avoid being stabbed up in the mouth and a thin trickle of blood slid down his blade. John’s face gave nothing away, a tiny smile on his lips as he watched her sweat and bleed.
“Well?” He almost crooned the word, holding her eyes with his, like a cobra hypnotizing a bird.
She gulped in a shaky breath and stammered out an answer. She was finally beginning to realize this was no longer the timid, helpless little brother she could torment at her leisure.
“We laughed at ye, John Laith.”
“And do ye remember why ye bitches drained and killed my poor, wee dog and gentle pony, Fiona?”
“Because we could.”
She croaked out, knowing all he would accept was total honesty. Behind him, she heard the werewolves snarl in unison and the big, scarred one was suddenly looming at her brother’s shoulder, furious predatory gaze locked on her terrified face. She knew without a doubt that with a single word, this werewolf would rip her throat out to please her brother.
John smiled at her, blade now held gently against her carotid. This was a professional killer, she realized, heart pounding, suddenly and he held her life in one hard hand. John Laith MacTavish has not been idle since he left home. He has spent his exile years in hard service and mastered the craft of war and she has underestimated him badly.
“Because ye could. Yer power is rotting ye from the inside out, ye so corrupted it. ‘Tis a pity, ye cannae see that.”
His voice was tender and she knew without a doubt that he was going to slit her throat and leave her corpse in the gutter for the rats. Hastily she spoke.
“Ah would bargain with ye John Laith!”
“Oh? And why would I pass up the satisfaction of laying ye in yer grave? Ye tormented me for years for pure sport, sister. What could ye possibly give me that would surpass the joy of ripping yer scrawny throat out with my teeth, when I have loathed ye so much for so many years?”
And he bared his bloody teeth at her in a parody of a smile and ice crept up her spine and she shuddered in pure fear. This terrifying hard man was no longer her sweet, tender-hearted, vulnerable baby brother. He ran with wolves now.
“Ah will give ye favors three, John Laith! Your choice, Ah will swear it on my magic!”
“Nae, Fiona MacTavish, swear it thrice on Angus’ name. Then we will bargain for yer life.”
The dirk pricked her chin again and she could smell and feel her own blood trickling down her neck. Hastily she made oath.
“Ah swear on Angus’ name, I swear, I swear, John Laith, for the gift of my life I grant ye favors three!”
He gave her a beautiful smile but did not remove his blade. He really was a braw man, his aura was blinding, and for the first time she glimpsed why every traditional clanswoman within leagues was bargaining with Mam to have him. He shone like the sun, bright and warm. Old Morag was still determined to enthrall him, she was so mad for love of him. Some of the things the Hag promised her mother made Fiona shudder.
“ Aye. Ah accept. For the first favor ye and yours will never plot, raise a weapon, cast evil against or speak ill of me or mine ever again. Swear on Angus’ name.”
Shakily she repeated the oath, and felt a great weight leave her. She really did not want to gain him as an enemy, she realized. He nodded curtly in acceptance.
“The second favor is this. Any question I ask ye from this day on, ye must answer with the truth. No lies nor obfuscations, no denial nor riddles, no deceit of any kind. If ye cannae speak, ye can write it or sign it. Swear.”
She swore obediently. She had no choice, although it made the goose flesh rise, for lies were second nature to her, and truth a foreign country.
“The third favor, I hold in reserve. No matter what I ask, when I ask, ye will give if it is in yer power, ye ken?”
“Aye, ah swear on Angus’ name.”
Quickly he grabbed her wrist and slashed her palm, a hot sting of pure pain and clasped her hand in his big, calloused hand and shook it once with great gravitas, to seal the oath, but he very pointedly did not mingle his blood with hers. He considered her corrupt.
The oath was made and if she broke it she would die a slow, painful death, choking on her own blood. Before she could speak again, he held her gaze, took the strand of her cut hair, wiped his blade clean with it, coiled and twisted it into a neat witch's knot and tucked it away in a pocket, then sheathed his dirk and deliberately turned his broad back on her and walked away without a farewell, his wolves falling in to flank him protectively.
The huge, scarred Alpha bent his head menacingly within a foot of her pale face and inhaled her scent deeply, rumbling low in his huge chest, his hooded ruby eyes still promising death, then cast a searing, speculative glance over his shoulder as he left, sharp teeth bared. That wolf wanted to taste her blood. He has memorized her scent. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She had never considered the ramifications of what could happen if she started a blood feud with a pack of military wolves in their claimed territory.
Fiona MacTavish stood shaking in the alley, her blood trickling down her fingertips to patter on the cobblestones and stared at her brother’s broad back as he walked away, carrying her hair and blood—the means to lay a killing hex on her any time he chose. Insurance that she would keep her word. She marveled at the sheer power that roiled in the air around him as he left, the handsome wolves surrounding him, guarding his back.
How had her brother, his magic stolen at birth, gained so much power since the last time she saw him? Mam would not be pleased. Then she paused, wondering if reporting to her mother might go against her blood oath. Perhaps it would be wise to stay silent, because for the first time in her life Fiona MacTavish has to face consequences for her actions.
10
Two blocks away, Simon rumbled an order and gently crowded his sergeant against the wall of a shop while the pack formed a broad shouldered wall, casually blocking them from the view of passing strollers. He cupped Soap’s bloody face in one big hand and gently used his glove to wipe it from his face, smiling when his lad pulled a face as he dabbed at his split lip. He was manfully resisting the almost overwhelming urge to lick the blood off his face and taste those soft, swollen lips. His boy would taste both salty and sweet, like sea salted caramel, he decided.
“Ah’m alright, LT. Just second guessing mesel. Maybe ah should nae have let her go to cause trouble later. She will fly squalling to Mam first thing.”
“Would you like me to go back and rip her head off?”
Ghost asked mildly, taking his sweet time to tilt and thoroughly clean his sergeant’s face. Other than the split lip and some bruises his lad was untouched. He remembered the way he smiled through bloody teeth as he fought and rumbled approval. Noticing his boy was shivering slightly in the cold autumn night (his jumper was too lightweight), he unzipped and shrugged his hoodie off and manhandled Soap into it. It was hugely oversized on him and he chuckled ruefully as Simon zipped him snugly into it, turning back the cuffs, even as he appreciated the warmth after his adrenaline drop.
“ Nae, LT, if anyone morders her it will be me. Ah will nae see ye go to prison for me.”
Oddly, the sentiment warmed him almost as much as Simon’s hoodie, because his lieutenant was utterly sincere. If Soap asked, Ghost would kill for him and he found that as much of a comfort as when the big wolf draped a brawny arm over his shoulders (Johnny fit perfectly under his arm) and tucked him warmly into his side as he drew him down the street. Johnny, always touch starved, sank into the affectionate touch blissfully.
“Johnny?”
“Aye?”
“Who is Angus?”
The young Scot tilted his head back and regarded him thoughtfully, tongue already worrying his torn lip again. Ghost resisted the urge to thumb it away.
“Ah will tell ye one day, LT.”
“Alright, Johnny.”
He answered mildly. He was content to trust and wait.
People were out and about enjoying the evening. Gaz trotted over with a grin and eagerly pointed out a hole in the wall restaurant down the way and they all followed their noses to order giant portions of the excellent curry they could smell, and crowded into a couple of small corner tables to eat and catch the end of the game on the small TV in the upper corner above the counter. Price would be chuffed, because Liverpool won, and Ghost took their ribbing at Manchester’s loss good naturedly.
****
Lieutenant Frank Taylor huddled next to the primitive wood burning stove in the frigid, pre Soviet hanger with his co-pilot, Denzel Wallace, waiting for the remainder of the SAS squad they were here to exfil after they reached the hidden rendezvous point. They were not officially in Russia, just very close to it. The Ranger kept telling himself that the reason he was so antsy was merely because of the blizzard howling outside, not the fact that he was sitting less than fifteen feet away from a pack of fucking SAS werewolves.
There were very few military wolves in the US and they were kept strictly segregated from the regular troops and used for the most clandestine and nastiest of wetwork. Uncle Sam was not as liberal as the Brits when it came to their supernatural citizens. In many states east of the Rocky Mountains, werewolves were hunted with impunity. He grew up in east Texas seeing photos of dead werewolves draped like trophy bucks or wild hogs on truck hoods or tailgates, and their hides displayed proudly on walls. Frank has never even met one in person, much less bunked down next to a pack of them. Where was their handler? According to Graves, TF-141 now had a human handler, although for the life of him, he couldn’t imagine how one man managed to control an entire pack of the murderous creatures.
Needless to say, Frank didn’t plan on sleeping tonight. He grew up watching too many late night, gory werewolf movies and he once saw the inside of a terrorist held bunker shortly after it was ‘cleared’ by a wolf. He kept the hot stove between him and the snoring pile of wolves, a clip of pure silver rounds loaded in his rifle and he and D played a few hands of five card draw. Only one wolf was awake and human shaped, the handsome, friendly one now on watch who had politely introduced himself as Sargent Garrick. The rest of the pack remained shifted and kept to the side of the hanger that they apparently staked out. Wolves were territorial creatures. Garrick sat near the doors, head tilted, rifle at ready, alert for any strange noise other than the howling wind.
According to Garrick they were waiting for two men, their lieutenant and their medic. The pack had been forced to split up to avoid detection after their mission to regroup here. Frank idly wondered why wolves would even need a medic. They were supposed to have crazy regenerative healing powers. He also wondered if the missing wolves would survive the sudden blizzard. According to overwatch they were stuck here until at least noon tomorrow before they could risk flying out. Frank was a damned good pilot, but even he couldn’t fly with zero visibility.
Looking up from his shitty hand, he saw D staring at the wolves again. He understood the fascination. The werewolves were twice the size of regular wolves. Two were lean and rangy, with dark sable top coats and a ochre under coat, one a broad, sturdy guy with a russet red coat actually limped along on three legs (the handicap didn’t slow him down), a smaller, compact, nondescript gray wolf and “Call me Gaz.” Garrick, who was a sleek, rich chocolate brown as a wolf, as handsome in his animal form as he was human.
Suddenly Gaz stood, and there was a loud thud on the metal door and the wolf rushed to unbar and slide it open far enough to admit his pack members, before closing it hastily behind them to keep the cold wind out. The other wolves were awake now, tails wagging sleepily. Frank and D however, recoiled, scrambling for their weapons, at the sight of the fucking monster that slipped into the hanger, shaking snow off his broad shoulders and flanks.
This nightmare of a wolf was in half-shift, and towered over his pack, a wolf’s head and furry man’s torso on two bowed wolf legs, a bushy tail behind. It took a second for Frank to realize he was holding someone close to his chest, until he set the man on his feet and began to help remove his gear and carefully wipe the snow off him. As sturdy and broad shouldered as the guy was, he looked like a child next to the wolf.
The man stamped his boots and shook his head, dislodging even more snow, as he pushed his hood back and peeled off his snow goggles to reveal a striking face with bright blue eyes. He grinned at Garrick as he removed his mittens and flexed his cold fingers in their half gloves, fumbling with the thick scarf that nearly muffled him.
“Fuckin’ hell! It’s Baltic out there. Ah thought ah was gonna freeze mah bawbag off! Good thing tha’ LT is so fuckin’ warm or ah would be a ice lolly now! Sodding drifts are over ma fuckin’ heid. Ah thought ye might have ta find us thawin’ in the Spring as bloody ice sculptures!”
Behind him, the monster wolf snorted fondly and gave the Scot’s swinging braid a playful tug from where it protruded from beneath his toque with a massive, clawed hand, before stretching until his joints cracked, then abruptly sinking down onto all four paws morphing easily into full, fluffy white Arctic wolf form who shook the remaining snow off his fur and yawning, revealed sharp teeth in his badly scarred face. He was still the size of a small draft horse.
This Frank realized, still trying to calm his heart rate, was the legendary Ghost. He has heard some of the stories special forces whispered about him. Numbly, and still speechless he stood to meet and shake the medic’s hand as he introduced himself and D. Ghost nodded his shaggy head curtly, but did not approach closer or deign to shift. Sheepishly, Frank realized they probably reeked of fear, and the wolf was being polite and keeping his distance.
The Scot, MacTavish was a friendly sort and utterly unperturbed at being surrounded by wolves, all of whom were crowding close to sniff and check on his well-being, while the Sargent chuckled and shoved their inquisitive noses away from his lower body as he strode over to seat himself on a crate near their piles of gear, back to the hot stove and happily accepted the hot MRE curry pouch and steaming cup of coffee that Gaz suddenly produced for him. Ghost had his snout in a bowl of steaming liquid and Frank caught the faint bergamot scent of Earl Gray tea. Fucking Brits and their tea! Apparently even British werewolves insisted on their cuppa.
He watched in amazement as the others crowded close to warm their human pack mate, and pack mate he was, he was clearly no ‘handler’. As he shoveled the hot food in his mouth, he questioned Gaz, chatted with the others, seeming to understand them despite them being shifted, and heckled Ghost, promising to harness him to a sleigh next time they were forced to trudge through a blizzard. The white wolf looked up from the doubled field ration of raw beef he was devouring and gave a disdainful snort, before resuming his meal. After the much needed food, they all bedded down in a huge puppy pile of snoring wolves, the Scot tucked snugly in the middle, where he almost immediately fell asleep, his head on Ghost’s huge shoulder. Blinking, Frank slowly unrolled his own sleeping bag. If the cheerful, good-natured Scot deemed it safe to sleep with the wolves he could at least sleep in the same room.
He was startled awake later by loud Gaelic invective and a truly horrible stench, and watched in amazement as the smallest wolf was summarily booted and rolled out of the warm pile of wolves by the gagging Scot.
“Bloody fucking hell, Roach! Ah told ye if ye ate those blasted pickled eggs in the field agin, ah would shoot ye! Could take an entire regiment out wi’ that fart if ye weaponized it! Sweet creeping Jesus!”
The Scot flops back down, his scarf pulled over his nose in a vain attempt to filter the air, and around him, the other wolves sit up and growl at their friend, blearily sneezing and pawing at their noses. Ghost sighed, greatly put upon, turned over and went back to sleep, massive paw over his snout. Scowling, the evicted wolf snarled and quickly dove in and dug himself back into the pile, although Frank noted the others immediately kicked and shoved him to the edge so his toxic rear end faced outwards and he couldn’t gas them all to death. He fell easily back to sleep smiling. Werewolves, he decided, were pretty much like any other grunt in the field. Cranky, always hungry and full of shit.
****
Two weeks later Price was passing through the Mess hall to grab a fresh cuppa and also to make his presence known because there were visiting wolves on base and this was his territory. The South African wolves belonged to an elite squad out of Cape Town and were passing through on their way to a base in Argentina, allegedly to aid that country's government in anti-terrorist training. Not having just fallen off the turnip wagon, Price knew that was in all probability a cover story, but it wasn’t his business unless they were foolish enough to make it his business.
Their team leader was a brisk, competent Alpha, harried and focused on his job and gathering intel for when they went wheels up, aloof, but cordial enough. His team on the other hand were arrogant, speciest pillocks (there was not one human, native lion or hyena shifter on their team). They swaggered about the base like they owned the place, and clearly enjoyed intimidating the recruits and pushing the envelope when it came to almost picking fights with the 141st pack. Price was tired of the posturing and could not wait until they left. They made his teeth itch. It wouldn’t be soon enough. He began a preemptive attempt at damage control by sending a short tempered Farah and hyper protective Alex off on full maternity leave (their twins were due in less than three weeks) to prepare their birthing den, Rudy and Alejando off on a brief intel gathering run in Juarez, Mexico and the muppets, Gaz and Roach on a brisk three day refresher course in werewolf/human relations with a half dozen overly entitled recruits who needed the additional discipline of freezing their arses off on a three day hike at Pen y Fan.
It was as he paused to exchange pleasantries with one of the base Medical officers, he realized he might have relaxed too soon. Ghost sat stoically at a corner table, quietly sipping his tea and ignoring the visiting wolves, laughing boisterously at the next table. He is without a mask today, silvery scars on full display because he doesn’t give a rat’s arse about what their guest’s think. Price has very little Afrikaans, but he can tell their jeering ‘jokes’ are probably at Ghost’s expense. Ghost, being Ghost, earlier ignored or was oblivious to the not at all subtle advances of one of the visiting female wolves (Price should have reminded him that most female wolves found battle scars very attractive) and she was taken aback by his total lack of interest. Tall, lithe and stacked, she was accustomed to having her choice of hook-ups and the curt rejection came as something of a shock to her ego. Her squad apparently took it as an insult as well.
Still, Ghost is impervious to whatever snark is happening at the next table, sleepily concentrating on his meal. He has been absent from the Mess the past few days because Soap caught a nasty case of the flu spreading like wildfire through the humans on base, and spent two days curled up in his bunk, feverish and miserable while the pack hovered, annoyed him and tried to coddle him and finally irritated him so much he literally growled at them so they would leave him in peace and Ghost kicked them all out. And speaking of the wee devil, the man himself shuffles into the mess and makes a beeline for the coffee pot. The poor lad reeks of fever sweat, cherry cough medicine, antibiotics and Ghost’s scent and is more than a bit groggy. The potent homemade cough medicine he takes knocks him on his arse.
Clearly, he hasn’t recovered yet, he is pale and still shaky on his feet and, Price is amused to note, he is bundled in joggers and an oversized dove gray hoodie with the name ‘Riley’ emblazoned in bold black on the back. Price knows for a fact that this hoodie is brand new and that Ghost seldom labels his leisure clothing with his surname and then, only discreetly. Soap is now, quite literally clothed in his LT’s scent trap and oblivious to it. The other wolves however, are not, and he watches narrowly as two bruisers seated at the end of their table exchange sly smirks and one waits until the last possible moment, to thrust a huge, booted foot out and trip Soap as he groggily shuffles towards Simon’s table, clutching a tray containing a bowl of hot soup, a slice of toast and his precious mug of steaming coffee in both hands.
If the pup wasn’t ill and heavily medicated he could have easily avoided the resulting nasty fall. Instead, he yelps as he trips over the heavy boot suddenly thrust between his feet, drops and spills the contents of his tray down his front with a clatter, tries to catch himself on the way down, misses and ends up cracking his temple hard on the edge of a table. In seconds he is sprawled face down on the floor, a hand clamped to his head and a pool of red spreading on the floor as the scent of his blood fills the air.
Maybe the African wolves thought he was a wolf himself, since he reeked of Simon, or they just didn’t care if they hurt him, but the result is the same. For an split second, time seems to freeze and before Price can move, there is a deep, bass hair-raising, scrotum shrinking roar of pure rage and Ghost is across the room and has the offending wolf by the throat, boots dangling a foot above the floor as Simon chokes the living shit out of him with one big hand. Price notices that he is unshifted, still in full control of himself.
The other visiting wolves are frozen in place, cringing and showing their throats because Ghost’s eyes are flaring bright, ruby red and he is a hair away from ripping his prey’s throat out with his bared teeth. Behind him, the entire room of recruits are on their feet grim faced as well, makeshift weapons in hand, more than ready to defend their favorite sergeant and back their LT up against the interlopers. Price is touched by their loyal determination, but what young Halsey thinks he can do with that plastic butter knife against werewolves remains to be seen.
Ghost snarls in the unfortunate wolf's face, teeth bared as he coldly watches the man’s face begin to turn purple while he thrashes feebly as Simon inexorably squeezes the life out of him. The rest of the South African wolves are frozen in place. Before Price can step forward and order him to let go of the fool, a voice speaks up from around Ghost’s ankles, humor clearly audible despite the congestion.
“Oi, Sir, donnae kill the bawbag. Tis’nt worth the paperwork. Can ye give me a hand to medical, ah need ta keep ma blood inside, ma heid is gowpin something fierce.”
“English, MacTavish!”
“Ma fuckin’ head hurts!”
Ghost snaps his teeth in the wheezing wolf’s face and contemptuously flings him one handed onto his squad’s table like a discarded dish rag, where he lands hard and rolls into his cringing team’s laps. Ghost then crouches protectively over his sergeant who is attempting to shakily climb to his feet. His big hands are careful as he examines Soap’s head and checks him for burns from the hot liquids. Scalp wounds always bleed horribly. With a worried huff, he scoops the young man up and makes a beeline for medical, because Soap is still bleeding. As they exit, the young man can be heard protesting “Put me doon, LT!” and plaintively complaining about the fact that he dropped his coffee before he could even drink any.
Price prowls over to the shaken South African wolves, spine straight and shoulders back, his own teeth bared in full Alpha threat display, his eyes crimson and proceeds to verbally eviscerate the lot. They take the reaming meekly and keep glancing behind Price, where every man and woman in the hall, human or not, stands ready to fight them, eyes cold. Even the Mess cooks and line servers are there, knives and cleavers in hand. The 141st is making certain the interlopers are aware they have worn out their welcome on this base. Price coldly orders the lot confined to the guest barracks and leaves them to the mercy of their humiliated Alpha, who upon arrival then proceeds to snarl in their faces and then punish them by literally running them double time in full kit on the training grounds all afternoon until the entire squad is dry heaving.
The man formally apologizes to Price for the unforgivable offense his fool subordinate made in attacking Price’s SIC’s incapacitated human sergeant, and he hustles his squad off base by nightfall, intent on removing any temptation for the newly risen Alpha to challenge the offenders and gut the lot of them in defense of his injured mate.
Price, who manages to keep a blank face, both at the man’s assumption, and his own suspicions, merely accepts his apology with cool professionalism and sees him off with a crisp salute, glad to see the back of them. If the fiery tempered Alejandro and Rudy and the others had been here, they would be hip deep in a squad pack war. Farah would have eviscerated the fool for daring to touch her human pup, and every wolf on the squad would have backed her up despite Price’s orders.
Then he goes to check on his pup and finds him snugly tucked in his bunk, well medicated, and sleeping off his headache. He has several neat stitches in his scalp and the remains of an expensive gourmet cup of coffee and a box of fresh blueberry scones from the village bakery on his desk. Ghost is placidly seated at his own desk doing paperwork, still in total control of himself. Now that Price thinks of it, he realizes that his SIC settled into his Alpha status so painlessly and seamlessly that neither of them noticed and the probable reason is softly snoring across the room, tucked firmly under a rather substantial heap of blankets (all of which reek of Ghost).
Stepping inside and nodding to his SIC, he checks the pup, sniffing for hints of distress, and gently ruffling his overgrown warhawk before seating himself next to Ghost’s desk. Glancing around, he blinks as he realizes the room has changed drastically since he was last here. Ghost’s side of the room is no longer as bare and sterile as a hospital room. There are now photos and sketches pinned neatly up over the desk and even a straggly aloe plant perched gingerly on a shelf, like it's embarrassed to be there. This neat decor is a mere shadow compared to the colorful splatter of drawings and photos that are tacked and swirl over the wall of Soap’s side of the room, and the aromatic plants and crystals overflowing on his shelves. Yet it's more than Simon has ever displayed in his barracks in the years Price has known him.
Some are sketches of places he recognises as deployments, others portraits of pack members, and several exquisite landscapes. He snorts at a photo of the trio of obviously drunk youngest muppets, cheeks rosy, pulling faces at the camera. There are others of the pack, a photo of Ghost and Farah comparing sniper rifles on the range, and tellingly, one of Ghost and Soap at the local pub, Soap laughing into the camera, with Ghost’s big tattooed arm draped over his shoulders. Although masked, Ghost’s eyes are crinkled in a smile. Glancing over he finds that his SIC is not doing official paperwork, instead he is meticulously reading each drug info insert included with the plastic vials of prescribed medication lined up neatly for inspection on the desk, scowling at a list of possible side effects.
Humans are too fucking fragile. How they managed to survive long enough to become the dominant species on the planet, he has no clue.
Price knows for a fact that Simon, Farah and Rudy all quietly took advanced emergency field medic courses so they can aid their youngest, should he be wounded again, because he has no compunction about throwing himself into the line of fire in defense of his pack. Ghost now has a fully stocked First Aid kit under the bathroom sink and has memorized Soap’s medical file. At Price’s inquiring look, Ghost responds quietly but firmly.
“We’re keeping him quarantined here until he's healed. Lieutenant Banerjee says that they had a marine come through with a bad case of Covid yesterday at the med center.”
Price nods firmly in agreement.
Covid doesn’t bother werewolves.
Wolves just don’t get sick with human diseases. There are few pathogens that bother wolves at all. Even rabies just make them short tempered and thirsty until their immune systems burn it out. But they know about Covid. They have lost healthy young recruits and human friends to the virus. Soap is especially vulnerable because he is a medic. No way is their ill, injured pup going anywhere near the germ ridden medical center until he is completely recovered. Even if they have to take it in turns to sit on him. They will inlist Farah if necessary. Soap can never say no to her limpid, doe eyes. Besides, she already has decided he is her pup despite his age and will rope Alex in to wrangle him as well. Price ponders for a moment, trying to recall the contents of Soap’s medical file. He is the first to admit he knows little about human diseases.
“Has he had those booster shot things yet? You would think there would be a bloody cure by now.”
To his great relief, Ghost tells him he has, because as adept a medic as Soap is, he hates needles anywhere near his own person and has to be both heavily bribed and have a wolf escort to medical when special vaccines are required before a mission. They ponder the merits of various disease prevention charms, but reluctantly concede that most are scams and the few powerful enough to work cost a king’s ransom. Still, they both feel the need to protect their human pup. They chat for a few minutes more and Price takes his leave and as he heads towards his own quarters, it dawns on him that this is the first time he can remember he and his SIC just nattering on about mundane things. It’s the first time in ages, he realizes, that he spoke more with Simon Riley than Ghost. It looks like he has found the big wolf’s anchor to the pack
Chapter 2: Part Two
Summary:
Had to divide this into three parts.
Chapter Text
11
“Hang on Charlie! Medevac is on the way!”
Tyler Dean crouched low over his wounded best friend in the shallow ditch, protecting him from the bullets the warlords were spraying over them, as best he could. He was pretty sure Jason and Hannah were dead, their jeep hit a mine, exploded and rolled down into the ravine and he hasn’t seen Hector at all yet. Maybe he made it out on the last escaping truck. His best friend’s terrified eyes held his, there was blood in his mouth and dribbling down his chin and he wasn’t breathing well at all, despite the pressure Tyler was putting on his chest wound. Those wide brown eyes softened at whatever he saw on Tyler’s face.
“Liar…bro.” he murmured so low, Tyler had to practically place his ear against his mouth.
He bit back tears, ignoring his own painfully throbbing leg. The pressure bandage he slapped on was keeping him from bleeding out. He was almost out of ammo. It wouldn’t be long before the whooping tribesmen rolled over them and mowed them down with their old Russian AKs. So much for this being a no conflict zone. So much for this being an easy escort for a medical aid caravan. At least they got the humanitarian aid volunteers out of the ambush, although he kind of wished now he’d snagged a doctor before they all rolled safely away.
Just when he thought he would be going home in a box, there was the sudden loud whump of chopper blades and the eerie, hair raising, ululating bass boom of howling wolves. Stunned, he looked up to see a sleek matte black helo swoop in low, dropping off armed men and he realized, awed, werewolves. He’d heard fucking stories about the Brit’s Howling 141st, and rumors they were in the area. Those crazy bastards actually allowed actual werewolves in their ranks, just like people.
The warlords were suddenly yelling for a retreat, he realized, as the bullets abruptly ceased sizzling over his head. He heard their vehicles start, and watched as the helo zipped past, the door gunner, a burly, half-shifted red wolf, laying down cover fire for the incoming wolves. A lean chocolate colored wolf leapt straight out of the helicopter and down into a truck bed of fleeing men. The truck then veered wildly off the road as most of the men and the driver jumped out, trying to escape the toothy, grinning nightmare that dropped out of the sky. Stunned, Tyler watched two enormous black wolves sprint past, shoulder to shoulder, white teeth gleaming in anticipation, and a smaller gray one rocketing after them and heard the insurgents scrambling away on the hill above start to scream when the wolves caught up with them and started ripping into flesh.
“Oi, Ghost, drop me here.”
Astonished, he looked up, just as an enormous white wolf skidded to a stop beside him, and he blinked as the stocky Medic riding the draft horse sized animal, slung his leg over the wolf’s neck, slid off, already opening his medical bag as he dropped to his knees beside Tyler and Charlie. The wolf rumbled at the guy and he waved him on, totally focused on Charlie’s wound.
“Get ‘em doan, LT. Ah got this.”
The wolf snarled and charged up and over the hill and the screams took on an even more terrified note intermingled with snarls as the big wolf added to the carnage. Tyler gulped, feeling more than a bit queasy. Men were being torn to shreds up there. He can hear bone crunching beneath the shrieks and sound of sporadic panicked gunfire.
The Medic quickly tore open Charlie’s vest and peered under the pressure dressing, nodding and muttering to himself as he ripped open sterile packages. In seconds he had slapped some kind of vented plastic seal over the sucking chest wound, and was checking Charlie’s airway, and hoisting him gently up to sit with his back against a boulder. Tyler watched him work wordlessly and felt a deep sense of relief come over him as Charlie’s breathing instantly became less labored and evened out after the werewolf medic slid a needle in his arm, calmly explaining to them what he was doing as he worked. Tyler breathed easier as he watched Charlie relax, eyes brighter, as his pain eased. Hope can work miracles.
“Okay, lad, let's see that leg.”
Tyler winced as the frighteningly efficient werewolf turned his attention to Tyler’s leg, deftly slicing open his pants and removing his hasty bandage, then nodding in satisfaction, as he examined the calf. Tyler winced as the wound was quickly disinfected and wound clot poured on, before he wrapped it tight again in a sterile pressure bandage.
“Yeah, ye got lucky laddie, a clean through and through, and the bone and artery not compromised.” The Medic tapped his throat mic and spoke.
“Bravo 7-1, two wounded for medevac.”
“Copy Bravo 7-1, evac coming in.”
Tyler listened as the medic rattled off some medical jargon into the com before signing off and he suddenly noticed it was very quiet now, except for some poor, unfortunate raider screaming over the hill, which abruptly cut off. His imagination filled in the sound of the chomp, and he mentally cringed. Several human guys in SAS gear were walking a grid across the rocky field and checking the ravine for survivors, one covering the others, rifle at ready. Looking around he realized that he and Charlie were possibly the only survivors of the ambush other than the evacuated medical personnel. Suddenly an eerie, mocking chorus of howls rang out over the hill. No surprise there, as the werewolves cleaned up and sent the few surviving tribesmen running for their lives. Tyler has the feeling that this supply road will remain free of raiders for a very long time.
The Scot, who was rechecking Charlie’s wound with competent, gentle hands, snorted in amusement as one of the pack of werewolves warbled on, holding the high note as long as possible before it ended with an abrupt squeak.
“Och, those fuckin’ muppets. Roach cannae hold a note to save his life. Worse than a tomcat caterwauling on an alley fence!”
Before Tyler could thank him, they were interrupted as a white Medevac helo emblazoned with a Red Cross hovered overhead, then sat down nearby. A team of Red Cross medical personnel came running with backboards and he and Charlie were scooped up and whisked away. As he was tilted and loaded aboard, he saw the wolves trotting back down the hill, gamboling and romping like puppies, one of them proudly carrying an old AK-47 like a stick, except for the giant white wolf who made a beeline to where the Medic was packing up his bag and thrust a gory muzzle into his face, tail whipping. Tyler grinned as the Medic grimaced and wiped his jaw off and thumped the wolf solidly on the shoulder as they made their way over to where the black helicopter was preparing to set down, the man’s arm draped casually over the wolf’s back, the others falling in behind them.
Later, he learned the Scottish medic who saved his best friend wasn’t a wolf. Just a crack human medic with the stones to run with them. It made a hell of a story to tell back home, but sometimes when he looks at the Purple Heart he got, or meets up with Charlie at the sports bar, and remembers that day, he wished he could have given it to the covert soldiers, both man and wolf that saved his and Charlie’s asses.
****
John Price glared out the window and occasionally made affirmative noises at the phone as Colonel Shepard and General Whitcomb droned on, on speaker and talking about the possible rise of a new cartel in Mexico that was stealing missiles to sell to the highest bidder, blah, blah. John knew for a fact that Shepard knew all about the missing missiles because the prick was the one responsible for the cartel having them in the first place. Laswell and her wife have been very busy women and Shepard is due to be arrested and taken into custody and court martialed for treason very soon. They have to proceed cautiously because Shepard has friends in high places, so every T has to be crossed and I dotted on the evidence paperwork before the man is taken into custody.
He glanced at the clock and bit back a growl. If he missed this episode of the Great British Bake-Off in the rec room tonight, there would be hell to pay. He was invested in this round and was sure that the pretty, talented Nadya would win and teach that smug pillock Paul Hollywood a lesson. Plus, Farah was bringing a huge buffet tray of Plov, and Roach bribed Soap into baking a pan of his Gran’s famous shortbread, and Gaz promised to pick up some fresh Naan from the good bakery in the village.
He smelled the shortbread baking earlier and Ghost stood guard in the kitchen growling at any pilfering Muppets who even thought to try their luck after Soap pulled it out of the oven to cool. Price wondered if the reason he was as talented with baking as with demolitions was because both involved chemistry. He has seen the demolition chemistry texts the pup reads for fun.
“-rice, are you there?”
The phone squawked irritably, and Price rolled his eyes, glad this wasn’t a Zoom call.
“Yes, sorry, Sir. We’ve been having some glitches with base communications lately. You keep fading out. IT informs me it has something to do with the age of the building,” he answered smoothly.
He noted Shepard seemed a bit too sympathetic, probably because he thought it was the work of his long since arrested minion, preparing for his great take-over, the fuckwit. Laswell’s people took over weeks ago. To his great relief, both men rang off shortly after and he grabbed his hat, locked his office and sprinted for the rec room. He was just in time to slow to a sedate walk and nab his favorite armchair before the Muppets trooped in carrying the food and fussing over Farah, and good Lord, she was huge.
Alex was hovering like a giant bumblebee, big hands twitching because she refused to allow him to carry the enormous tray of Plov. Price noted approvingly that his leg was regenerating well, his prosthesis was getting shorter every month. Gaz and Roach were eyeing her dubiously, like she was unknown ordinance about to explode. Rudy and Alé were bickering about pup names and Ghost wisely took refuge on the far end of the battered sectional sofa and waited, secure in the knowledge that Soap would soon bring him his favorite tea and a heaping plate of food, plop down beside him and steal bites while he heckled the contestants.
Price wondered if either of them had yet to notice that they acted like bonded mates. Probably not, for being elite soldiers they were both surprisingly dim about what was under their noses. He knew part of the problem was not only that Soap was human, but part of Simon still thought of him as an immature pup, not a grown man and was all too aware of the power imbalance involved with their ranks. In reality, Ghost was about fifteen years older than Soap, which would roughly even out if you compared the maturity rates of wolves to humans. Besides, if Simon actually took time to research, he would find that rules for bonded mates were far more lenient than those regarding human fraternization. Because as a wise wolf once wrote; “The strength of the wolf is the pack and the strength of the pack is the wolf.”
October rolls around and Farah’s babies finally arrive just before Samhain. Soap is the only one allowed in her den during the birth, the others hover anxiously outside. The wolves listen as their medic croons encouragement to the growling, grunting mother and very quickly the sounds of twin newborn squeaks reach their ears. Apparently, Soap is quite adept at delivering babies and both pups are plump and healthy. Farah chose to give birth in wolf form, simply because it's easier and faster. Alex is over the moon about the girls, named Noor and Zahra. The pack howls in joyous celebration, startling half the inhabitants of Stirling Lines and end up at the nearest pub to celebrate, bought everyone rounds, and end up staggering drunk and howling joyfully on the way home.
The new family is tucked safely away in their off-base cottage for privacy and bonding, but it’s a rare day when a pack member isn’t stopping by to (kiss babies) check on them. The girls now have an entire pack of elite military wolves as doting uncles and Price isn’t joking when he frankly tells Laswell (who visits, bringing her wife and baby gifts) that any future suitors will have to have balls of steel and be prepared to flee the country for their lives if they ever make the mistake of breaking their hearts. It comes as absolutely no surprise that the pups adore Soap, and he them, but the big surprise is how crazy they are about Ghost. The moment they can stand they wobble determinedly, tiny tails wagging, after the huge wolf and cry piteously when he leaves. He is amazingly good with them, huge scarred hands holding them against his chest as he burps them or rocks them to sleep. It’s no surprise that when the new parents need some privacy that it’s Soap and Ghost who are the preferred babysitters. Soap has a video of a huge, snoozing, white wolf with two tiny cubs playing on his broad back and chewing his ears and twitching tail that he clandestinely shared with the pack.
12
“What the fucking hell is that thing?”
Price snarled, as he watched the massive, earthen creature before him hurl a truck through the side of a building. It stood three stories high and looked like it was made of a hodgepodge of clay and stone and seemed impervious to firearms, incendiaries and even grenades. Its thick body just absorbed any projectile or shrugged it off. Neither his men nor his wolves were faring well at all. He was going to rip someone apart for the shoddy intel that led them into what was obviously an ambush designed to take the entire team out. Instead of finding the expected terrorists in this old Albanian warehouse district near the docks, they found a massive, earth-colored giant, hidden and waiting for them to appear. It has already knocked a Black Hawk full of Rangers out of the sky, and was now tearing its way through the land vehicles, obviously honed in on the wolves.
As he watched, a bloody, half-conscious Alejandro limped back towards him with an unconscious Rudy draped over his shoulder. Roach and Gaz were trying to distract the thing away from the wounded by darting in and out and firing at it, as it lumbered after them through a stack of shipping containers, crushing any living thing in its way. It was an unstoppable juggernaut. Ghost’s deadly accurate fire was having no effect on it. Head shots never phased the thing. He grabbed Ghost by the shoulder and tugged him back, yelling into the comms to retreat, hoping the hell that Nik could bring the helo in close enough for exfil without getting knocked out of the sky, like the Rangers were.
As they backed up to exit the crumbling building, Gaz suddenly yelled a warning and Ghost swore a blue streak. The earthen monstrosity has Roach pinned in a corner and was preparing to crush him under one massive, block like foot. Before they could do anything, Ghost snarled, and charged the creature, because he just caught sight of a familiar figure, the red medic’s cross emblazoned on the back of his vest sprinting along a shaky catwalk overhead, directly at the creature.
“Soap, ya muppet! Retreat!”
Price bellowed, knowing he was too late.
He watched grimly as the young medic vaulted over the rail of the catwalk and leapt directly down onto the giant’s shoulder and boldly slapped a block of sticky orange semtex on the thing’s forehead, it roared and grabbed the pup in one massive fist and flung him like a toy through the warehouse window, with a crash of shattered glass, only to stumble to a grinding halt a moment later when its head abruptly exploded into rubble and dust. Somehow, Soap managed to detonate the plastic explosive while sailing through mid-air. The clay and stone homunculus staggered to a stop and slowly crumbled back into a massive heap of rocks and wet earth, narrowly missing burying Gaz and a dazed Roach. Ghost was already moving, leaping through the broken window, frantic to reach Soap. The clay giant flung him hard, at third floor height through a floor length window. There was no way he could escape uninjured.
Price and the pack hurried after him, after ascertaining that Alé and Rudy were healing. Alejandro’s wounds were already closing and sealing and Rudy was now conscious and leaning groggily against his shoulder. Their new armor and charms have worked a treat. The Mexican wolves waved them impatiently on, their human medic was the priority now. Outside they found Ghost frantically searching through half crumbled walls and piles of rubble beside the half demolished warehouse. The others joined him, heads turning as they scented the air, because they could smell Soap’s blood, but they couldn’t find him.
Soap realized immediately that the Golem was geared toward attacking the werewolves when it lumbered past the team of Rangers trying to bring it down, ignoring them to focus on the wolves. The wolves scattered to avoid it and regrouped and attacked with automatic gunfire and grenade launchers to no avail. A sweep of an enormous arm sent both Rudy and Alejo crashing into the side of a metal shipping container with enough force to kill humans and dent the metal, and Gaz and Roach darted in to distract it. He wasn’t close enough to see the abjab script engraved into the thing’s square, blockish forehead, but he knew the only way to stop the Golem was to erase that magically charged word. Taking advantage of its focus on his pack, he quickly climbed up to the catwalk over the old factory warehouse floor, once there he dug out his ‘emergency’ square of Semtex from his plate carrier and quickly set the fuse.
Now came the hard part.
Block of plastic explosive in one hand, he took a deep breath, grabbed and vaulted over the rail to drop down on the things shoulder and slap the putty like explosive to its forehead, plucking the detonator from his pocket, even as huge fingers closed painfully around his torso and flung him through the air. He pressed the button seconds before he crashed through the thick, dirty glass, his head smacked against something hard and he was out.
He came to, staring dizzily up at the swirling blue sky with a splitting headache and it took a minute to realize, he was swaying gently in the air, caught in a cat’s cradle tangle of cables and construction netting, high above the ground. It was a fucking miracle he was alive at all. He winced as his left leg sent a pissed message informing him his bad knee was fucked again, and the ankle joined in. His right wrist felt broken as well, not to mention the massive concussion, his ribs creaked and he could feel blood trickling down the side of his head and bruised jaw. There was a thick metal cable digging into his side. He hurt all over. Dizzily he stared up at wispy white clouds before thoughts of his pack galvanized him. Had the Golem stomped poor Roach flat? He tried to move but when he did there was a sharp stab of pain in his head.
“Ow, fuck me…”
He managed to slur out and groaned feebly, hoping werewolf hearing would come through.
Ghost was a hair away from going feral. The scent of Johnny’s blood teased him. He snarled and clawed a slab of sheet metal aside. He had to be here. Beside him, the others swarmed over the piles of metal, steel beams and brick, searching for their pup. Gaz was distraught, whining almost subvocally, while Price was flat out snarling as they dug frantically through the tall heaps of rubble.
They froze at the sound of a soft moan, then heard a soft, slurred grumble. Ghost saw and felt a wet, red drop hit his hand and looked up and swore. There, twenty feet above them, dangled their medic. Johnny was entangled in some netting and cables, dangling from twisted, half collapsed construction scaffolding, limbs at awkward angles, head slanted downwards. Roach let out a delighted yelp, and they scrambled to retrieve their wayward pup, Price already barking into his com for a medivac. It took some werewolf parkour, Gaz’ agility and Price and Roach’s sheer strength to untangle Johnny and lower him gently down into Ghost’s waiting arms.
He gave them a dazed, lopsided, bloody grin and immediately passed out. He was hurt, but alive, gloriously alive, breathing, heart beating steadily, sturdy frame intact, not crushed and bleeding out after taking on a nearly indestructible fucking giant. Ghost held him close and carried him all the way to exfil and nearly took the medics’ heads off when they tried to take him from him. Only Price’s sharp command and eye flash brought him to his senses and he sullenly eased him onto the gurney and allowed the wary medics to do their jobs. He sat back, but kept sharp, gleaming eyes on their every move.
The doctors at the base hospital in Rammstein had to learn to work around the skull masked wolf that sat silently in the young medic’s room and the nurses became adept at dodging the pack camped out in the waiting room. In the end, the prognosis was good. A broken ankle, twisted knee, a broken wrist which had to be surgically repaired with a metal pin, badly bruised ribs and a nasty concussion. Their tough pup would survive to fight again.
Price and Laswell went furiously to work and while they quickly learned who crafted the Golem, the aged Warlock was discovered in his home with a bullet through the skull, execution style. This massive magical crafting cost a lot of energy, time and money. Their trail was a dead end for the time being, but Laswell set their techs on the dead Warlock’s money trail. It was once again a waiting game.
****
Yule approached and somehow Laswell managed to wrangle three weeks full holiday leave for the pack. Gaz and Roach immediately headed to London to visit family and friends, let their fur out and hit as many raucous Yule parties as possible, Price sheepishly departed to visit his natal pack in Liverpool (via his mother’s orders), Alejandro and Rudy headed off to Moon knows where, (things were finally heating up between them, after years spent growing up together as ‘companeros’) and Alex and Farah were cozily settled in their cottage with the babies (who were practically buried under a pile of Yule gifts from their doting uncles). The pups would have many new plushies and dog toys to ‘hunt’ and shred with their baby teeth and claws.
Soap had expected to spend his leave on base, lazing about listening to music and sketching, maybe taking the train down to London for a couple of days. He has already opened his Yule parcel with its annual hand knit jumper from his Gran and shipped her gift. He was fresh out of hospital, still on medical leave, in a knee brace, walking boot and sling and had to use a cane to walk more than a few feet. He didn’t keep an off base flat. It was too dangerous for a man stalked by witches his entire life. The one time he tried, he soon found himself surrounded with way too many overly friendly, obviously witchy neighbors.
Any intentions for holiday sloth were crushed when he found himself briskly chivvied out of his bunk early by his Lieutenant and whisked off to some mysterious destination. He didn’t protest too much, secretly pleased that Ghost wanted to spend leave with him. He just packed obediently and tucked his journal in his duffle. He always tried to do as much art as possible on his breaks. His sketchbook was almost full, so he made a mental note to keep an eye out for another.
He didn’t question his LT too much, sensing that Ghost was a bit tense. He knew the big wolf was a loner, maybe he was a bit nervous about spending down time with Soap, but the effort meant the world to the Scot. That his stoic, aloof LT didn’t want him to be alone for Yule. The whole pack fussed over him after he was released from the hospital and made way too many Jack the Giant Killer jokes, but Ghost had remained curiously silent. Still, his was the first face John saw when he woke in hospital. It was getting harder for him to keep his intense infatuation with the man hidden. He has to renew his scenting camouflage charms monthly now.
Soap, after being released from the med center, had found himself firmly plopped into a pillow and blanket nest on the rec room couch to rest with the twins, while Farah once again took firm control of Price’s office and took joy in teaching the recruits how not to shoot themselves or their friends on the range. This way Soap was distracted (he thought he was pup sitting), and she could keep an eye on all her pups, including the reckless, Scottish one (Gaz has a video of a well medicated Soap sound asleep, drooling on the rec room couch, with two tiny, fluffy pups curled against his side, growling and squeaking fiercely at any passing recruit, whom they deemed too close to their beloved uncle Soap).
Farah loved her pups, but she was a warrior wolf and needed action to thrive. She would not return to active combat for some time yet, so she honed her skills and terrified the FNGs. In time she would seek out a trusted wolf nanny to leave the girls with when she and Alex returned to active duty, but for now she was enjoying what to her, was down time. The good thing about pack was that there was almost always one or more pupsitters available. More than one soldier has been treated to the sight of Captain Price working on paperwork while two little wolf cubs played hide and seek and pounce under his desk and worried his boot laces.
Ghost drove up to the estate a week before taking Soap there. He told himself it was because he needed to inspect the gatehouse he intended to stay in and see that it was well stocked so they were not disturbed, but in reality he was more than a bit nervous. He seldom stayed here, despite inheriting it from his great uncle five years ago. At the time he couldn’t care less about an inheritance from his mother’s side of the family. He knew from his father’s constant taunting and berating her that she came from a very old family. What he didn’t find out until many years later was that her natal pack dated back to the Norman Conquest and had the lands, titles and wealth to prove it. She had been disowned by her own father when she eloped with Simon’s father and exiled from her natal pack in Northumberland. She never spoke of her life before the shabby terrace house in Manchester.
It had taken a massive mental adjustment for a former butcher’s apprentice turned SAS career military man, once his Uncle’s solicitor contacted him, to learn that he had inherited not only a vast estate, with nearby village included, but most of an entire county as well and by familial rights a pack, who have lived there for centuries. He hadn’t really cared. He didn’t expect to live long enough to retire and play lord of the manor. He spoke with the solicitors, signed a ream of paperwork, met briefly with the bank manager and the people his Uncle employed to care for the house and farmlands, hired a competent estate manager and went on with his life. Since he had no heirs he just quietly arranged for the estate to return to the Crown when he was KIA. The estate manager sent him detailed monthly reports, he met with her once a year on the estate for an annual update, ironed out a few details regarding upkeep and that was that. There would be no mate or heirs from Simon Riley, the last Lord Wylde, Knight Protector of Her Majesty’s Realm.
The aged Butler, Wilkes and his Housekeeper wife, Beatrice had been delighted to see him. Especially when he haltingly requested that the Gate House be cleaned, stocked and aired because he was bringing a guest for Yule and they would be in residence for a full three weeks. This was the longest his lordship has ever stayed and they were dying of curiosity about his mysterious guest. Could it be that his lordship was courting a mate? He was certainly of age to do so, and has enough honors accumulated to attract one. They perused the grocery and household necessities list and Yule menu request he tentatively provided (clearly the man was used to living rough without a competent staff for his requests were quite modest) as intently as homicide detectives searching for clues.
It was Beatrice who pointed out that there were several items on both lists that were clearly geared towards a Scottish palate. Who other than a Scot enjoyed haggis, and cranachan was a Scottish holiday favorite. Their mysterious guest was obviously Scottish. There was also a request that fresh scones (especially blueberry) be provided daily for breakfast and tea (it was underlined emphatically) as well as fresh, good quality coffee. Cook would be delighted for a chance to cook something different from the usual Yule venison and goose and was already placing orders with the butcher and grocer and practicing preparing haggis recipes. The estate workers were happy to eat her creations and critique them. She cooked daily, but the regular, conservative staff menu could get boring. She immediately thought it would be good to incorporate mutton into the menu and ordered some lamb as well.
The estate staff and the entire village and county wanted to know everything. The pub buzzed with the news. Was their aloof Alpha finally preparing to set up his den? The entire household and rural pack was in a tizzy. Everything, they decided, must be perfect. They knew he preferred the smaller, cozy Tudor gatehouse with its fine cottage garden, set well away from the Great House, secure and private behind its garden wall, because he stayed there on his rare visits. They didn’t blame him. The Great House, while venerable and stately, was also huge and drafty with some spectacularly overdone, ugly rooms. Lord Wylde generously allowed the villagers use of it for all types of pack celebrations ranging from weddings to dances. After all, what use was a grand ball room if it was never used?
So everything must be perfect enough that perhaps their mysterious Alpha would stay. Yes, the folk of Wyldecroft were proud and independent, but every pack wanted their Alpha comfortably home in his den, no matter how competent he was at long distance management and the new Alpha was considered competent indeed. He wasn’t the sort to hover over his pack (which pleased them immensely, that his lordship felt them capable of looking after themselves) and micromanage pack business, after all he was career military and no doubt suffered no such nonsense from his subordinates.
From the scant information they gleaned (packs were nosy, they couldn’t not be), they knew he belonged to the most elite covert SAS pack in Her Majesty’s guard. That he was a fighting wolf was evident by his scars. Wylde wolves were legendary warriors, with familial sects in Ireland and Scotland as well. A grandfather, William Wylde had been a Master Gunner with the Royal Artillery under King George III. Another infamous ancestor was Emma La Wilde from the 1200s who terrorized Oxfordshire. They knew little more than that, and that he didn’t hold with hobnobbing with the peerage.
His lordship was no polo playing nob. He was a quiet, private man, which his rural pack quite approved of, as they believed in minding their own business. The Wyldecroft pack has been settled in this territory for centuries and their roots in the land run deep. Many remembered and loved his late mother, the gentle, shy Miranda, and grieved when she eloped to mate a lone Manchester wolf, so they felt quite protective of her only surviving cub, now their Alpha.
Lord Wylde quietly improved life around the county from afar. Under his orders, the estate manager channeled funds into raising and preserving heirloom crops and animals, gave the workers all a substantial cost of living raise, upgraded their homes, and opened the Great house for viewing with the best of the substantial art collection on display, with any profits channeled directly back into estate upkeep. After a brief inspection of household inventory, his lordship authorized two thirds of the family jewel collection (which was substantial) and his uncle’s entire vintage automobile collection auctioned off at Christies and most of the proceeds used for upgrading the village school, library, elder care center and small hospital. The remaining funds were channeled into maintenance of the estate. Long neglected repairs were made, farm equipment was upgraded, etc. Proof that his lordship was a practical wolf who took excellent care of his pack. Wyldecroft was a rarity in that it was almost totally self-sustaining.
No one in the village was homeless or went hungry. If a pack member or villager found themselves unhoused, they were allowed to stay in the wing of the Great House set aside for the pack until they could find housing. For the first time in generations, the Wylde Alpha encouraged his pack members to den up in the Great House. He wanted them there. Lord Wylde even left a long list of objects d’ art, paintings and sculpture that could be immediately auctioned if emergency funds for the estate or village were needed beyond what was budgeted.
He took excellent care of his people, both human and wolf, and they loved him for it as only a familial pack could. They were quick to point out to any jeering visitor that their Alpha could protect his country and his territory with an ease few could manage, from a distance, while serving and smugly noticed that there were absolutely no challenges issued once the offenders realized exactly who their Alpha was. Ghost was not just a legend among the SAS, that legend extended well into the Packlands as more than a few young wolves in military service were well familiar with Lieutenant Ghost, having either been trained by, served under or witnessed him in combat.
****
Joan and Mark knew they were being nosy as fuck, but the young stable workers couldn’t resist taking a peek when they heard the Land Rover driving up the lane to the Gate House. His lordship had not stopped at the Great House as he already had the keys. Besides they had reason to be here, they had just repaired a nearby pasture fence, because Rose, a huge Percheron mare, was an adept escape artist. She loved visiting people and would stroll right into a house if allowed. Her stall had to have a special latch installed because she could unlatch most bolt and loop latches with ease and she was notorious for pushing wobbly fence posts over to go ‘visiting.’
They peered avidly from behind the thick holly bushes as the Land Rover was carefully parked close to the entrance of the Gate house. It had snowed a bit last night, enough to leave a thin sheet of ice on the roads. As they watched, Lord Wylde emerged, dressed in his usual funereal black, and Moon, he was huge! Broad and tall, like the life sized old portrait of the first Wylde Knight Protector who served the first Elizabeth, hanging in the Great hall. They gave an excited murmur at the sight of his bare face and head, jagged battle scars and cropped, graying, silver blond hair on public display for the first time. He glanced around and they stilled at the keen look cast their way. Alpha Wylde knew they were there, but chose to ignore them. The reason for his vigilance became obvious when he hurried to help his companion exit the vehicle.
Jo made a soft, concerned sound, because the young man was injured. (He wore a kilt! Beatrice was right!) Lord Wylde made himself a crutch, allowing the smaller man to lever himself out of the car and take his arm, while he found his balance on the slick cobblestones, and deftly relieved him of his cane. They paused so the Scot could look around and he gestured with his braced free hand haltingly, clearly admiring the view, a bright smile on his handsome face as he laughed up at Lord Wylde, who smiled fondly down at him as he gently guided his halting steps down the path and into the cottage.
Jo cooed and Mark hummed and chuffed in appreciation because he was a very handsome, sturdy young man, dark traditional braid hanging down his back from beneath his toque, with beautiful blue eyes. He wore a Black Watch kilt and combat boots, so clearly he was military as well. No doubt wounded in combat and brought safely home to den up and recover. Both were quick to note the gray, oversized hoodie he wore bore the name ‘Riley’ in large, black letters on the back. It looked like Beatrice was right about that too. She would be so chuffed. This young man has to be His lordship’s soon to be mate. They hurried back to the house, bursting with their news. This was bound to earn them tea and extra treats from Cook.
It did indeed.
It got them extra pints later at the White Lion as well.
The news spread like wildfire about every detail from his lordship’s bare (quite attractive) face (werewolves found scars very appealing and a clear indication of battle prowess) to his handsome young Scot. Upon learning of the young man’s injuries, Wilkes immediately assigned Tom, one of the groundsmen to salt and sweep clear all the pavement and paths at the Gatehouse and ensure they stayed clear. It would not do for his lordship’s young man to fall if he wished to stroll about the property.
Once Cook heard of the injured lad, she immediately made sure that not only did he get his scones, but she sent daily pots of nourishing bone broth based soups and stews, along with fresh bread and butter. She realized that his lordship probably wanted to impress his future mate by cooking for him (providing food was a traditional part of courting) but there was no reason the man should be harnessed to the stove for every meal. He has other, important things to concentrate on in this courtship. Like displaying his territory and pack at their best, and its suitability as a safe, well-provisioned den for his wounded young man.
Besides, he is a career military man and she has her own private reservations about his culinary skills. After all, they ate reheated dehydrated swill out of plastic pouches.
13
Soap was enjoying his time at Simon’s uncle’s estate.
The old Elizabethan house was beautiful. He loved the thatched roof, ancient oak floors, the heavy beams, and the beautifully carved wainscoting, the huge stone fireplace. There was so much history seeped into the very walls. While there was a cozy modern addition to the back of the house with all the mod cons, the majority of the house was pure Tudor charm. It felt homey and reminded him of his Gran’s much smaller cottage and he happily told his LT so. Simon seemed gruffly pleased.
They ended up sharing the master bedroom, because it contained the only comfortable bed large enough for two large, well muscled men, one of whom was injured, to sleep comfortably. The guest bedroom was too small to contain either man, especially Ghost, he constantly had to be wary of cracking his head on the door jambs and low beams in parts of the house anyway. Soap was used to sleeping in a wolf pile so he didn’t object because Ghost was like a giant heater, and his healing bones ached like the devil when he got too cold. It was very pleasant to wake with him in either wolf or human form, and if they fell asleep backs pressed warmly together and woke with Soap snugly wrapped in Ghost’s arms each morning, his big body curved protectively around the smaller man, neither mentioned it. (Soap assumed it was a pack thing and Ghost feared if he said anything, Soap would stop sleeping with him.) Both men slept well and deeply, their mingling scent soothing them both. Curled close together there was no room for nightmares.
Apparently Simon’s uncle is a wealthy man, because every day, sometimes twice a day, delicious food is delivered. Soap hasn’t eaten this well since he lived with his gran, and he makes a point to tell the young woman who delivers the food so, and asks her to please pass on his compliments to the chef. She beams with pleasure and shyly stammers that the cook is her aunt and happily waves goodbye when she leaves. She is very deferential around Ghost, which doesn’t surprise Soap. Ghost is both braw and pure laoch, and intimidating even when he isn’t trying to be. Plus, the girl is probably a wolf and Ghost carries that Alpha aura like an invisible mantle over his broad shoulders. When asked, Ghost hesitated, then haltingly explained that his uncle was the local Alpha of the rural village pack, and that most of the villagers are wolves.
By their third day, Soap has filled his sketchbook to the brim with sketches of the cottage and winter garden alone, and asks Simon if there is a stationer's supply or bookshop in the village they passed through. Simon admits he isn’t overly familiar with the area, and suggests they go into town and see, maybe hit the pub for a pint. Soap happily allows Ghost to bundle him up in his hoodie again, it snowed last night, the temperature dropped a bit and apparently Simon and the other wolves are convinced their pack human will perish from pneumonia if not properly bundled up like a wean in a puffy snowsuit.
He decides to ditch the walking boot, it’s more clunky and annoying than useful now and if he wraps his ankle, wears thick socks and laces his boots tightly it should be fine. The ankle is healed enough to walk on if he takes care. It’s the bloody knee brace that he is stuck with for a while longer. He even dressed up a bit, and wore his father’s clan kilt (sheer defiance because he and Da were forbidden to wear anything but MacTavish weave at home) and knotted his plait neatly up with a carved hair stick to hold it. He no longer wore his silver hair accessories after Gaz ruffled his Warhawk and managed to blister his hand on a silver clasp.
In reality, he can’t wait to explore Wyldecroft, because it looked really lovely as they drove through, somehow keeping its Victorian and Edwardian charm even with the modern shops woven in. Maybe he can wheedle Ghost into returning in the Spring because it's beautiful country, and Soap was raised rural and is often homesick for the lands he grew up on, if not the majority of the people.
****
The village goes on high alert the moment the Alpha’s vehicle pulls into the village car park near the Tesco. The news ripples down the high street and they all try hard not to gawk, but it's nearly impossible. They are all intensely curious about their aloof, reclusive Alpha and his Scot. The mere fact that the man has entered Wyldecroft will be gossip fodder for months because they are invested in his every move. Its pack nature to want to please their Alpha and they were greedy for any tidbits of gossip about him. It wasn’t surprising when several shop keepers suddenly decided to clean and spruce up their display windows and tidy their storefronts. They were anxious to show their Alpha that they made good use of the generous maintenance annuities they received each Spring.
****
Ben Hawksley beams out the window of his hardware store, as he watches his lordship carefully shepard his injured mate down the pavement. Now that is a fine figure of an Alpha. Unlike his prissy pillock of an uncle. Trevor, the late Lord Wylde was a right twat. It was a Moon wrought miracle that the old fool had not been challenged for his territory. Ben suspected it was because his nephew’s ferocious reputation preceded him. The Ghost Wolf was a living legend in the Packlands.
Plus, their new Alpha has wisely chosen a fine, sturdy Scottish lad as mate. A courageous one, already bearing battle wounds. One of the previous old lords had married a Scottish lady. Good sensible stock there. No, Simon Riley was clearly Miss Miranda’s get, that ancient Dire wolf lineage ran deep in the maternal side of the Wylde bloodline. This is a wolf of the old warrior stock. His youngest son is in the military and Bradley told him that their Alpha is a legend among his peers. Fast, deadly and accurate in combat, a true modern day Knight Protector. A Ghost on the battlefield, living up to his battle name and he bears the scars to prove it.
Anna Greenhill can’t help but smile as she watches the Alpha’s young mate carefully bend to ruffle Sunny’s silky ears. The Golden Retriever belongs to old Ben, but is something of a village pet, as he visits everyone and especially enjoys spending recess with the children at the primary school. The dog is happily grinning up at the young man as he gets a good ear scratching. Alpha Wylde watches fondly, then offers his arm for stabilization as the lad shifts his weight carefully on the slick pavement. With both a wrist brace and a knee brace, maneuvering with the cane is awkward at best and difficult on uncertain terrain. However, it's clear that the lad is in no danger of a fall with his very protective mate at his side.
****
Julia Danvers gives a dreamy sigh as she watches Alpha Wylde and his mate amble slowly down the pavement, window shopping. Such a handsome couple, especially the young Scot. So dashing in his tartan kilt, over dark kilt hose and combat boots. It dawns on her that his kilt is probably his clan weave and she makes careful note of the colors and pattern, as well as his unique traditional hairstyle. Mum researches genealogy, so she will be able to look it up.
Alpha Wylde has not deigned to introduce him to any of the pack yet, and really she doesn’t blame him for wanting to keep his young man to himself for a while longer. The early steps of a courtship are the most important, as are first impressions. Smiling, she watches as they stop outside Emma’s bookshop to peer into the display window, before going inside, the Alpha courteously holding the heavy door for his lad, who grins up at him and quips something that makes the tall man smile. Emma will be chuffed to have their custom and Julia can’t wait to interrogate her later at tea.
****
Emma Hart nearly drops the stack of books she is preparing to shelve when she sees who is entering Greensleeves Bookshop. Behind the cash counter, her teen daughter, Alice looks ready to faint. They exchange hasty, wide-eyed looks but before Emma can step forward, his lordship’s bright-eyed young man greets them cheerfully and indicates with a wave he is just on the way to the journaling section in the back.
His lordship watches him go with a keen eye, as he limps gamely away, cane tapping on the wood planked floor. He doesn’t hover, instead turning his attention to the display table of best sellers and remainders, sneering ever so slightly at a heavily discounted remainder copy of a certain recent princely biography before turning his attention to a thick history of the Scottish clans. He peruses it for a moment, then browses his way down the shelves to where his young man is carefully examining the shelf display of blank journals and sketchbooks. Thankfully, they stock a good variety for the local art club.
Emma notes he is examining the texture of the papers in each brand. So the lad is probably an artist as well. Wonderful! This is confirmed when his lordship plucks a tin of Derwent colored drawing pencils from the shelf where they display a modest amount of art supplies and shows it to his boy, who grins and nods enthusiastically. When he turns his attention back to the sketchbooks, his lordship quietly adds a pack of waterproof artist pens, a travel tin of quality watercolors off the shelf as well, a sable brush and a pad of good watercolor paper. Clearly, he dotes on the lad.
Hastily she shelves her stack before they can feel her watching them and returns to the counter, where Alice is not at all being subtle as she stares at the handsome young Scot, who has cheerfully offloaded his choices into his lordship’s patiently waiting arms. He has a lovely, rich Scottish brogue as he natters on about the quality of Derwent’s art supplies (and Emma nods to herself in agreement) and how they compare to Sennalier, but he likes both for different media. She makes a mental note to immediately place a substantial order to enlarge the artist supply section, something she has longed to do anyway. That she will keep in mind a certain new artistic customer is her own business. There is absolutely no reason his lordship’s lad should have to look elsewhere for his art supplies. Whatever he needs, she can special order at a discount.
Cheerfully she elbows her gawking child aside to serve them herself, when his lordship carefully places his choices on the counter, and hides a smile when the Scot grins cheekily up at him and adds a popular espionage bestseller to the stack, with a laughing,
“Ah know ye like to critique these, Simon!”
As the lad fumbles for his wallet, she quickly speaks up, meeting his lordship’s amber eyes, head tilted slightly in respect.
“Shall I put these on your account, sir?”
The eye flash of approval warms her soul, as he gives her a slow, crooked smile and nods and she realizes suddenly that their fearsome, aloof Alpha is shy. She nudges Alice who hastily bags the purchases, shoving in every village event flier available and a free bookmark, while the Scottish boy argues about payment in his delightful brogue, which Lord Riley brushes away with a rumbled,
“I have this Johnny. You can pay for lunch if you like.”
As if! The moment they thank her politely and leave, his lordship carrying the bag, she is on the phone to the White Lion, because clearly that is their next stop and forewarned is forearmed. Ian and Gladys thank her profusely and she stoutly resists the urge to take lunch there, despite Alice’s pleas. It is a point of pride at the Lion that a Wylde does not pay for fare provided from his own farms. The pack and estate workers eat free there, paying only for their drinks.
“We shan’t act like bumpkins, love. His lordship likes his privacy and they will gain enough stares at the pub.”
Alice groans in frustration and is on her phone in moments texting furiously, no doubt to her friend Meg who works at the Lion. Chuckling Emma leaves her to it and heads to her tiny, cluttered office to make up that art supplies order. When the pack learns of the Alpha mate’s artistic interests, there will be a run on supplies. The local Art Club will be thrilled. If they are very lucky they may find themselves with a new Patron soon. Thoughtfully she adds a restock of the sketchbooks the Scottish boy favored. Just in case.
****
Soap can’t help but notice the attention they are attracting from the villagers. After all he is well trained in situational awareness, but he says nothing because Ghost doesn’t mention it. It occurs to him that it may be because he is the stranger here, in company of the village Alpha’s nephew and he can’t blame them for being curious. He is well aware that his traditional way of dressing catches the eye.
In the past he used that to flirt or provoke and it still comes in handy for that, but it long evolved into a sense of style based on pride in his Scottish roots. Not all witch clans are as shady and overbearing as his, he wants to set a good example. He is a witch born Scot and is proud of it. After all, his paternal grandmother, who sheltered and protected him, is a witch too, a very good one. So, he shrugs it off and enjoys his time with his lieutenant.
Ghost is aware of the intense scrutiny of the villagers and equally grateful that they mind their own business. His fervent hope is that no one pops up and addresses him by his inherited title, because he knows Johnny will tease him mercilessly. It's been a good day so far, his sergeant’s stamina is better and he is healing well. He only takes a painkiller before bed now, which does an excellent job of easing him into a deep sleep, which makes stealth cuddling much easier. If asked a year ago, if he would ever trust, much less grow fond of a witch, he would have laughed his arse off. If they asked if he would ever willingly share a bed with one, he would have taken their head off at the shoulders at the mere implication.
He never in his life thought he would want to mate with one, but John Laith MacTavish is it for him. He was just having a difficult time accepting that fact. How had lying in, on lazy mornings, nose buried in a Scottish sergeant’s soft, dark hair become his greatest pleasure in life? Johnny’s scent was addictive, whether peppery with anesthetic and cordite, salty and musky with honest sweat, or sweet and green with honey and herbs. He could read his boy’s day in his scent and it had quickly become imperative that Johnny carry his scent as well, as a very potent Fuck Off to any trespassing wolves. It helped that his sergeant shared his quarters. (It's a habit now for him to subtly scent Johnny’s clothes before he leaves the room to start his day.) Soap cheerfully complained about the light dusting of white wolf hair that often clung to his clothing, but did nothing to remedy the situation.
Their intermingled scent soothed him like no other. He hasn’t had a single night terror in months. He has been intrigued by John Laith MacTavish since he swaggered off the transport, head high and kilt swishing around his knees. He has been in lust with Soap since the first time they sparred, and a fearless, laughing human boy had climbed him like a tree and bitten his earlobe in retaliation after he easily pinned him. (The resulting erection had been difficult to hide. The scent of lust impossible, and Alé had smirked knowingly at him afterwards.)
He has been in love with his Johnny since the first time he sat on that exam table and the young medic tenderly massaged the pain out of his facial scars with gentle fingertips, and rubbed in his carefully compounded ointment, while sternly scolding him with that rich brogue for not coming to him sooner, because it was “his job to take care of the pack and take their hurts away.”
The White Lion is clearly a Tudor public house that was updated in Victorian and Edwardian times and allowed years to marinate into the charming mishmash of architectural styles it is now. It’s all old oak beams, long polished bar and white plaster and shiny brass and surprisingly warm and comforting. Soap is having some of the best cottage pie he’s ever eaten and tells the waitress so, she blushes rosily and promises to tell her mum, who made it. They are snugly seated in a private corner (clear lines of sight, visible exits) and devour the meal with the hearty appetite of soldiers who make the most of any meal, but savor a good one. When offered second helpings by the plump, smiling cook, who apparently runs the establishment with her husband the barman, they accept eagerly.
Soap thinks next time they eat here, he will pull out his sketchbook. He enjoys people watching as the villagers move about their daily lives, all with a polite nod to Simon. Clearly he is recognized but they respect his privacy enough not to get into his face. It’s only when he tries to pay the bill, that he realizes something is up. Simon went to the bog, so Soap asked for the check only to have the Cook wave it away and sweetly inform him;
“No, love, his lordship does not have to pay for his own provender. Straight from the Wyldecroft farms it comes.”
His Lordship.
Sweet Creeping Jesus. No wonder Simon was being so cagey and keeping more of a low profile than usual. Little things were slowly adding up now. The sheer delight the delivery girl displayed when he complimented the food. The way the snow and ice miraculously disappeared from the cottage paths. The way the villagers beamed and nodded when they passed. Of course they were happy. Their fucking Alpha was home on his rather palatial estate for Yule. Simon’s uncle was obviously the former Lord.
Peering keenly around now with new eyes, he eyed the prominent green, black and white Wylde coat of arms displayed over the bar, memorizing it. This, he realized, was a very old pack lineage. He was abruptly dying of curiosity and torn between waiting to see how long Ghost thought he could pull off his ruse and asking a thousand questions. He refused to embarrass his LT in public, but he definitely will later, just to see the big man flush and bluster.
Later that night, Simon Riley grins like a fool at the ceiling, a sturdy, snoring Scot tucked under his chin, sprawled across his body, worn out from exploring the village. He should have known his clever lad would figure out his ruse. Soap had teased him mercilessly and called him “My Lord” all evening until Simon growled and pounced and tickled the laughing pup into submission until he cried mercy. Sitting close on the comfortable sofa beside the fireplace, Simon had explained his complicated family history—his harsh, abusive, overbearing father, his poor cowed, gentle mother, his reckless brother. All dead now, lost to abuse or addiction in one form or another. How he had not even known about his late uncle until the solicitor contacted him.
In return, Soap shared his own fraught family history. His powerful, arrogant mother beguiled his father and bore three daughters for her clan and one son to drain for power. How his beloved grandmother saved him from death and raised him in her own small mother-in-law cottage, which she moved into on the MacTavish farm to try and safeguard her beguiled son, since her own small magic was for healing and green growing things and she could not free him from John’s mother’s powerful grip.
It was a very adept casting, as the best ones were. His sly mother had woven his father’s genuine sexual attraction into it and twisted it so tightly that his father truly believed himself in love. The best his grieving mother could do was stay close to ensure he was not further abused. Witches were known to swap or dispose of men they tired of, but apparently John’s mother cared enough for John Senior to keep him for herself and legally wed him, although Soap privately doubted that Davida, his tall, willowy blonde sister actually shared the same father. She was the spitting image of one of Iona’s past paramours, one she tired of and traded away to another clan.
How his powerful, sociopathic sisters tormented him when they got the chance, almost from the time he could walk because he had no magic to defend himself. They stole his toys, destroyed his books and drawings, undid the hard work he did on the farm, and even tormented and killed his beloved pets until he refused to keep any more. His only real peace came when his mother finally sent them away to be educated at a school secreted deep in the Misty Isles and to learn self-discipline. That peace ended when he overheard a conversation among his aunts and discovered how his father was ensnared and his mother’s intentions for him. At thirteen, John was already an attractive boy, and he had begun to wonder and grow uneasy at the unwanted attention being paid to him by his mother’s friends and visitors. Then Morag tried to beguile and nearly raped him after she found him alone, while out repairing a stone fence down in the glen.
He went immediately to his grandmother for help and when she realized he was practically immune to beguilement she began to teach him in earnest and they made a plan to free him from the clans before he could be sold off to Old Morag, or worse. She taught him all she knew about healing and plants, delighted he shared her talent, and gave him her family grimoire, as full of beloved family recipes as intricate spellwork.
It was with the help of a beguiled wolf (he could occasionally shake off the beguilement enough to think clearly, when John’s aunt turned her attention elsewhere) and a member of his Gran’s maternal clan they got Soap safely away down to Glasgow until he could enlist in military service. The rough city had its own chaotic magic and it was a good place to hide in plain sight. His mother has been furious, but unable to do anything (his grandmother was born into one powerful clan and married into another, she dared not start a feud because while the MacTavish’s excelled in Beguilement, the MacLeods were Warriors through and through and about as close to royalty as the independent clans would accept). She eventually decided John would be out of the military soon enough, certain her human son could not endure more than one short term in such a harsh service. Instead he thrived and was now approaching his first decade of service and she was increasingly desperate to reclaim him before he was KIA, maimed in combat, or he lost value as he aged.
Now Simon lay and held his boy, gently stroked his unbound horse tail of silky hair and listened to him breathe and pondered how to enlist the Packs to free the beguiled wolves. It would be difficult. A skillful, well-crafted Beguilement was easily mistaken for genuine courtship and love. One had to be able to provide proof, witnesses or a confession from the practitioner, and most importantly the one bound had to wish to be freed. Holding his sturdy sergeant close, he could see why John’s mother would go so far as to steal his father. Less than two hundred years ago, it was common for wolves to steal mates as well. In modern days, in werewolf courtship, the ‘theft’ was playful ritual played out on the first full moon mating run.
Ghost nosed into Johnny’s hair and breathed him in. He of all people could understand John’s mother’s instant infatuation if his father was half as attractive as a youth as his son. Two hundred years ago, he would have stolen Johnny away too, and held him until the witch boy loved him back. Today his Johnny teased him about Wyldecroft and talked excitedly about visiting again later in the Spring, and for the first time Simon could begin to visualize a future beyond the SAS. A future with a laughing artist for a mate, Price visiting, the muppets romping through the woods chasing wild boar, Alé and Rudy teasing him about the grandeur of the Pack house and Alex and Farah and the pups living safe in a wing there. The life of a gentleman farmer after so many weary years of violent, covert warfare appealed now. It was a good dream to cultivate.
14
Phillip Graves sat back in his chair and listened to Colonel Shepard monologue about his plans for world domination, er, 141st task force domination, with half an ear. By this time he knows exactly when to make affirmative noises while he mentally makes his grocery or munitions lists. This is getting tedious. Plus he is getting heartily tired of the man. He is overbearing, long winded and short sighted. Worse, he is biased against the supernatural, and Grave and his Shadows definitely fall within that category. It’s only a matter of time before he turns on Graves himself, a rare practitioner who is both male and gifted with powerful magic, falls hard within that category and has no intention of ending up with a bullet in his head like Shepard’s last hireling (he knows this because he was the one who fired the bullet).
Phillip inherited his power from the maternal side of the family. The Beausoleil family has held territory in Louisiana since before it was a state and his grandmother is just as powerful as Marie Laveau was. Only his granny walked the dark side of the path, she worked with the Dead. Nothing so crass as Necromancy, puppeting a stinking corpse, no Grandmama worked with spirits, the shades left after the body fell, the finest Shadow Witch in the south. He had enjoyed his summers spent with Grandmama in her fine New Orleans town house, because unless you were into cows, rodeo, or oil, Texas was fucking boring.
Phillip dealt with the shades of soldiers who died too young, who felt they had unfinished business, who wanted to fight on. They made a very good company of soldiers. A little touchy and difficult to contain sometimes, but Phillip liked feisty spirits. They also made very good spies, and his spies have whispered that Shepard is fucked and on the way out and its time he moved on to more lucrative pastures before he takes Graves down with him. And really, Phillip isn’t surprised because the man is an idiot for wanting to try to control an elite pack of fucking werewolves.
No one with half a brain in their head starts shit with the loup garou. That is just asking to have your face ripped off and Phillip is fond of his own face, thank you. You can collar a werewolf, and force one to heel, but the fucker will just wait for the chance to rip your throat out, so eventually you have to kill it anyway. That’s just not sustainable. If you mess with one wolf, you mess with its pack as well. Plus, capturing wolves gets all the packs involved and no way in hell is Phillip starting a fucking supernatural war. Nope. Not happening. It's time to pick the right moment and cut ties. Before he does though he may profit with the bounty being offered for the wayward witch boy Isla MacTavish is so intent on retrieving. It all depends on how deep the boy is in with the wolf pack. If the wolves consider him pack, Phillip is out, but if he is still Grave’s puppet, then he’s fair game.
****
Morag stared into the cloudy glass over her gilded vanity table, and frowned. Nothing. Nothing at all. Not even a glimpse today of her soon to be consort. Perhaps it's best. The boy vexed her, yet intrigued her, ignoring her and spurning her advances. She looked forward to breaking him and bending him to her will. Once brought to heel and branded with her sigil, he will serve her well. He is strong and bright and his essence will feed her for years. She wants at least one daughter by him, perhaps two.
The clan needed new blood, a strong new stud and his bloodlines are impeccable, a direct descendent via his sire of Clan McCleod and Clan Chattan and Clan MacTavish from his mother. Morag’s descendants are getting weaker with each generation. She blamed modern reliance on such nasty things as motor vehicles and electricity, no matter how convenient it was to flip a switch for instant light or turn a knob for hot water there was always a heavy price for such luxuries. The stench of metal and plastic everywhere, and pollution soiling the land.
She was also beginning to lose her patience. It was time that Isla kept her end of the bargain. She reached for pen and parchment to tell her so. She would have John Laith MacTavish in her bed by Beltane, or Isla would pay in blood and tears and years. She paused, and thought, suddenly remembering that she has a grandniece in the military. The woman is useless in that she has no magic, she is merely a doctor, but perhaps she can be inserted into place to aid her in setting a tight geas on John Laith. She pauses before reaching for more paper. Best to use that new pocket telephone thing, so the wench cannot claim that she never got word. The girl is a vain fool, who cannot ensnare and hold even one fool of a man, but she can at least be put to good use.
Morag frowned at her own reflection in the mirror. Was that a wrinkle in her fair brow? She hissed in displeasure and decided it was past time to find a suitable candidate for a Rejuvenation Drawing. A young woman, preferably virgin. She would take all of the life essence and channel it into her appearance. A fair, youthful face in the early twenties would certainly appeal more to her handsome, new consort. Castings always worked better if one could seduce the man while working him.
Perhaps she should consider a new visage entirely? Who is considered the most beautiful woman these days? She would search some magazines and find out. She does not care for modern cinema with its proliferation of vapid, blonde, rail thin strumpets who profess to be actresses. It’s been years since she had red hair, or blonde. She made a mental note to question Fiona about her brother’s taste in women. At least that would be useful knowledge since the girl came slinking back after failing to set a working compulsion geas to persuade her brother to come home. Fiona has been curiously silent on the topic of her brother, when previously she would barely shut her gob.
Morag pondered that for a long moment, suspicious, then remembered Iona’s slashed face. John’s aunt would wear those hideous red scars to her grave. She was deep in the Misty isles now supposedly seeking a cure (when actually her appalled clan sent her to a strict healing order to detox from the drug addiction that was killing her). No healing spell nor glamour cast to hide them worked. Her marred face was forever bare to the world, a mark of shame. No doubt the clever boy used a purchased witchblade, since he has no magic of his own except that in his blood. Fiona was a vain twit, she probably feared the same treatment. She stared at her own reflection in the old mirror. She remembered being enthralled decades ago at the cinema with the actress in the film. She did so like this face. So, yes, perhaps a younger version of it would do.
****
Shepard leaned back in his chair after he dismissed Graves. There was something off there, he has been distracted the last few meetings. Perhaps something to do with his Shadow Company. They certainly made Shepard uneasy. The way they moved so silently, and never showed their faces beneath the smooth dark glass visors of their helmets and their matte black uniforms and gloves covering every inch of skin. Frowning he turned back to the paperwork that had just been placed on his desk, allegedly requiring his full attention. Well, it wouldn’t do to slack off now. He reached for the first report, reminding himself to call Laswell for an update on the 141st. MacTavish seems to have inserted himself well into the pack, proving he carried his grandmother’s talents for beguilement. He decided the young medic deserved a reward and issued an order to an underling to send the sergeant a good restock of medical supplies, mentally congratulating himself on his cleverness.
****
Valeria Garza frowned down at the metal shipping containers. The American paid her cartel well to ferry these over the border, and warehouse them, but this whole missile business made her uneasy. Guns and drugs are just business, but weapons of mass destruction were something else entirely. She wanted nothing to do with those. Business means profits for the cartel, mass destruction means war. War is bad for business. Chuffing out a breath, she strode back to her vehicle, her SIC scurrying ahead to open the door.
On her way back to her villa she found herself brooding. Things have been going to hell ever since the Shadow company nearly decimated the Las Almas pack to pave the way for her rise to power. The survivors have shifted and faded into the hills, scoffing at her generous offer to join her pack. They called her La Puta and acted like Alejandro still led them. She had sat back and waited for him to seek her out to join their packs together, but he never came. He was a proud man. For a while she had been able to keep track of his movements, she heard rumors that he and Rodolfo had decimated that twisted brujo, Robas, then they vanished. She thinks she would know if they were killed. She has left messages with various people and at drop points telling him to contact her and had her informants keep an eye out for them, but they are never picked up. She suspects he has left the country.
Alejandro is too clever and tough to kill, so he is somewhere else…with Rudy. Rudy, who is the silent thorn in her side. She likes Rudy, she always has, he is kind and sweet natured, but tough, as all Las Almas wolves have to be to survive. They all grew up together. Rudy is the one whom Alejandro always listens to, his voice of reason, and she knows, although he has never revealed it, that Rodolfo Parra loathes her. He thinks she will get Alejandro killed if he deals with her, and he certainly doesn’t want her and Alejandro to mate despite the fact that together they will be unstoppable. Valeria would even allow Rudy to stay in the pack, close to Alejo, his SIC as always. Losing Rudy would break something in Alejandro. So, yes she would make the sacrifice and allow Alejo to keep Rudy. She just needs to find the pair and make them an offer they cannot refuse. Las Almas on a silver platter. The pack will willingly follow Alejandro, but she will be the one calling the shots.
****
Isla MacTavish stared down at the letter in her hands, her heart sinking with dread. Morag has finally lost her patience and unless she can fetch John home for her, as promised, there will be hell to pay. Morag will take back the gift she gave Isla, and that she cannot endure. She stands and walks over to the stare at the mirror above the mantelpiece, and drops the simple glamoured mask of her own middle-aged face. The gray fades from her auburn hair, her eyes brighten and her skin is dewy with youth and flawless as when she was a lass. She can’t give this up. Morag will teach her how to expand her years and stay young and beautiful while she does so.
“Isla, love, Ah’ve just finished…Isla?”
Whirling, she sees her husband’s stricken face at the sight of her youthful face. His horror, because of course, he is the son of a witch, he knows immediately how she has come by her stolen youth and it sickens him. He must not be allowed to reveal her secret. She smiles and extends her hand, making her voice ripple like sweet strands of honey, like birdsong as she begins to work him. It’s nearly time to renew the geas anyway.
“John, macushla…”
“No, fuckin’ no more, Isla! Ah’m weary of yer wretched beguilement! Ah loved ye well enough before ye bound me! Stop fuckin’ mucking with ma mind! I have been true to ye, though ye never were with me!”
He whirls and stomps from the room, leaving her stunned. His mind was unclouded. Her casting failed. For the first time in her life, her casting of the beguilement that keeps him by her side failed totally. Shaken, she grabs the mantel to hold herself upright. What is happening? Iona failed and came home witchblade scarred and fined by the Crown so heavily that she came begging for funds from her sisters. It came as a shock to find she was an addict as well. Morag, the most powerful of them, personally failed in even setting a simple geas on John Laith. Fiona also, and now she herself.
Who has caused this? She would not put it past some spiteful hag to hex them all. Before she can decide what to do, her cellphone chimes and she picks it up. Of course, it is catastrophic news and she sinks down weakly onto an ottoman, and screams in pure frustration. The high matriarch of their clan has passed. Eleanor is dead and worse than that, Angus has vanished and not chosen her successor. The entire clan is in turmoil. No wonder the magic is so chaotic. It has no living focus now to anchor it in the clan.
When her husband runs in, alarmed by her scream, she lashes out blindly, needily, angrily, losing her temper. The next thing she realizes is that he is sprawled limp and senseless on the rug, and she is kneeling next to him, screaming now for an entirely different reason, as she shakes, the magic riding her body like an electrical current uses her as she loses all control of it.
15
“Well, LT, go on! Ye cannae refuse such a fine invitation!”
Soap beamed at the huge white wolf that was lingering, torn between joining the waiting Wyldecroft pack for the Yule Hunt and staying close by Soap. Soap grinned and waved him away.
“Go’ on now! Ah plan on doin’ a bit of sketchin’ in ma fine new book.”
Airily, he makes shooing motions at his lieutenant.
“Aye, show em’ how it’s doan LT! Go’on and fetch a fat deer or boar for dinner! Off with ye! Ye have nae run for nigh a week, or hunted more than conies in months, yer arse will get fat.”
The wolf snorted, amused by his cheek and obeyed whirling to join the hopeful pack. They yipped and howled with delight, milled about and fell in behind him (he towered over them) as they set off through the meadows heading into the thick forest. It was such an honor for them to have their Alpha leading the hunt. John watched them go, memorizing the sight of the pack as they ran into the trees, the youngsters on their first hunt gamboling behind, for a drawing later.
It was a beautiful sunny morning, no wind and not too cold, and the light danced over the light dusting of clean snow. Smiling, Soap turned back into the cottage to grab his new sketching supplies, which he stuffed in the huge pockets of Simon’s hoodie. He loved wearing it, it was almost like wearing a hug. He tugged his toque down over his ears and grabbed his cane as he limped carefully down the lane trying to decide what to sketch first. He paused and leaned against a stone fence to quickly sketch a truly monumental oak in the pasture. It has to be hundreds of years old. He takes a photo for reference in case he wants to do a more detailed drawing later.
As he meanders on, pausing now and again to draw anything that snags his interest, he admires the tidy paddocks, neat stone barns, hedges and outbuildings of the very well kept estate. He can see paddocks of healthy livestock, fat baaing ewes and doe -eyed Jersey cows. At the head of a gravel lane he sees a large stable at the end and is just in time to see a magnificent black percheron mare trot out looking extremely pleased with herself. At the sight of him, her ears prick with interest, she nickers a greeting and trots up the lane to nuzzle his face and hands, all huge velvet nose and soft lips as she snuffles at his sleeve, then proceeds to boldly explore his pockets.
“Oho! A bonnie teicheadh!”
Laughing with delight, he stroked her thick, muscled neck digging his fingers into her furry winter coat to scratch her neck and the heavy plates of her cheekbones. She snorts with pleasure, and nibbles delicately at his braid. He digs into his pocket and produces the apple he purloined from the kitchen fruit basket for a snack later, and gently feeds it to her. Glancing down the long lane, he grins up at her, still happily scratching and breathing in the familiar pleasant scents of horse and hay. He blinked back tears as he remembered a little bay pony who loved apples too, fed from an adoring eight year old’s hands. He has always loved horses and he still misses the animals on the home farm.
“Will ye give me a ride, my beauty, to yer stable? Aye?”
He gives a thick handful of mane near her croup an experimental tug and leans his weight against her. She plants her plate sized feet and stands like a stone for him. She is so tall, he will need a way to boost himself aboard, his injuries won’t allow him to just vault up onto her broad back. Munching the last of the apple, she stands still, ears flicking as she listens to his lilting sweet talk. He coaxes her gently over to a low stone slab and uses it as a mounting block to clamber aboard, wincing as his knee twinges and careful of his cane, so as not to jab her flanks. He’s glad he wore jeans today. It's been years since he rode, but it's something one never forgets, the muscles remember. She responds beautifully to the gentle tug on her mane and the nudge of his heels and walks carefully back towards the stable. He grins, leans forward and scratches her neck.
“Donnae toss me on ma arse, bonnie, aye?”
She snorts and arches her neck as she prances back towards her stable, tail arched and tossing her mane and showing off a bit, knowing there are treats awaiting to bribe her back into her comfortable, albeit boring stall.
****
“Glory, Mark, do you see?”
Joan asked, wide-eyed, from the stable doors as she grabbed his arm, a lead rope draped over her arm as she had scurried after their habitual escapee.
“She actually stood for him! Not a single sidle or nip, and himself without even a head collar!”
Mark replied ruefully,
“The last time I tried that she nigh tossed my arse up into the hayloft!”
They listen to the sedate ring of iron shoes on the cobblestones and hurry to meet his lordship’s mate as Rose proudly clops back to her stall with her rider. He laughs at their apology for the escape and waves it away, as he slides easily off the mare’s broad back. They still haven’t figured out how she escaped, she has learned a new trick to open her stall.
The Wyldecroft grooms spend a happy couple of hours introducing the Alpha’s mate to all the stabled horses at this barn. They actually breed and train two draft horse breeds on the estate, Percheron and the increasingly rare Shire, but there are riding horses as well, as the former Lord enjoyed both hunting and hacking and his lordship has authorized they be ridden by the local hunt club to keep them in condition. The Alpha’s mate is very knowledgeable about horses and farm management, and casually reveals that he grew up on a large traditional working farm in the Highlands. There is no posh haughtiness to him, he is genuine salt of the earth and chats amiably about crops, cattle, weather and the horses.
The Scot is obviously a horseman as well, because he greets each animal with open delight, stroking curious noses and glossy necks. The horses take to him immediately, even Atticus, the aloof black Friesian stallion, who bumps his heavy head into the young Scot’s chest, demanding ear scratches. When they reluctantly return to their duties, the friendly Scot stays, seated on a straw bale out of their way, happily sketching the horses. Later they hear him laugh aloud and glance up from their work to see that Essie, the calico barn cat has discovered him and invited her plump self into his lap, briskly pushing his sketchbook aside and kneading his thighs industriously so that he can attend to the more important job of petting the kitty, as he gently strokes her and tells her what a pretty, bossy lass she is.
At noon they shyly invite him, “Och, call me John,” up to the great house for lunch, pleased when he accepts. (Jo runs ahead to warn Cook, who would cuff her ears if she didn’t give her advance warning of their special guest.)
Ghost and the pack return triumphant at around three o’clock. Their hunt was very successful and flawlessly executed. Not only did they run down a stag, as was traditional, but two fat young boars as well. The Yule feast would be copious this year. Plenty of roast meat and bones for everyone, or raw for the traditionalists. He manages to rein in his wolf’s intense urge to drag the stag and drop it at his sergeant’s feet, and manages to extradite himself from them as quickly as possible, trying not to be rude, as they triumphantly haul the game away to be butchered properly. Simon is pleased at how self-reliant the Wildecroft pack are. When he stops at the cottage to shift and dress, he sees that Johnny is still out. Worried that he might have taken a fall, he sets out to track his wayward sergeant down.
Following his tracks and his nose, he trails him to the nearest horse barn, where two smiling young grooms inform him that yes, Johnny spent some time sketching here before taking lunch with them in the kitchen, and he has yet to escape Cook’s clutches. She has decided that John needs feeding up. Amused, Ghost sets out to reclaim his wayward boy. He finds Johnny seated at the kitchen table, a plate of Steak and Kidney pie before him and cheerfully taste testing a myriad of small, savory dishes, as a beaming Cook looks on. He is smiling happily and smells of horse and hay, as he brandishes a fork at Simon.
“Och, LT, ye have to try this! Tis’ the best pie ever!”
Cook rushes to offer him a chair at the kitchen table, tsking when she hears his stomach give a growl of anticipation. Before he knows it she has placed a huge plate of steak and kidney pie in front of him, and he digs in with enthusiasm as Cook adds a mug of ale and a side plate of fresh baked bread with butter. Across the table Johnny is still making happy noises as he works his way through his own variety of small dishes. Before they finish, Cook is placing a generous slab of treacle pudding before each man. Ghost hopes they can at least manage to waddle back to the cottage later.
“Ms. Annie here is working on the Yule menu, LT. It all tastes good ta me.”
Simon agrees and ends up rather plummily (if he says so himself) informing Cook she has free rein with planning the Yule menu, much to her delight. She is already planning a special dish for young John. Poor lad, so homesick for his Gran’s kitchen and good cooking. He needs feeding up. Johnny gives him a look of angelic innocence at this statement and he snorts in amusement. Of course his lad would charm the entire village and pack.
****
Needless to say, the Yule Feast at Wyldecroft this year is a huge success. They end up attending the feast at the Great House in the formal dining hall with most of the village and pack in attendance, dressed in their best and Ghost gives his sergeant a tour of the house, so he can admire the architecture and art works (and snicker over some rather smarmy ancestral portraits of pompous, powdered twats in tall wigs and satin knee britches) and Ghost tried not to be too transparently pleased at the admiring comparison Johnny makes of him and the life sized Holbein portrait of the first Lord Wylde, a fierce, amber eyed, bewhiskered gentleman clad in gleaming armor, who looms in the great hall across from a beautiful portrait of the bejeweled young Virgin Queen herself. (Johnny is delighted to learn there were rumors about those two, and that Lord Wylde remained loyal to his queen his entire life.) It was indeed a pity that Elizabeth Tudor was not born a wolf, she had the heart of one.
It's with real reluctance that they return to base after their leave and Simon ends up promising to return as soon as time allows. He is quite chuffed at how fond the people of the estate are of Johnny and that his sergeant loves the estate. Tentatively he begins to visualize an actual future there, hopefully with Johnny beside him. He could retire now if he wished, with full honors, but Soap is young and he will not leave him to serve alone with no one to guard his throat and back.
At their own private last meal at the cottage, Johnny presented him with a lovely oak box carved with the Wylde coat of arms, containing a variety of packages of expensive, high quality teas, including his favorite Yorkshire Gold and Earl Gray. He insisted it was because Simon bought his art supplies and fair was fair in a Yule gift exchange. Simon fell asleep curled happily around his Scot, who nattered sleepily on about all the beautiful horses and a fat kitty he met on the estate before dozing off, his head pillowed on Ghost’s shoulder. Remembering what his lad’s bitch sisters did to his much loved pets, he vows that Johnny will have all the animals he wishes, even if he has to turn the estate into a zoo to accommodate them all.
The next day as they pack the car to leave, they are surprised when half the estate seems to turn out to see them off. Cook insists they take a huge hamper of various foodstuffs back to base with them, including some special dishes she prepared specifically for them. As they drive away, along the lane and through the village almost everyone they pass waves goodbye and wishes them well. Soap laughs and remarks he feels like he should work on his royal ‘wave’ and Simon snorts in agreement.
“Like that show Farah watches about the Royals.”
****
Later at the White Lion, his lordship’s visit, the Yule Hunt and Dinner is rehashed again and again, the tales and rumors spreading like wildfire through the village. The pack is in high spirits, basking in their Alpha’s silent approval of their respectful conduct, which they all felt in the budding pack sense. Surely he will return home for good soon now, especially since he chose such a fine mate. From their collective perspective the courtship is going beautifully. No doubt he will retire from service soon to return home.
“Took down that great stag in one leap! Never saw a wolf so fast!”
“Aye, his lordship does not mess about. Fastest, cleanest hunt in years, no meandering on false trails with that one. We were blooded and home before tea!”
“Two boars! Two and his lordship waited for Liam and Clay to take them. No hogging the kills, he just turned that big ‘un back for young Liam when it ‘nigh broke free.”
“I tell you, the Scottish lad is a Macleod! A prince, or as close to one as the clans get. My son says he’s the youngest ever to have the Victoria Cross! Practically saved the Princess Royal by himself, he did!”
“He does dote on his boy, gave him the choice slab he carved off the roast, didn’t he? Always checking on his well being, too.”
“He’s a horseman. Every horse in the stable whickers when that lad walks in, and even Atticus gave him no trouble at all when he wanted to ride later.”
“Connor says his lordship was inquiring about adding some of those wee Highland cattle to the estate. And for him to keep an eye out for some quality riding horses for his lad and let him know what he finds. First time he’s taken a real interest in the estate. Con has been researching Scottish livestock breeds like mad. You can bet that empty barn in back of the estate will be put to good use soon. I expect there will be some of those black faced sheep as well.”
“My bet is a Spring Mating! An old fashioned Spring Run, as soon as his lad is healed. Wilkes and his mistress are already prepping the Great Hall for the ceremony just in case and Gwen is already starting the traditional flowers and herbs in the greenhouse and trying to find out his lordship’s favorites.”
“He is quite the artist! Caught a glimpse of his sketchbook. Well beyond amateur work, I tell you. I have no doubt his lordship will set up a professional studio for him as a courtship gift.”
“Did you see Lady Collins try to flirt with himself, in the market square, the other morning? Only had eyes for his Scot, he did.”
“Yes, that bint will have to find herself another aging peer, if she wants to marry again, his lordship knows quality and it is most certainly not her.”
“That lad comes from good farm stock. Warned Dave about the blight that variety of barley is susceptible to and spent a good hour talking sheep and goats with Rory.”
“He is so handsome, Meg! Why don’t more boys wear kilts?”
“Did that twat Craven actually come sniffing around asking about his lordship?”
“He did, and Wilkes sent him packing too. Every wolf in Northumberland knows he is trying to match that bitch daughter of his with a quality Alpha. His pack may be rich and almost as old as ours, but that’s all that can be said for them.”
“Wilkes sent him packing, did he?”
“Aye, old Wilkes was in fine form, tongue as sharp as his teeth and Beatrice right behind him. Told Lord Craven that himself was in mid-courtship and not wishing to be disturbed.”
“Mark my words, given half a chance that bitch will try something. She’s known for it. Especially if she caught a glimpse of his lordship. His lordship is quality and she knows it.”
16
Captain Caroline Ainsley, nee McConnell was not pleased to hear from her great, great, great aunt Morag. Especially when the call came with a singular demand that she could not refuse. After all, her aunt paid for her education. So, she agreed meekly, after all, it was a fairly simple request. All she had to do was slip a certain talisman on Sergeant MacTavish’s person so that Morag could set a successful geas. (That alone made her wonder how she had apparently failed in previous attempts, why had her powerful aunt actually failed in casting?) Why Sergeant MacTavish?
Caroline was born a magical null in the McConnell clan and has been ridiculed by her relatives all her life. They actively encouraged her to leave and seek a life outside Scotland, as her presence shamed the clan. She did so and even married well, but that hadn’t lasted, her surgeon husband turned out to be a serial cheater. More family ridicule was piled on after the divorce, because what McConnell woman could not hold a man?
Her career in the medical field was her only lasting achievement. Now that would be under threat as well if she failed. Resentment grew as she was forced to agree to aid Morag. The woman was their clan matriarch and she had no choice. Those who defied Morag disappeared without a trace and Morag got younger. So she accepted the sudden assignment to the SAS medical center at Credenhill and went about her business, waiting for an opportunity. It would be a bit tricky. She has to somehow physically place the small amulet on his person. Approaching close enough was going to be a problem, she realized immediately, because she learned, he ran with wolves.
Caroline loathed werewolves. She knew it was species bias and she didn’t care. These creatures were unnatural and shouldn’t be allowed to serve with humans. Part of it was a deep fear she had of them, one cemented by an encounter when she was a child, when a shifter classmate lost control of her shift at school and left chaos and mutilation in her wake. A terrified Caroline has managed to escape by barricading herself into a supply closet. She never regarded them as either human or trustworthy again. Now she was expected to approach a man who ran with wolves to the point that they considered him part of their pack.
She learned that when she saw Farah Karim waiting for a check-up for her twins and when she steeled herself to approach her, the attending nurses told her not to bother as the wolf was waiting for Sergeant MacTavish. No other humans were allowed near her pups while they were this young. To Caroline’s surprise Karim’s attending physician was perfectly fine with this, briskly explaining that Sergeant MacTavish probably knew more about werewolf health than most humans who studied them and that the 141st pack trusted him and that was what was important. Curious now, she lingered near the nurses station, pretending to do some paperwork and when MacTavish strode down the hall and Farah smiled, she suddenly realized exactly why Morag was so set on him.
He wore a olive green scrubs shirt over a Black Watch kilt, his dark hair neatly knotted at the nape of his neck in the traditional warhawk style similar to that the Glasgow witch boys favored, and a handsome face with bright blue eyes with a smile as bright as the sun when he saw Farah and the girls. The little ones were reaching for him immediately, trying to wriggle from their mother’s arms, cooing and chirping. He swept them both into his arms with a laugh and pretended to bite and gnaw their heads with playful growls as they happily growled back and nuzzled and nipped his jaw, small clawed hands holding tight to his shirt.
The watching nurses sighed and cooed at the sight. The little shifters were adorable, if one could ignore the sharp, little baby fangs and claws. The girls were only a few months old, but were already crawling in human form and walking as cubs. Shifter babies grew at a much different rate than humans.
“Morning, Farah, how are ma weans today?”
He ushered her into a nearby exam room.
Caroline didn’t hear the smiling woman’s reply. Carefully, she shut her open mouth and walked quickly away to her office to reevaluate. No wonder Morag wanted him. He shone like the sun. Even a null could see that. Why should that ancient bitch have him? Heart pounding at the thought of defying Morag, she sat back to find out more about Sergeant MacTavish. She booted up her computer and in seconds had his file pulled up. There was only so much she had access to with her clearance. Enough to learn his medical history and where he was from.
So, this was Isla MacTavish’s only son. The one her sisters mentioned half the Alba clanswomen were bargaining for and Morag was determined to have. Why? Yes, he was handsome, but Morag never just went for appearance with her consorts. She needed more information. Her elder sister was taking the train down to London soon, they have a tradition where they meet on her birthday for tea and shopping. Joan will know more, she’s the lore keeper of the family. In the meantime she will make a special effort to get to know Sergeant MacTavish. It would be quite a feather in her cap to succeed at getting close to him sans magic when Morag failed so dismally.
The initial introduction goes well but she’s a bit dismayed because it’s clear immediately that he has no interest in her beyond that of a colleague. She manages to align a few of her shifts with his, but he spends most of his time at the pack barracks, and she has no business being there. Also, she notices a certain wariness when he works with her. He makes a point of keeping his distance. Does he suspect something or is it a pack thing? He has no compunction about touching the werewolves, even that scarred brute of a lieutenant.
Despite herself, she finds herself very attracted to the man. He is not only a handsome man, but an intelligent, blindingly competent one, and she’s always had a mile wide competence kink. She notices that the other single staff, both male and female, are attracted as well, but he is polite but firm in turning away any advances. Other than taking a quick lunch at mess, or a rare pint at the pub with the other nurses and medics, he maintains a strict professional demeanor with the base medical personnel. He is charming and friendly but he doesn’t seek their company off shift, like he does with the wolves. And the wolves? They seek him out constantly. MacTavish always seems to be in the company of one, especially the huge, hulking lieutenant.
In her attempts to make his acquaintance, she begins with simple observation. She tries again to arrange the shift schedules so they work together, but finds herself inadvertently thwarted by Major Rice. The Head Medical officer offhandedly informed her that Sergeant MacTavish’s very flexible schedule revolves around the 141st Pack. He is considered pack as well as a soldier and a medic. So, she waits for an opportunity to get closer, but again finds herself thwarted, this time by the wolves. They simply seldom leave MacTavish alone.
Sergeant Garrick drops by to make sure MacTavish gets to mess, as he has a habit of getting caught up in work and forgetting. Caroline finds him both charming and handsome—for a werewolf. Farah Karim (and she is unsure of the woman’s rank, she is simply listed as Special Operative) and her American husband, Alex Keller stop by, often with the twins to visit for a few minutes. The Mexican wolves are in and out and frustratingly, MacTavish chats in Spanish with them, which she is unfamiliar with, having chosen French at University. The odd, silent wolf, Sanderson, drops by often to restock his first aid kit; he seems rather accident prone for a shifter with a fondness for decorative plasters.
Apparently MacTavish compounds wolf friendly herbal medicines for them. When she stops in the break room to compliment the medic on his excellent shortbread (he often brings in baked goods, some which he prepares himself), and to grab a second piece, she finds Lieutenant Riley simply looming over the plate devouring the final pieces with great satisfaction. He is here to pick up a new supply of the special ointment Sergeant MacTavish prepares for his scars.
MacTavish cheerfully scolds him for hogging all the shortbread and drags him into an exam cubicle, she hovers silently at the computer station doing ‘inventory’ and covertly watches as the big wolf calmly seats himself on the exam table and peels his balaclava off to reveal some nasty scars, the most gruesome an infamous full Glasgow ‘smile’ carved in both cheeks. She quickly turns away to hide her revulsion. Why has he not had plastic surgery to remove the gruesome scars?
MacTavish applies a thick, herbal ointment to the huge man’s scars, gently massaging it into his skin, as he chats, apparently something about several of the new recruits who seem particularly accident prone. Caroline shares an audible snort with Riley at MacTavish’s innocent assumption. One of the first things the nurses warned her about was that most of the recruits had crushes on the handsome, young medic and dropped by with various injuries in hopes that he would be the one to attend them. Every group of new recruits that cycled through brought a new wave of drop-ins with minor accidents. The Head Nurse usually managed to sort them out and move them on quickly.
She returns her attention to her tablet, glancing up every now and again, flushing uncomfortably at the low rumble the big man was emitting, head tilted back, face blissful as the medic massaged his face. The rumble deepens almost to a purr, when MacTavish actually begins to absently comb his fingers through his cropped hair and massage the man’s ash blond head and informs his lieutenant he needed to relax more before he gave himself a tension headache. Feeling like she is spying on an intimate moment she turns away. When she looks back, it's to meet Riley’s cold, accessing gaze over his sergeant’s broad shoulder. She feels the hair on her nape rise. MacTavish suspects nothing, she is sure of it, but this wolf is another tale. She removes herself from the area post haste.
Ghost eyes her exit with satisfaction.
Laswell’s people flagged her the moment she logged onto Johnny’s files. With only minimum effort they learned her open secret, she was witch born and actually from that hag Morag’s clan, although she was magically null herself. It could be coincidence, but Price and the pack doubted it. So Dr. Ainsley was under surveillance until further notice. That she was obviously attracted to their medic was obvious, half the people on base were, but that in itself was no indication of guilt. No, the woman was a plant, but for what they were uncertain. Maybe the witch was just keeping an eye on her prey, maybe she planned to use her relative to set a geas. Laswell has already skillfully planted an admin aide in the base infirmary whose main job at the moment was to monitor the good doctor. Time would tell.
Ghost sighed happily and leaned into Johnny’s strong hands as they finished the scalp massage and slid down to work on his tight neck muscles. He hid a smile as his boy nattered on, gossiping about his day, even as his strong, calloused hands worked out the kinks in Ghost’s neck and melted his tension away. No, no witch was ever getting their foul hands on his boy. They would have to go through him first. Him and the entire 141st, both man and wolf.
Two weeks later, under growing pressure from Morag, who was openly threatening her now, Caroline determinedly strode towards the surgical suite, determined to set the charm and be done with it. The 141st was just medevaced in with several wounded and while they were already being treated, she decided that this chaotic time would be the perfect opportunity to slip the charm into MacTavish’s pocket. She briskly pushed the doors open, tiny charm concealed in her palm and walked straight into chaos, then gave an involuntary shriek and flung her arms up to protect her face as a blood spattered, massive white, half-shifted werewolf whirled and snapped his jaws at her, bloody spittle flying. He crouched by an exam table, too large to sit on it, his muzzle was drenched in gore, fangs glistening beneath blazing ruby eyes.
MacTavish turned from where he was kneeling next to the wolf and snarled,
“Get out, ye fool, before ye lose yer damned heid!”
He held a hemostat forceps holding a shard of silver coated iron in one gloved hand, and the wolf’s massive forearm in the other, as he worked on removing the shrapnel from Ghost’s arm and shoulder. There was a sterile tray of instruments at his elbow and an emesis basin beside him already half full of bloody metal bomb fragments
Two fully shifted black wolves snarled at her and firmly herded her out of the room and Sergeant Garrick glared from across the room, where the minor flesh wound in his arm was being flushed out and disinfected by the Head nurse. Sergeant Sanderson sat, still shifted at his feet, ears flat, teeth on display. Outside in the hall, she stood shaking, fists clenched, heart pounding and face flushed with a mix of fear, anger and humiliation. She was going to report this! Before she could storm off to Major Rice’s office, a stern male voice spoke behind her and a small, hard hand grasped her firmly by the elbow, sharp nails digging in.
“Not so fast, Doctor Ainsley.”
Turning she met Captain Price’s cold eyes. Silently he held up the tiny charm in gloved fingers, which she had involuntarily dropped in the exam room. Farah Karim held her firmly. While the petite woman was still in human shape, her dark eyes were flaring gold with anger and her full lips curled, revealing sharp incisors. Stricken, Caroline stared into the wolf’s shrewd eyes, and he nodded once, confirming something to himself.
“Farah, take her to the warded interrogation cells. Alex, guard the lads until Ghost shifts back. I’m going to have a word with Major Rice, then make a few calls.”
To Caroline’s horror, they were joined by two burly MPs, who scanned her with a finder amulet for weapons both mundane and supernatural, then patted her down by hand to be certain. She was escorted across the base and deep into an isolated concrete bunker and taken down several levels to a grim, poorly lit hallway lined with heavy iron cell doors etched with containment wards. A heavy door was opened and she was escorted within and seated on a metal chair bolted into the middle of the concrete floor. To her dismay she noted the drain in the floor at her feet was covered with some suspicious rusty stains. This was clearly an interrogation cell. She was a doctor. She knew old blood when she saw and smelled it. Farah stood silent sentinel, arms crossed, at the door while the MPS took up positions outside, and all she could do was wait. She shivered, gooseflesh rising, it was cold in this cell.
It was well over an hour later before the door was shouldered open and Price entered, followed, to her horror by Ghost, fur still bloody, now fully shifted into wolf form. His lip curled in a silent snarl at the sight of her and he circled behind her. She could smell the blood on him and hear him breathing and feel the low sub vocal snarls he was emitting. She swallowed down her terror and met Price’s cold gaze, suddenly aware that this was an interrogation and anything could happen here. She could vanish into a wolf’s belly and no one would give a fig.
The burly Alpha stood, arms across his broad chest and glared down at her, a hint of red in his blue eyes.
“Dr. Ainsley, you were caught red handed so to speak, committing an act of petty treason against a member of the 141st. Her Majesty does not suffer those who practice Black castings in her realm, especially against one of her favorite Knights. Do you have anything you wish to say in defense of yourself, or shall I let Ghost get right to it?”
She would find no mercy here. Dear God, she had not known the man was under the Queen’s Protection. Caroline bit back tears and raised her chin.
“I had no choice. If I didn’t plant the charm, Morag would make sure I disappeared. Or she would have taken one of my sisters, or my mother.”
She answered dully.
It didn’t matter now. She was caught between wolves and witches and neither outcome would be to her advantage. Her military career was over and possibly her medical career as well.
He nodded thoughtfully, not unsympathetic.
“What exactly is the purpose of that charm?”
“It is meant to allow her to set a lasting geas on Sergeant MacTavish. Apparently he is quite immune to her castings. That has never happened to her before. In her mind, I think it makes him even more attractive.”
“So, other than allowing her to latch on to him, it would do no harm?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“How exactly did you manage to get assigned to our base Dr. Ainsley?”
“I have no idea, Captain. One day the orders just came through.”
She flinched at the low bass growl behind her and the hint of hot breath against her neck. That wasn’t what they wanted to hear.
“Hmm, very well. I have no choice but to remand you to the Queen’s custody. I do suggest you cooperate Dr. Ainsley, if you want to set foot out of her dungeons ever again.”
He turned to the door, and it opened to admit a middle-aged blonde woman. Her gentle face was set in a serene smile and she wore a neat, dove gray uniform skirt set with a rose scarf around her neck and a discreet badge on the breast. She nodded pleasantly at Captain Price and he nodded respectfully back, before she turned her full attention on to Caroline.
“Good afternoon, Dr. Ainsley. My name is Cordelia Channing Dee. I think you may know of me.”
Caroline felt suddenly ill. Yes, she knew the name. Every witch family in the United Kingdom knew the name of the Queen’s own Royal Witchfinder. The woman eyed her expression with satisfaction, her gray eyes twinkling, as though she found the whole situation thoroughly amusing. She probably did. Cordelia Dee was the most Adept witch in Britain and she was as loyal to the Crown and the Queen as twenty generations back her mage grandfather had been to the First Elizabeth. Her family has guarded the Royals from occult attacks for generations.
“You have been remanded into the custody of the Dames of the Realm, Dr. Ainsley. Will you cooperate?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Caroline answered meekly. She received a warm smile for her polite cooperation.
“Very good, then shall we begin?”
Two hours later, Dr. Caroline Ainsley was discreetly escorted away in a dark SUV by a quartet of gray clad Dames. It turns out that Dame Dee could make people disappear just as effectively as Morag McConnell. Caroline Ainsley would never again serve in the military or practice medicine in the United Kingdom, but because of Morag’s coercion and her cooperation she was given the opportunity to start a new life in Australia or Canada.
The latter would find herself suddenly reeling at the backlash from her destroyed charm wormed vindictively into her gut, causing her to lose some of her stolen youth. When she tried to contact her niece, she could find no trace of her. Fuming, she set herself brooding over a new plan. She had no doubt that somehow the wolf pack had discovered the clumsy fool and eliminated her. Just as well, though she had planned to use her for a Draining, which was an inconvenience. Perhaps she would just use one of the MacTavish women instead. Isla requires proof she means business. The power in their witch blood would provide an incredible boost to her own magic as well as remind them they had yet to yield her chosen consort into her hands.
17
Two weeks later the team was holed up in a tiny hamlet west of Cluj Napoca, in the foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. An old retired shifter who once took on the sabotage of Nazi supply caravans for fun, notified Laswell about a group of traffickers out of Bucharest who trafficked in very young girls, in exchange for arms. The main man was an extremist based in Bucharest. It only took a small team approximately two days to wipe the ill prepared gang out and recover valuable records listing contacts and shipment dates and most of the recently captured girls.
Now they were just hanging around waiting for exfil, delayed for another 24 hours, the girls having already been shipped home. The tiny village has shown their appreciation with quite a breakfast feast. Now the pack is just lounging around outside of their host Stefan’s house, digesting their food and half heartedly playing cards. The villagers are polite but keep their distance and Stefan apologetically explains that they are wary of contact with werewolves. During the last World War, the Nazi SS wolves nearly decimated the region. Nazi wolves were man eaters. They never ran short of rations during the war.
Ghost remains in full shift, sprawled at Johnny’s feet, enjoying the weak morning sunlight and fresh mountain air. Earlier this morning the medic went meandering and foraging along the stream bank into the woods for witchy bits and bobs to use for medicine and charms, while Ghost shadowed him discreetly, as he did a perimeter check. Now he has his pouch of odd gatherings spread out on the bench he is seated on, sorting through them, deciding which are worth keeping. He hums softly as he carefully examines each shiny pebble, bit of fossil, bone, lichen, clump of moss or seed pod before either nodding and returning it to his pouch or tsking to himself and discarding it. Head on his paws, Ghost regards him fondly, from beneath half-lidded eyes. His boy is like a crow sometimes with his shiny odds and ends.
A movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention and he notices a woman hovering nearby, eyes locked on Soap. She wears the modest clothing of the other farm wives, a floral head scarf covering her hair. Her body language is tense, and he can smell the fear from where he lies. She is clearly afraid of both of them, but seems determined to approach Soap. Finally desperation overcomes fear and she timidly approaches, work worn hands twisting her apron. She relaxes only a bit when Soap sweeps his gatherings back into his pouch and nods in polite acknowledgment.
She has no English and Soap almost no Romanian, but somehow they manage to communicate and Ghost realizes she is asking for help with something. Does she need a medic?
He realizes it’s serious when she mutters the word strigoi and his boy abruptly comes to full alert, the friendly, bemused look vanishing from his face. He asks her a question in his broken Romanian and she answers in the affirmative, clearly relieved that he understands her. Soap nods and stands, all business.
“LT, ah need your backup.”
He’s dead serious, tone crisp as they both follow the lady down the dirt road that passes as the mountain village’s Main Street. Alé and Rudy, also shifted, fall in at their heels. Price and Gaz are off at the radio shack at the field they will use for exfil, arranging pickup. They arrive at a tiny, neat cottage on the outskirts of the village and the woman ushers them inside, hope on her thin, weathered face. Ghost notices there are bunches of fresh garlic bulbs wound with wild rose brambles hung above the door. Inside they find an older lady, clutching a rosary sitting beside a cot holding a sick child near the brick stove, and she stares at them nervously, clutching her beads, but says nothing. The kid looks about six or eight years old and is pale and listless as Soap goes instantly into medic mode and examines him, hauling out his stethoscope from his medical kit. Finally, he pulls back the collar of the kid’s nightshirt and hisses out a curse. Ghost sniffs and peers closer. There are twin puncture wounds in the child’s throat.
“Aye, looks like Anca has a bit o’ a parasite problem, preying on her wean. LT. Can ye pick up the scent enough to track it?”
Ghost picks up the spoor instantly. The thing smells of dirt, mold and rotten blood. The others sniff as well, to catch the scent. Soap says something to the mother, Anca, and she answers quickly, eyes bright with hope. Soap tilts the kid’s head back and pours something from a small bottle down its throat. The medicine smells sweet, lemony and sharp green. He hands the bottle to the grandmother and indicates with signs and a few words, how often to administer the medicine. She takes it with a hopeful smile. He also adds something to the mother and she nods eagerly. Aftercare instructions, then.
Soap stands, and nods at Ghost, rubbing has palms briskly together.
“Time to track down a strigoi, LT!”
Ghost puts his head down and gets to work. Its not every day they track down a vampire. It’s not difficult, the thing reeks and the scent is fresh. Of the several types of vampire, this one is the most common. It clearly visited the house last night to prey on the child. Soap pauses long enough to grab a big bundle of the fresh garlic bulbs and pick up the heavy axe leaning against the chopping block near the woodshed and they are off. Anca hurries after them and other villagers take note and quickly join in. Ghost notices the men are all carrying sharp farm implements like scythes or pitchforks. (There is a good reason Supernatural beings are wary of rural communities.) No doubt torches will make an appearance sooner than later.
They trail the thing to an old cemetery deep in the woods. The path is almost entirely overgrown. The church clearly burned down decades ago and only the overgrown and neglected, forgotten graves remain in the clearing. Most of the old, rusty wrought iron fence has fallen down. The scent trail leads directly to an old stone crypt half buried in ivy. The villagers stand well back and watch, muttering among themselves as Soap and the wolves work. The wolves circle the crypt and sniff intently as they determine the grave indeed holds their prey.
Soap regards the heavy granite lid narrowly and circles the grave, examining it from all angles, before dropping the axe and garlic. Finally he strides over to the demolished fence and picks up two of the long, slender, rusty iron rails topped by decorative finials in the shape of a fleur-de-lis.
“Ye will need hands for this bit o’ work mates, under no circumstances do ye use yer teeth on this thing, ye ken?”
Ghost rumbles an affirmative and stands and seamlessly stretches into a half shift, and Alé and Rudy follow suit. Ghost hears the villagers exclaim in amazement and no little fear. At Soap’s signal he hooks his claws under the heavy stone lid and easily slides it aside. The stench increases and both Soap and the wolves wrinkle their noses in revulsion. The gaunt, white thing curled among old bones in a fetal position inside the sarcophagus, has made a nest of tattered winding sheets, dry bones and old grave clothes, now spattered with dried blood. It hisses as the sunshine touches its pale, hairless skin and tries feebly to burrow deeper within its stinking nest.
Soap tosses one of the iron rods to Ghost and the other to Alé and they waste no time spearing the thing and impaling it on the iron and hooking it up and out of the stone sarcophagus. The villagers shout in fear, and some begin to mutter prayers. It twists like a pale, hooked worm as it shrieks and flails and lashes out with clawed hands. It hisses, snaps and snarls at them, all ink black eyes and mouth full of needle sharp teeth, but its too weak under the sun to fight back. It’s skin is even smoking slightly.
Ghost and Alé work the iron shafts ruthlessly and pin it to the ground, spearing the heart, while Soap steps up and wields the axe , chopping the thing’s snapping, snarling head off with one expert blow. Black blood spurts sluggishly. It still writhes long minutes after it dies, the jaws of the head snapping, like those of a decapitated snake and Soap frowns thoughtfully down at the pale corpse before turning to the villagers with a request, aided by signs. The corpse is withering before their eyes, the flesh turning to dust, the bones disintegrating. They understand immediately and quickly start building a pyre of dead wood and fallen branches. One enterprising individual trots off down the track and returns shortly with a can of gasoline. They want this thing gone.
The wolves throw the rapidly decaying corpse and still snapping head on the pyre, Soap drops a bit pinched off his emergency block of ‘serious putty’ into the fanged jaws of the skull and they pour the gasoline on and light it up, standing well back. The stench is horrific but it burns a treat, the fire eating eagerly into the now dry bones and the skull shatters with a very satisfying pyrotechnic pop and flare of white flame, which pleases the onlooking villagers immensely, who clap and cheer. Once the flames die down, Soap examines the ashes with a frown, then uses a borrowed shovel to pound and crush the remaining bones and carefully scoop the remains back into the fetid grave.
There is little more than ashes, teeth and bone fragments left, but he covers them with a healthy sprinkling of salt, blessed oil and the garlic bulbs and mutters a cantrip as he lays the iron rods across the remains to insure the thing never rises again. (Ghost notes that he carefully pockets two needle sharp fangs after wrapping them in a bit of leather with a muttered charm.) It may be overkill, but if so, the process is reassuring if nothing else. Then he respectfully stands back and allows the elderly village priest to pray over the grave, before Ghost slides the heavy stone lid closed again. As they leave, they note the villagers are industriously building a cage over the crypt with parts of the broken iron fence. This strigoi will never rise again to torment the living, but the villagers are taking no chances.
Later, Soap will sit down with the priest and the village elders and teach them how to recognize and deal with night walkers like the strigoi and how to ward them off and kill them. The trick with vampires is to dig them out of their nests in the full daylight, because at night they are impossibly strong and fast, and the old ones can shift and use the mist and shadows to escape and they fear nothing but the light of the sun and fire.
The party thrown that evening casts the breakfast feast in the shade. They returned to find Anca’s little son already sitting up in bed, vitality rapidly returning after the slaughter of the parasite leeching off his blood and spirit. Soap further endears himself to the women by warding the little house. He paints protective sigils above the doors and windows and painstakingly teaches the women how and when to renew them, and leaves them a bottle of blessed oil to retrace them with. Nothing short of a mountain troll will be able to pass those wards, Ghost is sure of it. He felt them when they snapped up, protecting the little house and its inhabitants.
The whole village turns out and a procession of plump grandmothers serve the team platters of delicious food. Now shifted and dressed, the wolves thank them politely as they happily stuff their faces with sarmale, mămăligă, and mici, as well as an entire roasted sheep. Ghost notes with amusement that Soap has his journal out and is carefully taking down the recipe for the delicious drob de miel, a type of lamb haggis, usually a special Easter dish, that Anca’s mother cooked especially for him. The old lady is beaming fondly at the young witch, all fear gone, and Ghost isn’t surprised when his boy gets a fond cheek pinch when he thanks her happily. Soap is already rosy cheeked and a bit tipsy from all the glasses of tuică, or homemade plum brandy he has consumed, pressed upon him by the grateful villagers.
The next morning, the wolves stumble squinting onto the plane for exfil, and immediately curl up to nap, eyes hidden behind dark glasses and Price snorts with amusement when a half asleep Soap staggers up, eyes narrow slits, and flops down in Simon’s lap and immediately falls back asleep. Ghost simply rearranges him comfortably and dozes off himself, chin resting on a dark, tousled head. The party lasted until the plum brandy ran out, well into dawn and their human boy will regret that later when his hangover sets in. Even the wolves were affected by the potent brandy. However, they left an entire village with a revised, favorable opinion on werewolves. The people turned out en masse to see them off at the field they set the plane down in. Soap has his pack stuffed with sweet bread and other delicacies that the village grannies pressed into his hands. Ghost has no doubt they would have kept him if they could.
****
Simon was walking across the base listening to Gaz’s verbal report about the growing insubordination problem with one of the new marines when he felt the sheer grief and pain ripple through the pack bond. Johnny! He sprinted for the pack barracks, suddenly sharply aware of every wolf on base arrowing in to join them, some already shifted. They burst into the pack barracks, nearly bowling Price over, who was doing the same. They found their medic slumped on the floor in his small infirmary. His cell phone was clutched on one hand and his face buried in the other as he wept unashamedly.
“Johnny!” Simon knelt, and scooped him close as he cried.
The young Scot looked up, face anguished.
“Ma Da, LT. She killed Da! Mam killed Da!”
Simon wrapped him in his arms as he buried his hot, wet face in the wolf’s big shoulder and cried, unashamed in his honest grief. The others gathered around, each wanting to touch and comfort their beloved pup. Roach yodeled out a small grieving howl in sympathy before he could control himself. They stayed close, reaching out to stroke and touch and comfort their boy until he could compose himself and speak.
His grandmother called, something she never did, for his own protection. Apparently Soap’s mother had lost all control of her magic in a fit of rage and killed his father. While the elder MacTavish had lingered in a coma-like state for almost a month before passing. His grandmother had unwittingly been away in the misty isles teaching herbcraft to a group of young healers and only learned of her son’s misfortune after returning to find him laid out in a casket. Isla had tried to deny it, but the state of John senior’s body had shown that he was so heavily drained before he died, that he could not recover. It was a painful, lingering death.
Irene MacCleod was furious and called for a Clan Tribunal for justice over her son’s murder and she formally asked John to attend and he could not say no. It was dangerous for him to venture so deep into the clan lands, but for the sake of his beloved grandmother and to stand up for justice for his father he would. Price gently cupped the back of his neck and spoke firmly.
“You are not going alone, son.”
Still cradled in Ghost’s big arms a dismayed Soap shook his head violently in denial, blue eyes wide.
“Nae, Cap! None of ye can come with me, werewolves are like forbidden fruit to those bitches! No way would they leave ye unmolested, and on clan land, ye would have little defense, especially against multiple castings. Ye would all end up beguiled and enslaved as familiars. We cannae risk it. Ah can go alone.”
He wiped at his wet eyes, trying to regain his composure, and manfully resisting the urge to just bury himself in Simon’s protective warmth and just disassociate for a while. Yet he felt his tears well again. His Da, his sweet, stoic good-natured father was forever gone from him and he hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye. He should never have fled and left him alone with those entitled bitches. He should have stayed to aid Gran in her efforts to protect him. He bit his lip hard enough to bring blood, only to have Ghost gently thumb it free and pull him close, so he could hide his face in the big wolf’s throat and cry it out. He felt Price gently stroke his hair.
“You are one of us, lad. Ghost, Alejandro and Rudy will accompany you as official representatives of 141st Pack. We have ways to ward ourselves against witches your people know nothing of. No way in hell are you walking into that evil cunt’s trap, and trap she will set. Everything will be alright and you can bid your father a proper farewell, then come safe home again.”
The Alpha stood and nodded curtly to his SIC.
“Ghost, take the lad back to his quarters. See that he eats something and rests. I have a few phone calls to make and will notify you when it's wheels up time. Gaz, Roach, go to mess and grab some decent food for Soap. Alejandro, Rudy, gear up, and bruja proof it all, the way we spoke about. Your roles are full shift backup and bodyguards to John and Simon.”
“Sì, Alpha!”
The pack scattered, instantly obeying their Captain and Alpha and Ghost gathered up his grief stricken sergeant and led him back to their quarters. Soap had gone silent, and he curled up on his bunk and finally drifted off into a fitful doze. Simon sat sentinel beside his sad pup, gently rubbing his back and fuming and thinking of creative ways he could rip Isla MacTavish into a thousand tiny pieces. Once he was certain Soap was asleep, he slipped away to confer with Price and strategize with Alé and Rudy.
Price has been busy. He not only called in to report to the High Alpha, he reported to the Dames as well. Ghost was surprised and pleased to find that they would have additional security meeting them at the Tribunal. He was determined to keep Johnny safe. There was one way he could guarantee it, but he hesitated to even ask his sergeant. It was too soon to speak of mating bites, when they had yet to speak of a possible future together.
The next day was a fraught one. The Scottish weather was vindictive and the helo set them down on the shore at the edge of an obscure fishing village in northwestern Scotland, where they were to take a private ferry into the misty isles to where the tribunal was being held. Ghost was in his black dress Number 1 uniform, complete with beret and chest candy, which hid the protective wolf runes and sigils painted on his skin, while Alejandro and Rudy were fully shifted and wore armored harnesses proudly indicating their SAS TF141st status. The leather straps also hid the extra tracking amulets sewn on. Price was taking no chances on losing any of his wolves. He was taking overwatch with Laswell as well, determined that his boys would not disappear in the misty isles, like many others had. The powerful tracker amulets they wore would safeguard that. He would rain hellfire down and bring in the packs and the Queen’s justice as well if necessary.
Soap was dressed in his formal Black Watch battalion uniform, complete with kilt and long fly plaid over his shoulder and polished black combat boots and beret. On his breast he wore all of his chest candy, including his Victoria Cross, a clan brooch and the red and gold Knights Bachelor medal awarded to him by the Queen herself when she presented him with the Victoria Cross. It was an open declaration that he was under Her Majesty’s Protection. He has been very quiet and subdued, still grieving the loss of his beloved father, his handsome face sober, blue eyes red-rimmed and shadowed.
They were met at the docks by a silent ferryman wearing the MacTavish plaid, who nodded solemnly at Soap, but said nothing, probably under a geas of silence. The boat was small and wooden, and they motored quietly out into a mist that drifted over them almost immediately. It was quite clearly magical and it made the wolves uneasy, but Soap stayed quiet so they took their cues from him. Still they all felt a shiver pass over their skin as the boat apparently passed through an invisible boundary of some kind before the mist suddenly lifted and suddenly they were docking at a very old stone and log landing dock engraved with both Celtic and Norse sigils.
They were met with more silent men in MacTavish plaid and one tiny, wiry, snow haired grandmother in MacLeod tartan. Soap rushed to embrace her, lifting her off her feet in a loving embrace. She hugged him back just as tightly and murmured gaelic endearments in his ear, kissing his cheeks, little wrinkled hands gently patting his face as he carefully set her back on her feet. It’s been over a decade since they saw each other. So, this was Soap’s beloved granny. The woman the 141st Pack already owed a life debt for preserving, raising and cherishing their medic.
When the tiny woman turned those deep blue eyes towards him, Simon saw at once where Soap got his blue eyes and dark coloring, as well as his looks. From her bone structure she must have been exquisitely lovely in her youth. Her granddaughter, Fiona, has only a snippet of her dark beauty. Her cobalt eyes were as clear and piercing as her grandson’s. She tilted her head and swept him with a gaze from head to toe, then turned to do the same to Alejandro and Rodolfo, who sat straight up at attention, under that thoughtful gaze. Simon felt rather like a gangly pup who had just been presented to a High Alpha. Her nod of approval had his wolf mentally fawning and wagging his tail with relief. She murmured something to Johnny in Gaelic that made the man blush scarlet, before turning back and holding out her hand for him to shake, which he did so carefully.
“Ye be ma John’s wolves, aye? His familiar spirits?”
“Gran, nae! Simon is ma superior and lieutenant…”
“Yes, ma’am and he is ours.”
Simon answered simply, understanding her actual meaning, and was charmed by the sweet, dimpled smile she turned on them. This was the direct source of their boy’s sunny personality, he was certain. She nodded decisively, then spoke seriously to them.
“This is supposed to be neutral ground for the Tribunal and all should be able to walk safe here, but there are those who have no shame and will try to beguile ye. Ye lads shine bright as the sun, and many covet that virile energy, so ye must be wary. Accept no gifts, allow no touch and do not speak to any who would speak with ye. Ye ken what ah am saying my lads?”
“Yes, ma’am!”
“Good. Ah will speak for ye, until it is time for ye to make yer declaration, aye?”
Simon nodded again. If he trusted any witch other than his boy, it was this tiny, somehow formidable woman before him. There was power here, held in one petite crone. She nodded, pleased and turned stern eyes on her grandson.
“My braveheart, I know ye want to speak up for yer Da, but ye must allow me and those who are standing for ye to speak instead today. Ye all must hold yer tongues. That way they cannae touch ye or lay geas upon ye. It is courageous enough that ye dare to stand unarmed in this territory and stand up for me. Ye ken?”
“Aye, gran. We ken.”
Pleased at their ready obedience. She reached into a fold of her plaid and removed four sprigs of red berries and greenery, which she proceeded to fasten like badges—one to Johnny’s plaid, right above his medic sigil, pinning it carefully with an old silver brooch with a snarling cat engraved on it, one pinned on Simon’s breast above his heart and the others neatly fastened to Alé’s and Rudy’s harnesses. They all immediately felt the warm rippling, honey-like embrace of a very powerful protection talisman enfold them. Simon got the distinct impression that Irene Macleod was much more powerful than her grandson realized. He inhaled discreetly and nearly reeled at the deep earthy, bitter green herbal scent of her magic. Her magic smelled like Spring, like green growing things coming to life.
Yes, Soap’s Gran was much more powerful then she appeared. That appearance was camouflage, he realized. Camouflage for a lone, elderly woman who chose to live among the malevolent clan who had taken her son and protected him as best she could. Her failure must grieve her deeply. Irene stepped back and her grandson squared his shoulders and formally extended his arm, she took it and they paced up the worn path, Ghost looming protectively at their backs, with Alejandro and Rudolfo pacing shoulder to shoulder behind him. Johnny’s shoulders were square, his head high as he escorted his grandmother and Simon felt a great rush of affection. Braveheart his grandmother had called him, and he was, through and through, brave of heart and Ghost was proud to stand with him.
They walked up a gentle slope and Ghost was curious to note that it was already green with new spring grass, the sun warm and the air fresh from the sea. This too was high witchery because it was barely February and the northern Scottish islands were not known for pleasant weather. As they topped the rise they saw a circle of ancient standing stones in a meadow below surrounding a smooth flat slab of ancient granite, like an altar or a pyre. Three cloaked older women and a middle-aged redhead in MacTavish tartan stood waiting by the stone.
A group of clanswomen stood before each of the surrounding stones and Ghost noted that each group wore separate clan badges and plaids. There were few men with the women and those present stood eerily still, and silent at the back of each group. All beguiled, it seemed. As Johnny and his grandmother entered the circle, that same witchy mist rose and encircled the perimeter of the circle. Tribunals were not for prying eyes.
As they approached there was an appreciative murmur among the women and Ghost wasn’t surprised to catch Morag’s reek of lusty musk and poisonous, bitter herbs from where she stood among her clan. She looked like a woman in her early twenties now, a radiant dark beauty. Ghost set his jaw so as not to snarl a warning at her, as she stared hungrily at his boy. Johnny ignored her, not even deigning to turn his head towards her, and he saw that angered the hag, her face flushing rosy with rage, her fists clenched. She has deliberately set out to catch his eye and failed miserably.
Ghost quickly scanned the clanswomen, taking note of numbers–twelve stones, twelve clans represented with at least six people— and positions and noting that Fiona was there, as was Iona and several other MacTavish women. Soap’s other sisters were probably present as well. If so, neither resembled their brother. Most of the MacTavish women were fair skinned redheads or blonde. Johnny and his grandmother were olive skinned and sable haired. Presumably, his father had been as well.
John and his grandmother stopped before the altar stone, and he took a respectful step back from her as she faced Isla MacTavish coldly down, and stood at parade rest, head up, hands folded behind his back. Simon took his place at his shoulder, arms folded across his broad chest, and the Los Vaqueros wolves sat guarding their backs. As they waited, he heard soft murmurs and felt the air shift and sigh around him, like caressing fingers. Out of the corner of his eye he could see several of the women’s lips were moving and some made subtle gestures.
With disgust he realized they were casting, trying to lay a geas on them. It wasn’t working, just causing an uncomfortable pins and needles sensation over any exposed skin. Behind him he heard Rudy chuff irritably and Alé sneeze. They felt it too. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Johnny’s lip curl in contempt, but he remained stoically silent, cold blue gaze on his mother’s pale face.
One of the older women stepped forward, reluctantly, it seemed, gathering her hooded cloak around her. It was no small thing to arbitrate and judge at a tribunal. Witch clan against witch clan was serious business. The other two seemed content for her to speak.
“This Tribunal is called by Irene MacLeod against Isla MacTavish for Dark Casting and the crime of murder against her lawful husband, John MacTavish, only son of Irene. Who speaks for you, Isla? Irene?”
Iona MacTavish, spoke up first. She glared across the clearing, red scars livid on her pale, gaunt face. Detox was not helping her looks at all.
“I, Iona MacTavish, blood sister speak for Isla MacTavish”
Morag spoke next, her contralto voice clear and sweet as golden bells.
“I, Morag McConnell, cousin, speak for Isla MacTavish.”
She tried to catch Johnny’s eye, but he stared steadily at his mother, expressionless.
“I, Duncan MacLeod of Clan MacLeod speak for Irene MacLeod”
A handsome, dark haired man with olive skin, and his long hair clasped back in a thick tail, strode silently out of the mist, his voice a deep, cultured rumble. It was an impressive entrance. Neither Simon or the other wolves sensed him coming and he noted he wore an old-fashioned MacLeod tartan and more interestingly, a huge claymore sheathed over his shoulder. A sword that Simon knew instantly was well used. A champion then. Several of the watching clanswomen muttered among themselves, faces suddenly grim and several of the men looked up, hope flaring in their eyes. Ghost heard a woman whisper ‘the MacLeod’, her tone awed and more than a bit fearful and he felt his ears perk up, but she said nothing more.
“I, Adam MacPherson of Clan Chattan speak for Irene McCleod.”
A tall, lanky man with wicked eyes and an elegant roman nose strolled out of the mist to join MacCleod, a genial smile on his face, hands in his pockets. He was clad in a bulky gray fisherman’s sweater and jeans with a simple black wool coat over them, but Ghost saw from the way he moved that he carried a hidden sword as well. While he appeared youthful, his eyes were ancient. Interesting. Especially when Morag McConnell’s face turned white as a sheet and she took an involuntary cringing step back at the sight of him, half concealing herself behind the woman next to her. She suddenly reeked of fear.
“I, Cordelia Channing Dee of Clan Stewart on command from Her Majesty the Queen, Elizabeth the Steadfast, speak for John MacTavish.”
Cordelia stepped quietly out of the mist to join them. She still wore her simple gray uniform, but now she also wore a red and black patterned tartan sash across her torso holding several beribboned medals bearing the Queen’s face and symbols of office, and she carried a tall oak staff sporting a golden globe and crown as a finial. She smiled pleasantly when several clanswomen hissed in displeasure and more than a little fear. The Witchfinder was here and she held office over all of the United Kingdom, including the suddenly not so hidden misty isles as the mist abruptly swirled and vanished and sunshine washed over the meadow in a curtain of light.
Irene glanced back at him and he took his cue and spoke,
“I Simon Riley, Lord Wylde, Alpha of Wyldecroft, Knight Protector of Her Majesty’s Realm, Lieutenant of SAS International task force 141, speak for my pack member, and second Sergeant John MacTavish.”
It was a rumbling verbal claim and the first time he ever used his family title and it felt right to do so now. It sounded rather impressive and from the surprised mutters of the surrounding witches they thought so too. Most of them were becoming increasingly uneasy by the minute. This tribunal was apparently not going as they had anticipated.
One of the white haired matriarchs nodded, she was a bit wide-eyed, but kept her composure.
“I greet the taoiseach of Clan MacLeod, Clan MacPherson and Clan Stewart and Alpha Wylde. Isla, where is your clan Matriarch? She should be here to stand for you.”
Isla raised her head, she looked more than a bit ill.
“Our Matriarch has passed and no other has yet been chosen to replace her. ” She answered quietly, shamefully.
The woman, apparently a priestess or judge, perhaps both, raised a critical brow.
“None chosen? Has Eleanor not lain in her grave more than a month? How can that be?”
Isla hastily raised her head, her voice quivered a bit.
“Angus has not chosen.”
Simon tilted his head, curious at the mention of the mysterious Angus. Presumably the same Angus Fiona had sworn a blood oath on.
The Priestess frowned again. This time there was a hint of steel in her tone.
“Why has your clan's Familiar spirit not chosen your new matriarch? Did you not call upon him to do so?”
Isla’s face was scarlet now and she dropped her eyes shamefully.
“We did. He did not answer.”
There was a shocked silence from the entire clearing. The clanswomen all suddenly giving the MacTavish clan the side eye. A clan without a Familiar spirit was a clan without power. Simon noted the men among the MacTavish clan were suddenly more alert, hope blooming on their faces.
“If I may speak?” Adam MacPherson purred, eyes sparkling wickedly.
The Priestess nodded respectfully.
“Perhaps the wrong person called. I suggest they try again. Now.”
The Priestess nodded, clearly pleased with the suggestion, if it gave an advantage to a clan. She beckoned to the MacTavish women.
“Isla, you begin.”
Isla did, she called Angus’ name in a clear, commanding if a bit shaky voice. She tried three times. Then Iona. Then one by one, the other women of the clan. Nothing happened and Adam grinned sharply, the wolfish expression causing Simon to sniff cautiously, the man smelled odd, like lightning and ozone, but human.
“I think the wrong person is calling.” He turned and spoke genially to Johnny.
“John Laith, give it a go.”
“He cannot! He is a man!” Isla cried, looking scandalized.
MacPherson just grinned at her.
“He can. There is no clan law that says he cannot.”
He nodded to Johnny pleasantly and assumed a casual waiting attitude, hands back in his pockets, chin up, as he eyed a hovering raven riding the wind currents thoughtfully. Beside him, stoic Duncan McCleod was clearly biting his lip to keep from laughing. Intrigued now, Ghost turned to watch his boy. His suddenly bright-eyed boy, who shot his mother a sharp, vicious smile before calling once in a clear, strident tone.
“Angus, will ye come?”
Immediately there was a loud, raspy long drawn yowl from the top of the hill and they all watched as a large boned, stocky, gray tomcat with black stripes and green eyes came strolling down, tail held high as he made a rapid beeline for Johnny. This was the mysterious Angus? A rather nondescript moggie? Ghost stared and inhaled and nearly reeled at the rich scent of petrichor, tomcat musk and green apples—of Other, filled his senses. This was no ordinary cat. He looked at the MacTavish women, who were all, to a woman, suddenly pale and horrified. The men on the other hand were smiling broadly.
With a bright laugh, Johnny stepped out to meet him and held his arms out as the sturdy cat launched himself hard up into them, purring loudly enough to rival a motorboat. The cat stroped his broad cheeks against Johnny’s, and bumped his wide forehead against his, while John laughed with delight and hugged him close. Clearly, they were old friends. Ghost could have sworn the cat winked at him over Johnny’s shoulder. As he watched, Isla stepped forward and tried to snatch the cat out of her son’s arms.
“No! Ye shall not…”
She screeched and reeled back, clutching her bloody wrist to her breast as the blood spurted from the wicked slash of the cat’s razor sharp claws, and Angus, ears flat, hissed and snarled in her shocked face. Clearly, he has chosen and it is not Isla or any of the other MacTavish women.
As Ghost watched with interest, Johnny stilled, eyes suddenly wide with a private realization, then kissed the top of the cat’s head and whispered two words in his battle notched ear, so low only wolf hearing caught it.
“Be free.”
Thunder rumbled and the sky cracked open and the air seemed to shift and suddenly a laughing man, stocky, but lithe with rippling muscle, with wild, fluffy ash gray hair brindled with black, elegantly pointed, if notched ears stood barefoot in the circle of Johnny’s arms. He wore a coarsely woven, tattered patchwork wool tunic, leather leggings and a hooded half cloak of various colored catskins. His slanted, leaf green eyes twinkled with delight. He wrapped Johnny in his arms and easily hoisted him off the ground and twirled him around. This time, Ghost heard the awed exclamations of “Cat Sith!” and watched as several of the wiser clanswomen abruptly turned and bolted, leaving all dignity behind, wisely fleeing the sacred ground because this was not a Familiar spirit leashed to service, this was a powerful Fae who had just been freed after hundreds of years of enslavement. Best to be elsewhere when the shite hit the fan, as it inevitably would.
The laughing Fae gently set Johnny on his feet and bussed his cheek once more, lingering to whisper something in his ear that had the young man blushing scarlet, as he affectionately rubbed his cheeks with his own. Simon scowled when the Fae tipped John’s chin up and smacked a kiss on his mouth, shooting a cheeky grin at Simon over his shoulder. He clasped the young man’s nape with a gentle hand.
“It will be well, ma wean, ma piseag, ma lion. Now take ye paca and go home. Ah have many wrongs to right today, mo leanabh, that ye tender heart need not witness. Trust me, we will see each other again, one day.”
The Fae’s voice was a rich, hissing, purring rumble , with an archaic accent.
He turned to Simon and nodded curtly,
“Take him safe away, Wolf and treat him well all his life, or I will feast on your heart, ye ken?”
The Cat Sith flashed white teeth in a sharp, feral grin and Simon returned it in kind. That seemed to please the Fae because he clapped his hands briskly together and turned to face the remaining clanswomen, bared his teeth at Isla and gently took Irene’s hand in his and kissed and gallantly bowed over it, an echo of courtly manners from a distant age.
“Will ye trust me to right this wrong, my lady?”
“Aye, ah do, Angus. But ah will stay if it pleases you and see it done.”
“Ah, sweet lass, a brawe woman after ma own fickle heart. Stay and witness, ma dove.”
He turned and smiled winningly at the Witchfinder.
“My grievance for nigh six hundred years enslavement by Clan MacTavish takes precedence here, my lady. Would ye agree?”
Cordelia inclined her head courteously and gave him an actual formal curtesy, as she would to royalty.
“ Agreed, Sir. I shall not interfere, merely observe as Her Majesty’s witness.”
Her tone was sweet but firm and he grinned in delight, sharp fangs flashing, and slapped a hand over his heart.
“Such fierce lads and lasses in this century! Ah am going to enjoy this strange and wondrous era!”
He turned his attention to Duncan and Adam. Both men inclined their heads, sword hands over their hearts and bowed courteously in perfect synchronization with deep respect, and Ghost again felt as though he was catching a glimpse into the past. Far back in history these very men have bowed and doffed plumed hats to long dead kings and queens.
“Two brae Immortal sons beheld in one day! Tsk, truly ma luck is good, ma get and blood is strong, ma mic, ma bonny lads!”
He kissed his fingertips at them, hissed at the whey faced Priestess, then coolly ignored her, finally turning his full attention on the MacTavish women, Isla was cowering white-faced by the stone before him, clutching her still bleeding wrist. Angus had slashed open an artery. He flashed one more look over his shoulder at Ghost and jerked his head. Go. He grinned at Isla and lazily lifted his hand to lick her blood off his sharp nails with a long, coarse tongue. Feline eyes suddenly still, locked on his prey. Ghost could almost picture a lashing tail.
Ghost did, grasping Johnny’s hand to gently tug him away. There was no need for him to witness the carnage that was about to occur. Johnny dug in his heels, resisting. It went against his warrior spirit to walk away from a fight.
“Gran?” He asked uncertainly, clearly reluctant to leave her behind in danger.
“Go, mo chridhe. All will be well, Duncan and Adam stand for me. I will call ye with the news after.”
She gave him a serene smile and reached into the folds of her plaid and removed a wickedly sharp, half moon hand scythe and advanced on the MacTavish women. Fiona tried to run, eyes bulging when she realized she could not move. The very earth held the MacTavish women fast for Irene’s stern judgment.
Ghost tugged him away, having to manhandle the reluctant Scot a bit. Johnny fought him the whole way. As they crossed the crest of the hill, they looked back and caught a glimpse of a melee of fleeing witches, dazed, weeping men suddenly freed from years of Beguilement and Morag sprinting for the trees, a long legged Adam MacPherson trotting easily after her with a feral grin and a short sword in hand. Apparently they had history.
They were on the boat when the screams began, and Johnny turned back. Ghost firmly wrapped his big arms around his boy to keep him close. This time the ferryman was smiling and he spoke to Johnny earnestly in Gaelic and whatever he said, caused him to subside. There were black clouds and the rumble of thunder roiling over the island now, and then the screams were nearly drowned out by a booming bass roar deeper and louder than any tiger could make. The unleashed Cat Sith was hunting. The sound rolled over the island rivaling the thunder. It made their guts clench and the hair on their napes stand up in pure instinctual fear, their primal selves recognizing the presence of a predator they could not survive against.
Soap was stiff and unhappy for most of the boat ride back to the docks, the weather had changed again and the waves were choppy as a cold wind blew in, but finally relaxed enough to lean against Simon for warmth and comfort. He was trembling a bit from the adrenaline drop. Simon gently tucked his head under his chin, wrapped his arms around him and rumbled softly, trying his best to soothe him. Alé and Rudy huddled close on both sides as well. He knew his lad hated missing the fight behind them, but he suspected there were lawful reasons that Irene wanted to distance her grandson from the conflict. For one, this way the clans could not claim a personal feud against him because he did not lift a hand to partake in either Irene’s or the Cat Sith’s vengeance.
Price was waiting for them at the docks. Nic and the helo waiting behind him. A team of Dames waited near a discreet SUV for Dame Dee to return. The burly Alpha’s eyes were fierce with satisfaction and Simon wondered just how much he knew about what would happen at the tribunal today. They bundled their unhappy pup into the helo and took him home.
18
They returned to base to be joyfully greeted by the rest of the pack and a subdued Johnny went to change out of his formal uniform while Ghost reported to Price, ears only. No mention would be made of the unleashed Fae in the bare bones written report. Shepard has demonstrated too easily how they can be compromised. Price was pleased that the Dame had shown up to stand up for Soap. The Alpha was one of the few who knew exactly how fond the Queen was of the young sergeant. Of course she had sent Dame Dee to witness for him.
When Soap knocked on the door, he helped round out the report. His grandmother married into clan McCleod, but Irene was born in Clan Chattan, who were direct descendants of Angus. She had been working quietly for years to try and find a way to free the Fae from the enchantment laid upon him centuries ago by a canny MacTavish witch, knowing it would break the casting on her son as well. Trapped in cat form and his feline nature dominating his mind, he could not speak to aid himself and generations of MacTavish women kept him drained of most of his power for years. He befriended a little boy one day hiding in the barn to avoid his sisters and protected him in cat form as best he could, providing loving companionship without his mother or aunts’ knowledge. The ancient Fae and the lonely little boy took comfort in each other, companionship and love being their main form of communication.
Bound by an oath to the MacTavish clan, the only wriggle room he had for long generations was the geas granted ability to choose each new matriarch and manipulate the head of the clan as best he could in feline form. He had gambled for his freedom with each choice, coming closest to freedom with Eleanor, who in the end chose power for the clan over his freedom. Finally, frustrated, after her death from old age, he decided to see what would happen if he delayed choosing. Instead of immediately answering the call for selection as he had previously, he remained hidden, gambling on the hope that enough centuries had passed that the spell to command him forth was forgotten, and lurked and waited, hoping for an opportunity to snatch his freedom. His other descendant, the ancient, canny Immortal Adam had given him the idea to choose a male descendant instead to lead the clan, and when he saw his beloved kitten John Laith, now grown and coming into his slowly rekindling power, he knew his long imprisonment was coming to an end.
Soap was his beloved descendant, his favored kitten, and in him Angus had managed to deposit a spark of luck and magic that kept the boy alive from birth and sputtered and grew stronger with time. It would probably continue to grow as long as he lived, because Angus loved the boy fiercely and would continue favoring him. A few hours later Soap received the awaited call from his grandmother, and he relaxed with a sigh as she spoke, assuring him she was well and updated him. Angus had shown little mercy. The surviving MacTavish women were stripped of their malignant magic. Isla and Iona, being the worst offenders of their generation, were dead. Of his sisters only Fiona survived. Morag had drained Brianna days earlier and the other, Davida, perished at the hand of the latest man she had beguiled. Apparently she had taken him away from a beloved wife and child. Many of the freed men turned on their captors, especially the werewolves. Due to Angus, there were no more beguiled captives in the clan lands, nor would there be again. The Fae had ripped that magical ability out of the clans at the roots.
Angus thoroughly unraveled all dark enchantments on the entire island that day, no matter what clan. Some of those women lost their magic as well and were already contacting Irene and begging for a mercy she could not grant. Angus, finally free, took his vengeance throughout the misty isles on all who had offended him over the long years and was in the wind. No one knew where he was. Perhaps he returned to the Underhill, perhaps he decided to stretch his legs and travel and revel in his freedom. Anyway, Soap was now free to visit the MacTavish homestead and his father’s grave. No witch in the clan lands would dare to lay a hand on him. He was the Cat’s Favored Son and no one dared to risk the anger of the vengeful, unleashed Fae.
Irene decided to stay on the farm her son had genuinely come to love, nurture and pour his energy into. Someone needed to safeguard it. Fiona was useless, off on another desperate quest to regain her magic and the remaining aunts still in shock. As the grandmother of the new MacTavish clan Patriarch, none dared oppose her, plus she has more than demonstrated how strong her magic was. She wanted to stay close to her son’s resting place and she had lived there long enough to set down roots. There was nothing left of Isla and Iona to be buried. The ravens got the bits that remained after Angus was finished. The Cat fae had been very hungry and starved for vengeance. Morag too, had taken to the hills, hotly pursued by an Immortal with a centuries long grudge. The witch had murdered a friend of his almost two hundred years ago. No one knew if she still lived. It did not matter. Adam had all the time in the world to track her down. Immortals, who knew?
****
Soap took emergency Family leave to visit his grandmother and his father’s final resting place. He was unsurprised when the entire pack turned up three days later to pay their respects at his father’s memorial. They spent the weekend being mothered and stuffed with good food by Irene before reluctantly returning to base, satisfied that their pup was safe. Simon was especially reluctant to leave although he knew Soap would be returning to base in a few days. Most of the freed MacTavish men were gone, except for a few born into the clan, who loved the land and farm. They were spread thin on the huge farm, and eventually would have to hire help. Angus freed all the werewolves as well and most had immediately returned to their packs. Price privately informed Ghost that the grateful packs had already sworn debts of honor to the 141st and specifically to Soap. If he ever called, they would come to fight for him.
Soap stayed in his grandmother’s cottage, where he had spent most of his childhood, roamed the farm, seeking out childhood haunts and visiting the animals. Some remembered him, Shep, one of the flock dogs, who was quite elderly now tagged loyally at his heels as he walked the familiar hills and glens, lost in memories. He stayed out of the main house. In his mind that would always be his mother’s domain and it still made him uneasy. Often he sat by his father’s grave, quietly grieving and remembering him.
The aunts and cousins that remained kept their distance and he was glad of it. He still held a lot of anger in his heart and he had no wish to lash out at his remaining relatives. As he sat in the stillness of the hay barn, a favorite refuge, lap full of purring, barn cat kittens, it occurred to him that he was just a visitor here now. MacTavish land this might be, and he loved it, but it would never feel like home to him again. Quietly he sat remembering the hours he spent playing in the hayloft with Angus here.
“Can ye do it?”
Her voice startled him and he looked up to see Fiona in the doorway, arms crossed defensively over her chest as she eyed the cats nervously. They no longer feared her and eyed her narrowly back, tails flicking. She didn’t look good. Her dark hair was disheveled and unkempt and her eyes looked bruised. Fiona would never cast again, he realized. She has been forever stripped of her magic. He tilted his head at her question. He privately doubted any children she bore would have magic at all. Angus may have blasted the ability out of the bloodline completely. Only time would tell.
“Can ye give it back? My magic?”
She took a hopeful step forward, eyes huge and teary. Trying, he realized, to invoke sympathy when he had none. He sighed and shook his head slowly.
“ Ah dinnae take it from ye, Fiona. Ah cannae return what I never took. If ye want it back ye must appeal to Angus and he is not feeling charitable now towards this clan. Best not to draw his attention, he is both cat and fae and both are fickle.”
She slumped and nodded slowly, accepting his answer. Slowly she held a hand out towards one of the cats, only to have it hiss a warning and she quickly jerked her hand back. Every animal on the farm was wary of her and she could not blame them. She had teased and tormented them all her life. She learned quickly not to approach the ones with hooves and horns, long memories and no compunction about lashing out. She eyed her brother, who sat with a lap full of feral kittens that would vanish into the hidden nooks and crannies of the barn if anyone else approached.
“Ah donnae know what ta do, John Laith.”
She said helplessly, hugging herself defensively. She stared at him unhappily. Her sisters and mother were dead, the remaining aunts shunned her and she was alone. She has the sneaking suspicion that the only reason she still lives is because her brother spared her life once and Angus followed suit. The Fae favors John Laith and John alone. She is fortunate to be alive. He sat on a hay bale, lap full of purring fluff balls, big rough hands gently scratching small fluffy heads. His blue eyes were sober as he regarded her. There was no love there, she realized, but at least no visible hatred either. She was only three years older than he and could dimly remember wanting to play with him when she was small. Instead, she had followed her older sisters’ example and tormented him. He tilted his head thoughtfully.
“What skills do ye have, Fiona? What natural gifts? What do ye like to do? There is a whole big world out there open to ye. Ye have only to choose and make your way.”
And there was the crux of the matter. She had no clue what to do with herself now. She has to make her own way now that she cannot bend others to her will. She has never worked a day in her life. Her brother has made his own way in the world since he fled as a teen to escape Morag’s lecherous clutches. He actually lived on the streets for several years before he could enlist, in one of the most dangerous, magical cities in the world. Curious, she once tracked down some of the witch boys he ran with in Glasgow and asked about him, and they had been more than happy to talk about John Laith. He was both loved and hated there, but had a thousand more friends than enemies. She realized then, she had no real social skills either. She would have to learn to make her own way as he had.
“Fiona. Fiona ye can do what ye please, ah am sure Mam left enough funds that ye could study whatever and where ye want. Ye need to be careful of yer associations though. The Dames will be watching this clan very closely for generations to come. Ye are lucky they deemed it Angus’ business and did not interfere because the Crown could have fined ye or confiscated yer lands. Ye lost yer magic, but ye have yer whole life ahead of ye, ye are barely twenty six.”
She sniffed petulantly, fighting down her anger. That was easy for him to say. Then she deflated, knowing he had been forced into his way of life to escape Beguilement, the military his only option. She could not blame him, she would have done the same herself. Maybe she can salvage something and make peace with her little brother. He will never trust her or even love her, but they can have a genuine truce between them. She nodded at his lap, where the kittens were tumbling and playing and climbing his jeans, all except for one sturdy, raw-boned steel gray kitten with large, tufted ears, a bobbed tail, huge black padded paws and striking leaf green eyes. That kitten sat sentinel like on his knee, regarding her narrowly. She has the distinct feeling, this is no ordinary barn cat. It resembled both a mix of Scottish wild cat, or lynx but it was clearly neither. She suspected Angus’ get, set to watch over John Laith.
She nodded at it.
“Is that yer Familiar, brother?”
He raised startled eyes, and she realized he had no clue how deep a well his rising magic ran. How could he? He had been drained nearly dry, and discarded at birth and only Angus and Gran had saved him. He has made his way with his wits and hands alone, no magic to use. But now, unchecked, it flourished. He would be a formidable witch.
“Ye need to talk with Gran, John Laith. Yer magic is rising and ye will need to know how to control it. Ye donnae want to unwittingly beguile one of yer wolves, do ye?”
She said begrudgingly.
It was the only gift she could give him, this knowledge. Bitterly she realized that while she no longer had magic she could see it everywhere around her. It tormented her. Perhaps she would talk with Gran too, if she was willing. She shivered, remembering her grandmother’s stern face as she used her curved witchblade to ceremonially sever all familial ties with her. Gran wanted nothing to do with the women of the clan that murdered her son. Her eyes filled with tears, remembering her Da, his laugh, his big gentle hands and warm hugs, so generous with his love and affection, an older, burlier vision of John Laith. He had genuinely loved all his children. She turned and walked away, pausing at the door, remembering that her brother had planted a thornless yellow rose on their father’s grave and it was green and already budding out despite it being mid winter.
“Ah wish ye well, John Laith.”
The words were awkward but sincere. As she walked away she heard him murmur a reply.
“And ye as well, sister.”
A troubled Soap sought out his grandmother, gray kitten at his heels, to inquire about his magic. The last thing he wanted to do was to enchant one of the pack and lose their hard won trust. She soothed him, sat him down in the kitchen and did a small test, placing crystals of various colors in his hands and having him peer into a black bowl of water. Finally, to his great relief, she held his big, calloused hands and gently assured him that his magic was for nurturing and healing, not beguiling. Then she warmly congratulated him on finding his Familiar spirit so quickly, while said Familiar purred smugly at him from his perch on the kitchen table, where he was most certainly not supposed to be. She also promised to send him some books so he could learn more about his budding gifts, and now of course, they could call each other and visit whenever they wished. No sensible witch in Scotland would dare lay hand or geas on the Cat’s Favored Son.
When Soap headed back to Credenhill it was with a small, purring passenger perched fearlessly on his shoulder. To his amazement, no one on the train blinked an eye. After all, he wore traditional Highland witch dress and didn’t all witches have Familiars? He eyed his new friend dubiously, glad that Gran had given him a crash course in Familiars. Unlike his mother clan who regarded all Familiars as little more than power boosts, Gran reminded him they were beloved lifelong companions who would guard and nurture his magic and help it grow. What was the pack going to think?
The pack was thrilled.
After all, they knew their pup was magical all along and were quite chuffed about it. Bob, the kitten, not so much, especially when they shifted into wolf form for the first time. He fuzzed up like a dandelion about to explode with seeds and hissed at them. Any rude sniffing nose got a good, hard swat or a scratch. Soap scoffed at the pack’s woebegone looks and tiny wounds and called them all big babies when it came to dealing with one small cat. Eventually Bob calmed down, decided he was the Boss of all of them all, discovered that werewolves made wonderful space heaters and carried on about his feline business. He had a knack for getting into closed and supposedly locked spaces and hiding in plain sight. In other words, it was quite probable that he was a shadow walker.
The second time he startled the shit out of Price when he opened his desk drawer for a clandestine cigar, only to find it occupied, he got a stern talking to from the Alpha which he ignored in favor of batting vigorously at the finger shaken admonishingly under his nose. Since this did little good, he was banned from the office. He ignored that order too and could often be found napping in the sunshine on Price’s south facing window sill. The recruits loved him and he became the unofficial base mascot and Ghost resigned himself to waking up in wolf form and finding Bob using him as a cushion, as he buzzed and industriously made biscuits in the big Wolf’s thick coat.
19
The good news was that Shepard was finally arrested, court-martialed under military law and thrown in the stockade for treason. Surprisingly, Graves proved to be one the best witnesses against him. Not surprisingly the man was now in the wind taking his Shadow company with him. The mercenary was very good at disappearing. Laswell was still taking steps so that the squad would not be compromised again.
She had carefully, under the Queen’s direct order, inserted loyal people into the staff on base at Credenhill. More than a few had witch blood or were shifters themselves and they were loyal to the bone to Crown and country and a large part of their job was to stand sentinel to guard against any covert attempts against the 141st. Price, while he trusted Laswell, was still wary as any good Alpha was, in protecting his pack, and the pack themselves kept a vigilant eye on those who tried to get a bit too close, too fast.
The 141st was still kept busy, because with the new year came new enemies. Primarily among them was a Russian named Makarov. Intelligence hinted that he was in the process of gathering together enough nuclear missiles to start WW3. He was also as slippery as a snake and hard to locate. Thanks to an informant, word got to Laswell that he was involved with the Mexican drug cartel run by El Sin Nombre, located in Las Almas, Alejandro’s and Rudy’s home town.
The Mexican wolves would not be pleased to hear this. Their place in the 141st was more tenuous than the others. Alejandro had been a Colonel of Las Fuerzas Especiales in the Mexican Army and Rudy his Sergeant Major before a deadly combination of inner corruption in the army and the cartels had nearly decimated Los Vaqueros, their natal pack who protected their home town of Las Almas. The few remaining survivors had fled and scattered for their own protection. Both men were still bitter about those losses and swore revenge.
Alé was a rising Alpha himself, and a moody, hot tempered one at that. He kept himself under strict discipline as a result, grateful that Ghost and Rudy could rein him in. His and Rudy’s plan has always been to one day return home to Las Almas and somehow free it from the cartels. In the meantime they were a vital part of the 141st, learning about strategy and new weaponry, building intelligence networks and gaining allies in what was very much an international team. Price, Ghost, Roach and Gaz were British, Soap Scottish, Laswell and Alex American, Farah from Urzikistan. As the team grew they would add additional members from various parts of Europe, Asia and North America.
Ghost in the meantime has decided that being in love is for the birds. It’s a very inconvenient emotion for a hardened career soldier to have. Especially one who for most of that career was resigned to and made peace with the fact that he would end up KIA because the mere thought of retirement scared him shitless. He was convinced that he didn’t know how to function as a civilian and furthermore, wasn’t sure he wanted to. That was before he looked across the tarmac one early misty morning and was struck dumb by the sight of a Scottish medic with eyes the truest blue he has ever seen in his life. He distinctly remembered thinking, “Fucking Hell.”
Now, in hindsight, he realized he had fallen then, and hard. The wolf side of him smitten as well, if not more. He craved Johnny’s scent, reveled in his touch and his smile. He found it painful to be separated from his sergeant longer than a few hours. He tried to wean himself from that feeling by taking a few harsh solo missions, convinced he just needed time to get his head straight. It didn’t work. He found himself wrapping up those missions with efficient warp speed so he could return to base as soon as possible. So quickly in fact that the scent on the tee shirt he always ‘borrowed’ from Soap had no time to fade.
It was worse if Johnny went on a solo mission or was requested to temporarily aid another team. The thought of not being there to have his sergeant’s back turned him into a miserable, snarling bastard who had no compunction about sharing his displeasure with the current batch of FNGs. And God forbid if any team brought his sergeant back injured in any shape or form.
There were several team leaders who now made it a point to avoid conscripting Soap for missions unless they had no choice. An arrogant Lieutenant who led a mission that gave Johnny a nasty concussion and stitches came back to base after a night at the pub, white faced and nearly incoherent because he made the mistake of walking back alone on a full moon night. He transferred to an administrative position shortly afterwards. Ghost taught him how it felt to be helpless prey and he never forgot that lesson.
Ghost agonized over his inability to actually talk to his sergeant about his feelings. He knew Soap found him attractive, scent didn’t lie and neither did the blue-eyed Scot who was totally sincere in his admiration and compliments to the big Wolf. Yet Ghost felt the power imbalance and the age difference keenly. Johnny was so fucking young. Young enough to have a real life with a loving wife and pups of his own. Yet the thought of anyone else laying a lascivious hand on the young Scot was enough to send Ghost’s wolf into a frothing rage because he could take better care of his Scot. He had a fine den and pack waiting for him too.
It was a problem he needed to solve post haste. The grueling exercise regimen he put himself through daily wasn’t helping anymore, it was getting harder not to claim the young man. His wolf wanted his mate. Finally, exhausted after a lousy day (Soap was off on a mission that had him grinding his teeth), he went to try and talk with Price. Surely the Alpha would have a solution. He did, only it wasn’t one Ghost was prepared to accept.
Price calmly pointed out that the fraternization rules were different for supernatural personnel. He and Soap could mate and marry and it would be perfectly acceptable. He also gently pointed out that the age difference wasn’t all that different given the way werewolves aged. Simon was considered to be very young for an Alpha. Then folding his big hands on his desk, he gave his lieutenant further food for thought. Soap was past due for a promotion, one he would have received months before he joined the 141st, if he hadn’t tangled with a superior officer who was sexually harassing the soldiers under his command, and who attempted to make Soap his next victim. Soap reported him, but he had friends among the higher ups who took exception to the officer being disciplined. Soon Soap would hold equal rank with Simon.
Also, one alternative was to transfer Soap to another squad. There were other Captains who were eager to have the highly competent sergeant on their teams. A few had even tried bribery to get the young medic. Was Simon ready to give up Soap entirely for his own good? And would it be for his own good? Would any other squad watch Soap’s back as devoutly as the 141st? After all, there were still the witch clans to be considered. As far as they knew, Morag McConnell was still in the wind and witches seldom gave up something they desired. Simon’s reaction was visceral at the thought of entrusting Johnny to an unfamiliar human squad. His eyes flared ruby red and he snarled involuntarily, ready to meet any challenger for Soap.
Price kept his face straight with effort. Ghost, he knew, was struggling with unfamiliar feelings, while he suspected Soap patiently waited for him to come to his senses. Ghost had a horrendous abusive home life and sought escape in the military, only to be betrayed by his own squad leader, tortured and nearly killed by cartel brujas in Mexico. It was difficult for him to trust anyone enough to build friendships, and trust in his own squad, so actual love was truly foreign territory to the big wolf. For years he had managed to keep everything, including his emotions strictly compartmentalized and tactical, then he took one look at a pair of bright blue eyes and a sunshine smile and fell hard. Soap was it for him. Some wolves mated for life and Ghost was one of them. The big wolf left Price’s office scowling and went to give the recruits hell. He had a lot to think about while he ran drills.
****
In the meantime, Soap was glad to be on the way home. This mission had sucked balls from the first. Captain Jayne was a good man, but too damned hesitant in making snap decisions in the field. As a result, there were casualties where there should have been none. Four men had minor wounds and one was in critical shape and Soap was monitoring him closely, one hand on his pulse while he listened to the man’s breathing. A bullet was lodged in the young private’s chest, way too close to his heart for Soap’s comfort. So far the lad, who looked supremely young, all ginger hair and freckles was holding his own. His affectionate call sign was ‘Opie’. Some of his teammates sat near, worried about their buddy. All Soap could do was keep him stable and as comfortable as possible until he got him to the surgeons.
“Oi, Sarge, did you check your own wound, sir?”
Soap glanced up into the dark eyes of the communications tech, Adaje, he thought his name was, and gave him a reassuring smile.
“Tis’ only a flesh wound. I cleaned it and slapped a bandage on. It’s fine, just a wee bit sair.”
The man snorted, and grinned at him, teeth very white in his dusky face and shook his head.
“You be sure and tell that to your pack, yeah? I don’t want Garrick snapping at my heels, or that big Lieutenant.”
Soap grinned, amused at the man’s total sincerity. He knew Adage and Gaz were bruvs and came through Basic training together. Ghost did have the habit of appearing out of nowhere to inspect his sergeant for injury upon his return to base. He suspected it was more of a Simon thing, than a pack thing. It warmed his heart to know that his lieutenant and his pack cared so much for his well being. Maybe, he thought meanly, Jayne would reconsider requesting Soap next time, and maybe too, Soap was just too used to working with the best of the best and had trouble dealing with mundane human squads now. The 141 squad has spoiled him.
Sure enough, the moment they carried the wounded man off the transport, Ghost was there, keen eyes suddenly laser focused on Soap’s thigh, his sliced camo pants leg was soaked with dried blood from the deep graze, but the bandage was holding and the wound clot had stopped the bleeding. Soap made a real effort not to limp, but found his lieutenant sliding a supportive arm around his waist anyway and steering him firmly towards the infirmary, despite the fact he was already heading in that direction.
The doctors took his succinct summation of the wounded men’s injuries and Soap allowed himself to be steered into an exam room, Ghost looming at his back as was his habit, while a doctor checked his wound. The woman complimented Soap on his field dressing, made sure it was well disinfected and redressed and rebandaged it with stern orders to stay off it for a day or two and light duty for a week afterwards. She handed off a small envelope of the good painkillers, which Ghost confiscated nodding firmly at her directions and Soap sighed, knowing he would have at least one vigilant babysitter at all times until he was healed and that he was going to be spending a lot of time napping with the babies.
As they were leaving the med center, they passed a sheepish Captain Jayne, who very carefully avoided Ghost’s sizzling glare. He most certainly would not be trying to conscript Soap’s service in the future. Once back at their quarters Ghost lingered watchfully until Soap showered and crashed on his bunk for a kip before dinner, (Bob appearing seemingly out of nowhere to purr at him, make biscuits on his chest and tuck himself confidingly under his arm while Soap greeted him with sleepy delight). He dutifully swallowed the painkillers he was handed with some water. Then Ghost stomped off to snarl at Price about how they nearly lost their pup— again, to human incompetence.
The recruits swore when they heard that Sergeant MacTavish had returned wounded, knowing they were about to be put through the wringer with grueling drills, but thankfully it was Gaz who oversaw training that evening. They needed the respite. Ghost was too busy hovering over his sergeant, making sure he was rested and fed. Their relief was short lived because the brooding lieutenant appeared on the training field at the crack of dawn and proceeded to run their arses into the ground. By noon, half were reconsidering their career choices and the other half was face planted on the training field, trying not to dry heave.
20
Laswell contacts them with a mission. Apparently there are nuclear missiles stockpiled for an unknown buyer in Las Almas, and who better to find and retrieve them than the men who were born and raised there? Alejandro and Rodolfo are wheels up at dawn on an intelligence gathering mission with strict instructions to set up a safe house, locate any surviving Vaqueros and report in every day with an update. Needless to say, both Alé and Rudy are chomping at the bit to go. Las Almas is their home territory and its a bone deep desire to defend it.
The pack sees them off with rough hugs and much scenting. When the base is set up and the missiles are located the pack will follow, easing in a few members at a time to help Los Vaqueros secure them from the cartel. This means they also have to capture the head of the cartel, El Sin Nombre, for questioning. This will be difficult because they have no intel at all about the man, other than a rumor that he grew up in Las Almas. They need to learn how deeply involved with Shepherd and Makarov the man is. Although allegedly a local, he has a reputation for being brutal in his ascent to power, and he has quite a stranglehold on Las Almas, including the army and the police.
In the meantime, Soap will have time to fully heal, and Farah find a competent and trustworthy nanny for the girls because both she and Alex will be back in the field for this mission. Ghost quietly aided her in her search by putting her in contact with Beatrice Wilkes at Wyldecroft, knowing she would likely know of a suitable, trustworthy candidate. Things progress as expected and in two weeks Gaz and Roach are sent in to join up with Las Vaqueros. In the meantime Ghost is sent off on a brief solo mission to Southeast Asia on an intel retrieval. It’s a piece of cake and he heads back home with an overnight stopover in Japan. While there, he takes the time to visit a craftsman whose wares he admires.
Master Ito is officially a knife maker. His beautifully crafted chef’s knives are much sought after and bring high prices. However, the old fox shifter comes from a long line of sword makers and he still dabbles in the craft. Unofficially he makes superbly crafted throwing and fighting blades. Ghost makes it a habit to stop by when he is in the country for tea and to have his own custom crafted blades sharpened. Before he shoulders his way into the tiny, unmarked shop set deep back in a narrow, winding switchback alley in the cobbled streets of old town Kyoto, he stops at a specialty shop and buys a bottle of the really good Sake, then at a tiny restaurant to arrange for a large portion of fresh abura-age to be delivered to Master Ito’s shop the next day.
Master Ito’s eldest daughter beams at him and bows and shows him back to the old man’s office. Ghost isn’t surprised that Sensei Ito knew he would visit today. He is a kitsune after all, and magic runs in his blood. He nods politely at the man’s apprentices who are hard at work at the anvil and forge, and they pause to bow back. They know who he is and have great respect for his profession. Ghost wordlessly hands off his fat roll of knives and Chiyo beams at his display of trust as she carries them off to be oiled and sharpened.
The tea table is already set up and ready, Chiyo bustles in with a fresh pot, and the old man beams at him when he bows deeply and wordlessly passes over his gift. They exchange deep bows again, Ghost carefully folds himself down to sit on the tatami across from the wiry little man and they settle in comfortably with each other. They seldom exchange more than a few words, but they are infinitely comfortable in each other’s company. In another life, Ghost could see himself apprenticing to the old man and spending his days in quiet contemplation, learning to bend steel and fire to his will.
After the first cup of tea, before Ghost can even open his mouth, Sensei Ito is placing a beautiful, enameled wooden box in front of him, indicating that he open it. He does so, and he hums in involuntary admiration at the contents. He raises awed eyes to Ito’s knowing smile. The cunning old fox. It’s a beautifully crafted 12’ biodag, a traditional Scottish fighting dirk. The hilt is made of stag antler and bog oak, with its silver fittings and leather sheath set with smoky gray cairngorm stones. The razor sharp blade is etched with tiny hiragana that shimmer like water before his eyes and there is a snarling cat carved into the hilt. It is also a priceless antique that Ghost lusts after with every fiber of his blade loving being, because he knows exactly whose hand should wield it.
“For your mate, Onryo. Many years ago my ancestor spent a night drinking and gambling with a Neko. He lost and had to craft this blade for him. The Neko asked that he hold it for his son yet to be born. We have held it for many generations. Last night Neko came to me in a dream and said you were coming and to give you the blade to gift your mate.”
Ghost had no words. He could only bow low in devout gratitude. Angus, again. The Cat Sith looking ahead for his descendant. He wondered if one day soon, the Cat would prowl through his dreams checking on the welfare of his beloved kitten. He stared down into the box, knowing immediately it was crafted to fit his Johnny’s deft hand and that by accepting it, he also accepted the Fae’s blessing to mate with his Sergeant. His Sergeant, who was due to be a Lieutenant soon, equal in rank with him. He also realized that he now knew how the clever Fae became bespelled all those centuries ago—Angus had truly loved that long ago MacTavish witch. Loved her enough to let his guard down, and she repaid him by centuries long entrapment. Perhaps she trapped him because she could not bear the day when he inevitably moved on to another love, as immortal, fickle tomcats are wont to do. Then, she had dared not free him, fearing the repercussions.
It was time he manned up and presented this, his first official courtship gift. If mated, the military could not separate them, transfer and ship Soap off to a different unit. To a human squad who would not protect him as well as his pack. They were soldiers and they lived hard, dangerous lives and he could lose his boy in combat at any time to a bullet or explosion or a blade, or he could die for the final time himself without ever tasting his boy’s lips. Time to man up and claim his mate. Inside, his wolf was howling with glee and he wondered what his pack was picking up through the pack sense. Hopefully not much at this distance.
The next morning when he left Japan, he carried the box, a large selection of high quality teas to add to his stash and his own freshly sharpened and kitsune blessed blades, as well as a new set of throwing knives that Ito casually presented and asked that he try them out and let him know if the slender, matte black leaf shaped blades worked like he thought they would. The blades were so delicately balanced they felt as light as the bamboo leaves they mimicked. He also mentioned that they were capable of killing any witch or demonic creature he encountered. The sly old kitsune. Who knew how far he could see into the future? Ghost was careful to thank him profusely and double his annual order for throwing knives. (He was teaching Soap how to throw them. His witch boy was already an adept knife fighter, having been schooled on the Glasgow streets as a youth.)
He returned to find that Soap, Alex and Farah had left for Las Almas three days earlier and that he was wheels up at dawn to join them. Alejandro and Rodolfo have located El Sin Nombre and have a good idea where the missiles are hidden. It was time to wrap this mission up before the buyer’s men swept in and moved the goods. Orders were to capture El Sin Nombre if possible for questioning and if not able to do so, to eliminate him because under him, a lot of innocent people have died in his brutal rise in power.
Chapter 3: Part Three
Notes:
Final Part
Chapter Text
21
Valeria stared sourly at her captors.
This wasn’t in her plans. At this point she should be in charge, riding high on having achieved her goal of reuniting with Alejandro and becoming half of the Alpha pair who ran the cartel that controlled Las Almas. Instead her private villa had been infiltrated by a smooth talking Scot who claimed he had information about Alejandro, then while she was well and truly distracted, invaded by Los Vaqueros and now Alejandro and Rodolfo stood conversing quietly across the room, firearms in hand, while she sat, securely shackled in silver cuffs in one of the chairs she used for interrogations.
Several members of an unfamiliar military pack, as well as some of the remaining Vaqueros backed him up. She eyed the lone woman among them narrowly, then relaxed slightly when she realized after a sniff that she was mated to the russet haired wolf next to her. Not Alejandro’s mate then. Good. She still could use her sexuality to influence him. After all, she was his first woman all those years ago and that gave her an advantage. Alė has a soft, blind spot for her.
The Scot was talking quietly with two other wolves, although he smelled strongly of one particular wolf, she could now see and smell that he was human. He was also a Warlock, and a strange one at that. He must have used a glamor to cloak himself earlier or she would have smelled the magic on him. She glared across the room and sneered. She loathed brujas, although she used their services, and could not fathom why Alejandro tolerated his presence. As she watched, Alejandro spoke quietly with the Scot, hand on his shoulder, heads close together. The Scot listened attentively, then gave a curt nod.
As she watched, Alejandro shot her a searing, contemptuous look that made her face burn although she held her head high, and deliberately turning his back on her, he left the room without a word to her. He was so damned idealistic and hard headed. So foolish. Still, she would make him see things her way. It was for the best. Instead, it was Rudy and the Scot who approached her, presumably for interrogation. They wanted to know more about the missiles in her warehouse and their intended use, but she intended to use that information to bargain for her freedom.
As Rudy came closer she opened her mouth to make a cutting remark about his being left to do the dirty work, then slammed it shut as she caught his scent. She inhaled deeply in sheer disbelief, thinking for one moment of blind rage that she had read it wrong, but no. The scent of Alejandro and sex was so strongly interwoven with his that it could mean only one thing.
“You? Really? When he could have me?”
She snarled at him, jerking in her silver plated cuffs, unable to shift beyond dropping her fangs.
Rudy gave her a thin, polite smile, but his dark eyes glittered with satisfaction at her loss of control. She wanted to rip his smug throat out. He has clearly waited a long time for this moment, the smug bastard. Rudy has always disliked her although he has never been anything but polite.
”Alé values loyalty, Valeria. Did you really think he would want anything to do with you after you have murdered so many of our pack and people?”
She said nothing, just snarled in his face and he sighed, apparently not surprised.
”Will you tell me about the missiles, Valeria?”
He asked politely, with a formal tone to the question that had her cock her head, eyes narrowed. He must know that she would not tell him anything, not even under torture. She tossed her head defiantly and glared, lips firmly closed. He nodded and turned to the Warlock, a curiously apologetic smile on his face.
”Hermano? Will you?”
”Aye, Rudy. I will give it a go. It should nae be a problem. She has no wards nor protections at all. Like taking sweeties from a bairn.”
The man turned to her with a charming smile, and she blinked warily as he took a chair in front of her, leaning forward confidingly, relaxed, hands on his knees. He made no move to touch or threaten her, just smiled gently. He has the deepest blue eyes she has ever seen and she found herself falling into them like slipping into the sea on a warm summer day. Vaguely, she was aware that he was speaking and she was answering, caught up in his eyes and his beautiful smile, his rich brogue. She wanted to answer his questions, to be honest with him. It was important to him, so it was important to her as well. She answered every question he asked openly and honestly, even confessing that she fully intended to take Alejandro as her mate so they could share control of Las Almas. That she would do it even if she has to kill Rudy. Alejandro is hers, he always has been.
Coming to her senses was a rude shock, like a splash of ice water to her face. She shivered and stared in shock at the brujo who had just enchanted her so smoothly and thoroughly that she didn’t even feel it coming. Valeria has always prided herself on her self-composure and control but now she felt like screaming at an interrogation so smooth it didn’t even feel like the mental violation it was. The witch regarded her calmly, no gloating evident as he and spoke to Rudy. It was all business to him.
”Was that what we needed, amigo?”
”Sí. We have all the information we need now to recover the missiles. I will inform Alejandro and arrange for pick-up for this one. General Diaz has been after her for a very long time.”
Valeria snarled and lunged at the witch, teeth snapping, but her restraints held and slammed her back in the chair.
”I will kill you both!”
The witch arched a brow and snorted before stepping back and turning and walking away, leaving her to Rudy, who tilted his head and stared her down, dark eyes cold. He bared his white teeth in something that was not quite a smile and spoke softly.
”Are you challenging me, Valeria?”
She stared back at him and froze.
Was she challenging him?
She hesitated before answering, mind racing. She has already betrayed herself and the other members of the cartel. They will not be pleased and will not hesitate to retaliate. Even if she fights Rudy for Alejandro and wins, she knows without a doubt that Alejandro would kill her for attacking his chosen mate. Plus, while she knows exactly how Alejandro fights, and could possibly hold her own, at least for a while, she isn’t certain that she can defeat Rodolfo. Alejandro will charge straight into battle, all teeth and machismo, but Rudy, Rudy thinks before he strikes silently and viciously like a viper and takes out opponents before they are even fully aware he is there. He is untiring in combat and always, always three steps ahead of his chosen prey.
Deep in her heart, she knows she cannot defeat him in a challenge, mentally or physically. Sullenly, she slumps back and drops her eyes. She will just have to escape, bide her time and take her revenge later. She doesn’t look up when she hears Rudy chuff with satisfaction and walk away. She has to figure out her next move to escape custody. She is not going into a filthy Mexican shifter prison, to be silver shackled, abused by guards and kept in a warded cage for the rest of her life. She is left locked in the well-guarded room to brood. After a moment, a small smile quirks her mouth. Graves, the American brujo owes her a favor. She needs only to be able to reach the talisman sewn in her hidden pocket to call it in.
With Valeria secured, the team began to settle for the night throughout her opulent villa. They were careful to set a watch in case any of her remaining men tried to return. Her own small pack was decimated, the few remaining have fled with vengeful survivors of the Las Almas pack hot on their trail and the cartel men that were here are eliminated. Their patience has paid off. Alejandro and Rodolfo have returned home to lead them.
Soap moves restlessly around the villa. Valeria, he notes, has been living the high life. He wanders through her personal suite, snorting at the red velvet drapes and dramatic dark furniture. Rudy is in her office systematically searching her computer and her files for any important intelligence to use against the cartels. Alejandro is reuniting with his men, checking in and being seen, catching up on intel and the changes in Las Almas. Soap knows that when they leave here, Alé and Rudy will stay to safeguard their home town. He saw the ruby flare in Alejandro’s eyes when they were sweeping the villa earlier, eliminating Valeria’s underlings. He wonders if Price knows already. He probably anticipated it before he sent Los Vaqueros home.
He pauses at her dressing table. The tingle and flare from several witchy items snagging his attention. There are several pieces of flashy expensive jewelry with spells hammered into the metal and set into the gemstones scattered carelessly across the top of the gilded table. He extends a hand over them, careful not to touch and is unsurprised to find several jeweler anti-theft spells and a few allure charms of the eye catching Look-at-Me variety designed to snag a buyer’s attention. Nothing extraordinary, except… as he waves his hand over her jewelry box something tugs hard at his gloved fingers. Carefully he uses her ivory comb to lift the lid and peer within, whistling at the sight of a tangle of emerald and ruby necklaces, earring and bracelets sparkling with diamonds. It looks like Cartier boaked in Valeria’s jewelry box.
The tug comes again and he uses the comb to rake some necklaces aside to find a small sterling silver key with a sigil engraved in the bow just above the blade. It’s designed to unlock a heavy containment ward. Valeria has something hidden in her villa, something so heavily warded that neither he nor any of Alejandro’s wolves noticed. He runs a hasty hex check before he deems it safe enough to pick up, then takes it to show Alejo and Rudy.
Still on adrenaline highs, they decide to search the villa again, more carefully, this time starting in the basement and wine cellar. Soap isn’t surprised to feel the icy touch of wards designed by brujas to scare people away. Ordinary humans entering the spacious cellar would grow increasingly uneasy and start to feel paranoid as if surrounded by unseen danger. They would not linger in the area, just hurriedly finish their tasks and leave. He motions Alé and Rudy back and steps forward, keen eyes scanning over the room and the floor. Something on the stone floor next to a tall rack of wine bottles set against the wall caught his eye. A minute scuff mark.
Soap extended a hand and his senses. His witchy intuition was growing stronger with each passing day. No doubt one of the gifts Angus whispered was his, the day he freed him. He wished the Cat Sith had offered more clarification on exactly what those gifts were. There, near the edge of the heavy wooden rack, something gossamer plucked at his fingertips. He stared hard, and found that his glance kept veering off—so a strong ‘nothing to see here’ ward as well as the creepy ghostie wards. Walking over to the rack, he gingerly ran a gloved hand down the side until he found the hidden groove. When pressed, the entire rack swung smoothly out from the wall, revealing a heavy steel door. A heavy, cast iron door with a solid silver containment rune set into it. Whatever was being held in the room had little chance of escape with that ward on the door, even if they were a supernatural being or a witch.
Even with Alejandro and Rodolfo at his back, he wished fervently that Ghost was here. He always felt safe with his Alpha at his back. Warily, he inserted the key into the lock and turned it and with a click the door opened. He used his rifle barrel to push it open and they cautiously stepped inside, weapons at ready, only to stop, appalled at the sight of a double row of cages set against the walls. The shifters and other beings inside watched them warily. Alejandro swore and moved past Soap towards one of the cages, speaking in rapid Spanish. Clearly he recognized the wolf inside. The wolf, who was so heavily collared in silver so he could not shift back into his human shape.
Valeria has been trafficking her own kind as well as the townspeople.
Alejandro works with his mate to free the caged shifters. He is so angry it's all he can do to not storm upstairs and rip Valeria’s throat out with his teeth. The self-serving, corrupt, narcissist bitch. By the time all the cages are safely open and all the captives uncollared they have recovered five of their own scattered Vaqueros, and released several shifter townsfolk, a couple of lovely young female college age shifters who made the mistake of vacationing at a nearby spa town, several Selkie folk and a huge, towering heavily collared and shackled Austrian bear shifter named König, as well as a reed thin Fae woman.
Rudy hastily escorts the townsfolk and the tourists away, while Alejandro gently removes the iron cuffs and charms from the Fae woman and gallantly escorts her to the garden so she can recover her bearings, as her pale green skin and leafy hair indicates she is a Forest nymph of some sort. She sighs in relief at being outside away from the poisonous iron near the leafy green forest, nods regally at his sincere apologies, and thanks him sweetly before she disappears into the nearby trees, and fortunately declines to curse them all (Fae are fickle folk). Before she goes, she gives him a tiny green acorn with the instructions to give it to the “Cat’s child,” with her thanks and as a favor should Soap ever require her aid. She is so eager for the freedom of the forest that she disappears in moments.
Back in the villa, he finds Soap busily dispensing supple, dappled leopard seal skins from a locked chest into the eager hands of their rightful owners. He was very careful not to touch the skins as he opened the chest and allowed the Selkies to grab their own coats. Apparently the Selkies belong to a pod of fisherfolk, that Valeria was forcing to smuggle contraband for her. She took them as hostages to ensure that the pod obeyed her. The smiling Selkies thank them all profusely and promise to keep Los Vaqueros informed of any ongoing smuggling activities as they pile onto the truck that Rudy has arranged to drive them to the coast, eager to return to the sea and inform their pod they are free of servitude to the cartel. Word will spread quickly about El Sin Nombre’s downfall and Alejandro and Los Vaqueros need to be on guard against retribution from the cartel.
The oldest man clasps Soap’s hand and says something in what Alejandro assumes is a Gaelic tongue, as he presses a leopard seal tooth into the young witch’s hand, another valuable favor promised. Soap is careful to tuck it and the acorn away in a secure pocket. The young brujo is rapidly gaining new allies and favors, and his reputation as the Cat’s favored son has preceded him. Alejandro hears one of the Selkies murmur “ El Hijo del Gato, el Rompe de Cardenas” to the other, and smiles when he realizes the young medic has gained a new title, because Soap is indeed a Chain Breaker. The Selkies wave happily from the truck bed as they leave. It’s nearly dawn now, it's been a very busy fruitful night when a deep voice rumbles from the shadows behind them;
”Wot, you wankers not save any action for me?”
With a deep Manc accented growl, Ghost emerges from the shadow of the nearest wall in full gear, towering over them, his skull mask gleaming white under the street lights. He opens his arms to catch the delighted Soap, who pounces on him immediately, happily embracing him and thumping his shoulder.
“LT!”
A toothily grinning Alé and Rudy pretend not to notice the soft look in the big Alpha’s eyes as he roughly tousles Soap’s Warhawk and thoroughly scents him, big hands stroking over the young Scot’s head, neck and shoulders before thumping his back affectionately. They keep grinning when they notice the Brit unconsciously tuck his sergeant close under his arm as he turns to them for a sitrep.
Inside they find that Gaz has finished questioning König, who was apparently a member of the private military group KorTac. He was scouting the villa when captured. He towers over Ghost, but he seems to try to make himself smaller and less the focus of attention. Some sort of deep social anxiety then. Farah wordlessly offers him her striped shemagh and he gladly wraps it around his head and veils his face. Ghost says nothing, he understands the big man’s desire to shield his face more than most. Many shifters fight that inborn desire to remain unseen, even those without personal trauma. It’s a deeply ingrained instinct for them, not a personality defect.
Price arrives shortly and takes charge of the crew that is sent in to recover the stolen missiles. A delighted General Diaz arrives soon after and his men haul a cursing, heavily guarded Valeria away. Her demand to speak with Alejandro was ignored. Her trial and sentence will be swift, but Alejandro is uneasy. Valeria is as slippery as an electric eel. Captain Price isn’t surprised when the Vaqueros state that they are staying to clean up and oversee Las Almas and rebuild their pack.
General Diaz is quick to offer them a squad of well trained commandos and a full transport and armory restock to aid them in their defense of the city. The capture of El Sin Nombre is quite a feather in his cap and he rapidly restores Alejandro and Rodolfo’s ranks of Colonel and Sergeant Major in Las Fuerzas Especiales with honors, and congratulates Alejandro on his new Alpha status.
The parting from the 141st pack is bittersweet. The pack has grown close, and they will remain close allies. König is reluctant to return to KorTac as he suspects he was betrayed to Valeria so he too, ends up staying with Los Vaqueros for the time being. Laswell vetted him with the Jagdkommando and their Commander spoke highly of him. The big man once held the rank of Colonel.
They embrace on the tarmac and say their farewells. All the Vaqueros have turned out to see them off. It’s always difficult when a close knit pack splits apart, and the 141st are as much family as a military pack, but too many Alphas in a pack inevitably leads to discord no matter how well they work together. Eventually every Alpha desires his own territory and pack, it's innate with werewolves. Still, it will be weeks before the edges of the separation heal no matter how smooth the parting was. Things are a bit subdued aboard the transport as they fly home. Yes, the mission was a resounding success, but they are leaving their brothers behind.
Price and Gaz sit apart and Gaz quietly gives his report while Farah and Alex curl together and nap with a very subdued Roach (who always takes partings hard), while a content Ghost quietly sits and trades horrible jokes with Soap (while the others roll their eyes at the flirtation) until the younger man dozes off. Then he simply basks in the scent and feel of his sleeping sergeant’s sturdy body curled trustingly against his, dark head heavy on his shoulder.
Back in Las Almas, Alejandro and Rudy curl up together in one of the villa’s opulent bedrooms—they will continue to use the well fortified villa as a headquarters until they establish a new one of their own. They make love passionately and easily, although both are weary after being awake for almost 36 hours. Alejandro is still feeling the surge of his newly awakened Alpha power and he takes advantage of it, to reclaim his mate, covering his lean, brown body with love bites as he whispers endearments.
Lying together afterwards, Alé confides that he doesn’t believe they have seen the last of Valeria. She is just too slippery to remain incarcerated long. Rudy agrees and wrapped in each other’s arms they nuzzle each other comfortingly. She is a matter they will deal with later. They were sad to see their friends and packmates go, even though they will see and work with them again. Their pack ties to the 141st remain unbroken, but now they are stretched gossamer thin with distance and the slow renewal of pack bonds to the Vaqueros is no real comfort yet.
22
They barely make it back to base before they get word that Makarov has been found. Ghost curses silently to himself, because he just worked up the courage to ask Johnny for permission to start formally courting him. Now he will have to wait and it's going to drive him over the moon until he can shove it aside to focus on the mission. So, instead of waiting, he pulls a puzzled Medic aside as they gear up and presses his gift into his hand, with a muttered,
”Picked this up for you in Japan.”
He feels like a bashful pup with a kindergarten crush, who has just presented his sweetheart with a crude, construction paper valentine, face flushing hot under his mask.
Gruffly he concentrates on loading himself down with his new Kitsune crafted throwing knives. He can’t fucking wait to try them out on those fucking Konni. He refuses to look at Soap, but his ears are practically swiveling towards the man. He hears a swiftly indrawn breath, a murmur of admiration and dares look down. His boy is holding the unsheathed dirk reverently, like it's something precious and as he gently runs a thumb along the blade to blood it, the hiragana etched on the metal shimmers and reveals a grinning fox running along the edge, it winks at them and disappears. The knife seems to glint with an inner light in Soap’s hands and Simon realizes he is seeing something rare—a fae crafted weapon with a fox spirit of its own, a tsukumogami, awakening and bonding with the person it was crafted for and promised to.
Soap immediately removes the familiar black combat dirk in his shoulder sheath, slips it under the camo kilt he wears, and slides the fox blade home instead, before raising those bright eyes to lock with Simon’s. He says nothing but his eyes say everything. Simon realizes then that his clever boy knows exactly what this blade signifies and accepts it—-it and the Wolf who presented it. Before Simon can say anything, Soap stands on his toes and one big, capable hand lifts and thumbs his balaclava up just enough for his boy to lean up and nip his scarred jaw sharply. Hard enough to tingle and leave a mark.
A tingle that lingers, even as Soap flushes scarlet and turns away, ears red, to finish gearing up, suddenly all business. Ghost gives a little growl and grabs his hips and hauls him close, cups his face with one big hand and takes his mouth in a deep, hard kiss. A tingling promise placed on his man’s soft lips, before he reluctantly pulled back, face flushed.
Silently they check each other’s armor and chest plates, tugging straps and securing buckles firmly. Ghost kneels and fastens Johnny’s Velcro knee brace securely, and slides one of the new throwing blades into the thigh sheath under Johnny’s camo kilt, big hand lingering on the warm, sturdy muscle. He then stands tall, exhaltant as his chosen mate tends to him, double checking his gear and muttering protective cantrips under his breath in Gaelic as he checks buckles, traces sigils over Ghost’s gear and tucks an extra charm in his plate carrier. The others grin at him because the joy and pride he feels is being broadcast across the pack sense, and even Price chuffs his approval, eyes crinkling in pride.
The good news is that Makarov is in London. The bad news is that he and his massive dirty bomb are under London. In the Channel tunnel to be exact. He may also have hostages. So not only do they have to locate him, they have to be ready to free the innocent hostages, eliminate Makarov and disable the bomb without getting irradiated or blowing themselves and London sky high. The good news is also that Her Majesty’s Guard and the most adept Dames are standing guard above the tube entrances, Makarov and his men have about the same chance of escaping as a snowball does in Hell. If the Wolves don’t get them, the Queen’s Dames and the Guard most certainly will.
Finding him is surprisingly easy thanks to a very territorial tunnel rat shifter who was alarmed when he saw what the Russian and his henchmen were up to mere feet from his hidden nest, and quickly reported it to the police, and even handily showed them exactly on the map of the underground tube system where it was located. Team 141 splits up and comes from both directions in the tunnel, hopefully covering all exits so he cannot easily escape. The constant rumble and flashing lights of the passing trains is annoying, but should cover their approach. This line should have been blocked off and the passenger trains delayed. Someone higher up has dropped the ball or decided it was too late to shut it down.
Price leads Gaz and Soap and Ghost has Roach and Alex. Farah remains above ground with Laswell on overwatch, Laswell on comms and Farah ready with her sniper rifle. Gaz, Roach and Alex come in fully shifted, wearing the new armored vests, Soap had the quartermaster order. They are equipped with straps to carry shifter med kits, ammo and weapons and layered with Soap’s protective wards, in case they have to shift back into a more convenient human form, if so, while they may be half-naked, at least they will be well armed.
Afterwards Ghost will curse himself for allowing Price to separate him from his mate. He understands the Alpha’s reasoning, neither of them can distract each other on a mission, but what the Captain doesn’t realize is that the ache of separation is a distraction in itself to the big wolf. He hears over the comms when the others reach the bomb, verify there are no hostages and begin to disarm it and he and the others surge forward in a run when they hear the sudden sound of gunfire, deep guttural roars and the growls of a fighting wolf. Reaching the deserted platform where the bomb is located they find Price and Gaz fighting off Makarov’s men in an attempt to give Soap time to disarm the monstrosity. It’s a triad bomb with complicated dual wiring that requires two people working together with split second timing to disarm.
One of Makarov’s men is a brown Bear shifter and he and Gaz are tearing into each other, Gaz valiantly holding his own against the huge shifter and keeping him back. Price keeps the humans back with his automatic, crouched on the opposite side of the bomb to cover Soap, waiting for Soap to indicate which color wire he needs to snip in tandem with the sergeant. Soap has removed his too bulky helmet and is awkwardly bent over, arms deep in the convoluted tangle of wires, focused on tracing the correct wires to disarm it. Ghost waves Roach forward and covers him as he bounds snarling into the fight to aid Gaz, while Alex takes up position across from Price and shifts and adds his own expert fire to make Makarov’s men regret their choices. Ghost fervently wishes the Vaqueros were still here to turn the tide. Both are invaluable in a fire fight.
Ghost himself is sniping any fool that sticks his head up, aware that he is snarling under his mask, shift trying to erupt from his skin, something feels off and he sees what a second too late. Just as Soap raises his head and yells “Cut the red on three!” and he and Price prepare to snip the wires seconds before it counts down. Makarov emerges like a snake from the shadows of an industrial generator and shoots Price in the back, and then turns his gun on Soap, firing quickly and felling him with a shot to his right shoulder.
Ghost roars a warning, both to the soon to be dead Russian and his mate. Time seems to slow and he feels like he is moving through molasses, as he surges forward, firing at the men who are trying to snipe the fallen Price. Gaz and Roach finally bring the massive bear down in an expert team effort, teeth deep in his throat, and Ghost fires on the Konni to force them back. Alex is snarling and wounded, blood trickling from his arm, but it's a normal round and he is already healing.
Ghost feels several rounds pluck at his clothing and sting his armor, but none penetrate his formidable wards. He ducks to avoid a round to the head and watches horrified as Makarov puts another round in his sergeant and brings him down, just as he and Price snip the crucial red wires. A heavy, constant barrage of gunfire from the few remaining Russians force Ghost to duck behind a pipe, even as he continues to advance rapidly towards his enemy. The enemy whom he is going to rip to shreds with his teeth and bare hands for daring to shoot his mate. A series of explosive silver wolf killer rounds suddenly hit his chest directly above his heart, and slam him back on his arse against the wall, even as Alex takes the sniper out, and he struggles back up, ears ringing, fighting the concussion, sharp sting of shrapnel and pain to aim his rifle.
He can only watch helplessly as Makarov turns back to put another round into Price, aiming for his head this time as the Alpha struggles to rise, a feral grin on his narrow, smug face. Before he can, Soap surges up to his feet behind him, wraps his weakened, wounded arm around his neck to hold him and proceeds to stab the shit out of him with his kitsune blade. Makarov chose the wrong day not to wear body armor. Soap’s blade crackles with blue electricity as he expertly works it, swift, accurate jabs to the throat, then one hard thrust up under his rib cage and twisted deep to reach his vitals. Makarov is slumping, dead on his feet but somehow he still manages to jerk free of Soap’s faltering hold and bring his Baretta up and around and get off one final shot —directly to his boy’s head.
Ghost howls.
His pack takes it up even as they surge forward, their grief and rage furiously channeled into taking out the few remaining Russians. Alex shifts again and he, Gaz and Roach, caught in the maelstrom of Ghost’s pain and rage, go berserk and rip into the unfortunate men and literally tear the screaming Konni to shreds without mercy. Price struggles to his feet, the rounds in him are normal, so he too will recover shortly.
Ghost grabs Makarov’s slumped body, pulls it away from Soap and rips its head off and slings it aside. The fucker will not be allowed go to the afterlife whole. May he seek his fucking head for an eternity in the pitch black darkness of the Underworld. Ghost slings his rifle behind him and drops to his knees beside the sprawled body of his love, automatically retrieving his kitsune knife and tucking it away. He doesn’t know where to touch him first. Soap is soaked with blood, a pool rapidly spreading beneath his head. His eyes are closed, lashes dark against his pale face, tilted slightly away from Ghost. There is blood in his mouth, ear and eyelashes and his braid is soaked with it and has fallen from its neat clasp.
Ghost reaches and gathers him close. Distantly, he is aware of a sudden ringing silence as the gunfire and snarling of fighting wolves ceases, he hears Price on the com to Laswell, hears him say, “All stations this is Bravo in the blind. Threat neutralized. One KIA.” The old man’s voice is thick with grief. Another damned channel train thunders past, all flashing lights, drowning out the rest.
Someone is whining and he becomes slowly aware that it is him, making that horrid, thin, rattling noise of grief, deep in his throat, too thick with tears to emerge as a howl. He rips off his mask and gloves and buries his face in his boy’s still warm throat, breathing him in one last time before Death takes him forever away from Ghost. The greedy cunt always takes what he loves most. As he presses his mouth against Soap’s throat, he stills as he feels the slow, warm thrum of his pulse.
His boy, his Braveheart, is still alive. Fighting to stay with Ghost.
He is moving before he realizes it, ripping open Soap’s well stocked med kit, and tearing out the wound clot and the pressure bandages, snarling at Price, at any of them, to fucking give him a hand because Soap is still alive and every fucking second counts. They need to get him to the healers yesterday. There is way too much blood pooling in a crimson puddle beneath Soap’s head. Dimly he hears Price loudly order Laswell to send in the EMTs and the Trauma Healer, even as he works to keep every remaining precious drop of blood in Johnny’s body. He uses every combat trauma aid lesson his boy pounded into his head as he staunches the heavy bleeding in his shoulder and Alex is suddenly there, falling to his knees patching and binding up his heavily bleeding thigh. Ghost moves to the horrible wound in his head, as he carefully cups his jaw, tilts his head and gently swipes away the blood, he realizes he can see metal glinting in the side of his head.
By some miracle, the gun misfired and the bullet didn’t fully penetrate Soap’s skull, fragmenting despite hitting one of the most fragile parts of the bone. Carefully he seals a bandage over it to staunch the bleeding. His hands and arms and clothes are soaked in his boy’s blood. His boy is bleeding to death, in shock and running out of time. Dimly he becomes aware of people arriving and someone tries to take Soap from him and he rounds on them, teeth bared and snarling, only to have a gray haired, blue-eyed shifter in a white coat snarl and hiss right back and snap her teeth in his face as she takes over, growling out orders to her EMTs, even as she slaps a Med stasis amulet on Soap’s chest. The high powered charm won’t last forever, just long enough to reach the hospital. She is a feline shifter, he realizes and a mage trained trauma medic, so he manages to rein himself in enough not to attack her or her crew. A primal part of him dimly recognizes they are here to help.
His pack is suddenly there, strong hands holding him back and helping him up as he staggers to his feet, shrugs them off and doggedly follows the gurney holding his heart as the medical crew sprint for the waiting ambulance. They stay with him, even as he stays with his boy, until they reach the nearest hospital’s surgery theater’s doors and the healers firmly force him back. Then he can only wait. Wait for his boy to come back to him. They give up trying to move him away from the hall, away from the doors. The big Wolf stands sentinel, bloody and scarred and silently waits for his mate. Head tilted, scarred face on full display, big hands dripping crimson, he listens to the faltering beat of his boy’s heart, the crisp orders of the surgeons to the nurses. Twice he flinches as the monitors scream and they lose him and have to restart his heart, but the fucking, damned dedicated trauma team brings him back each time and his lad soldiers on in his fight to live.
He waits faithfully.
His pack surrounds him protectively. They are well aware that if they lose Soap today they will lose Ghost as well. He will go totally feral and there is only one way to stop a feral Alpha. He snarls if Price approaches, his angry, near feral wolf unwilling to forgive the Alpha for separating him from his mate. (Ghost will never quite trust Price enough again or automatically defer to him as Alpha—and both men will grieve that loss of trust) From now on, Ghost will rely on his own judgment.
There is a team of armored Commandos with silver loaded wolf killer rounds waiting quietly in position, just out of sight on this floor just in case. Gently they keep the unnecessary medical personnel away, and direct traffic around the grieving wolf. A soft spoken Farah’s gentle hands determine that Ghost suffered only bruises and minor cuts from the exploding rounds that shattered his chest plate in the firefight and that they are already healing. He huffs in her familiar scent laced with the milky scent of the pups, vaguely recognizes she is not a threat, ignores her and barely notices her touch as she pats him down and removes his plate carrier and gear, and wipes his face and hands clean, so focused is he to the sound of one distant, faltering heartbeat. After a few hours the only mark visible on his body is the tiny, delicate pink mark that Soap’s teeth left on the hinge of his jaw.
His first and possibly last mating mark.
23
Soap dreams.
He is sitting in a lush cliff side meadow, overlooking the Sea of the Hebrides. It’s full of fragrant flowers buzzing with bees and herbs that he vaguely realizes are not native to Scotland. It reminds him of Skye, yet not. He blinks up at the fluffy white clouds in the clear blue sky and watches as a flock of white birds with long trailing tail feathers fly by. What are Chinese Silver Pheasants doing here? He plucks the stem of a blue Tibetan mountain poppy and stares at it, puzzled. He hears a distant nicker and watches as a herd of Fell ponies frolic and gallop in the distance, one little bay bucking and kicking up its heels looks very familiar. He stares as a majestic white stag with the largest rack of antlers he has ever seen strolls through the meadow less than thirty feet away, totally unafraid. In the sea below a pod of blue whales rise to spout.
Is he dead? Is this the far green country? He doesn’t feel dead. He reaches up to touch his temple. There are no wounds on his body. He is wearing a crown of flowers—pale blue Forget-me-Nots, with one blood red poppy. He pulls it off and fingers a fold of the kilt he is wearing. It’s the old fashioned herb dyed warm russets and oranges, sky blue and leaf green threaded weave of Clan Chattan, a plaid he has never worn. He looks up to see a familiar form strolling towards him, a stocky gray cat, tail held high. As it gets nearer Angus morphs smoothly into his Fae form, still barefoot and clad in his cat skins and patchwork wool and leathers. He grins at Soap’s puzzled face, sharp teeth gleaming and bends to deal him a gentle Glasgow kiss, a big hand scruffing his neck and tangling in his braid and giving it a playful bat and tug as his forehead bumps Soap’s affectionately, before he drops a fond kiss there.
”Did I not tell ye, ma bonnie lad, that I would gift ye nine lives?”
The Cat Sith chuckles at his descendant’s startled face and flops down to recline and stretch lazily in the sun beside him, back arching. His eyes crinkle and his white teeth flash in a sharp smile, as he regards his favorite descendant with a satisfied smirk. Soap is reminded of Bob, languidly stretching his toe beans in the sun before a nap.
”Ah have much ta teach ye, ma kitten.”
****
Ghost sits silently beside Johnny’s hospital bed, one big hand holding his still one. His lad has been in a coma now for almost two weeks, but when they removed the ventilator he breathed on his own and he breathes still, so Ghost waits silently for him to wake. Soap suffered massive blood loss due to his wounds requiring a transfusion, as well as a TBI to his head. While the bullet did not fully penetrate his skull, it caused a brain bleed and a linear fracture and the doctors and healers have been vigilant in warding off infection at the site. Although the shoulder wound was a clean shot through, and the angle did surprisingly little damage to nerves or bone, the shot to the thigh was a career killer, as it was to the same leg with the old knee injury and shattered the femur only a few inches above the old injury. The surgeon saved his leg, but Soap will have to learn to walk again. In the meantime Ghost waits and broods. Will Johnny be able to see and hear? Will his love even remember him if he ever opens his eyes again?
They have already had one scare when infection set in and Johnny’s temperature rose and the medical team fought for almost two days to bring his raging fever down. The doctors are hopeful that he will regain consciousness, but are uncertain as to exactly how much his head trauma will affect his hearing, eyesight and memory. If Makarov’s bullet had penetrated his brain he would have died almost instantly. The swelling has finally subsided, and the bruising is fading, but he has yet to show signs of waking.
Ghost and the pack are diligent in his care. It is Ghost and Farah who tend to his non medical needs, tenderly bathing, shaving, turning him in bed and massaging his sturdy body and limbs with lotion so he doesn’t develop bed sores. Ghost carefully washes his long tail of hair, pats it dry and rebraids it, thankful that the staff didn’t completely shave his head. The nurse mentioned something about respecting traditional witch beliefs. (Ghost suspects they feared being hexed by an irate bald witch.) The hospital staff have learned to work around the big Alpha and no one complains because John MacTavish is the only patient in the hospital who receives a weekly bouquet of fresh flowers from the palace gardens, sent by Her Majesty, who also demands regular personal updates from the flustered hospital director on the health of her favorite Knight and is guarded by a squad of the Queen’s Own Dames. Several of the formidable ladies are broader and taller than most of the wolves. (When Soap recovers he will receive even more elaborate chest candy and honors.)
Ghost has yet to leave Soap’s room. He showers in the attached bathroom and the pack brings him clean clothes and food. He naps sitting in the hard, bedside chair. He could not bear it if the unthinkable happened and his boy slipped away while Ghost was down the hall updating Price or in the cafeteria for a cuppa. His diligence is rewarded when an unfamiliar nurse enters the room and approaches the bed, a medical tray in hand and a vague don't-notice-me smile on her face. Every hair on his nape stands on end, his teeth itch and he takes a deep breath and sniffs suspiciously. The familiar witchy reek of bitter herbs is muted, but there and he pounces with a deep, guttural snarl.
The witch has no time to scream or cast before one big hand chokes her off, as he hoists her up in the air. His other hand twists and snaps her slender arm, causing her gasp in pain and to drop the lethal, black iron hex needle she held hidden in her palm. She gurgles, claws and kicks wildly but it does no good as Gaz and one of the sturdy Dames on guard spill into the room, late to the party but at least alert to the danger. The Dame must have picked up on her malevolent presence from her station down the hall.
Ghost shakes her violently once, hard enough to rattle her teeth, then tosses her to Gaz. She is contained, cuffed and bridled in no time and a trio of Dames appear and drag her off for questioning while the first mutters a nulling charm and gingerly wraps the poisonous, hexed bit of iron in a warded bag, before sealing it in an oak box. Ghost watched, teeth bared as the sliver of iron had twitched and rolled towards the bed and its vulnerable occupant, still seeking its victim before being contained. Later, although she refuses to speak, they will find an ancient owl and thistle clan brooch among her possessions and as she weakens under stern, relentless questioning, her disguise glamour falters and drops, revealing a haggard, stolen face, which has lost considerable years under Adam McPherson’s relentless pursuit.
That of Morag McConnell herself.
Apparently the Hag decided if she can’t have John MacTavish, no one else could either. Dame Dee coolly informs her that she is fortunate that Lord Wylde did not kill her, but that she may have wished he had, because Morag will spend the remainder of her stolen years magically bound and imprisoned in the dark, hidden “forgotten” cells far beneath the Tower for the crimes of murder, attempted murder and Dark Castings. The Dames have worked diligently to compile stacks of evidence against her, encompassing years of misdeeds. She will never see the sky or feel the sun on her face again and receive her meals through a slot in the sealed door of her cell. In a way, she will find herself buried alive in a very silent solitary confinement, as helpless as she rendered her many victims over the years.
Ghost is dozing, just coming down from his hypervigilant state. Dame Dee informed him who he captured and even apologized for allowing the witch to get so close. He wishes now that he had recognized the Hag’s poorly disguised scent. He would have killed her immediately and spared the Crown the problem of housing her for the rest of her miserable life. The murderous bitch nearly waltzed right past him and poisoned his boy. There is now both a Dame and a Wolf posted outside Johnny’s door at all times. If any of Morag’s kin (doubtful, they probably celebrated her capture, free of her malignant presence in their lives) or Marakov’s allies attempt revenge, they won’t make it past the door. If by some chance they do, they will find Ghost waiting.
Word reached Alejandro and Rodolfo, who were already on their way to London, having felt the intense emotions shared by the pack bond, which they had not severed, even from thousands of miles away. It would be too painful to do so. They remain in the 141st pack by proxy, as allies and family, even if they lead their own growing pack now. Under Alejandro’s leadership, the Las Almas pack is being rebuilt from the ground up. They firmly inform Price that they will stay with the 141st until their youngest hermano awakens. König will lead the Vaqueros until they return. The big Austrian Bear is quite popular among his men and their warmth and kindness helps work wonders with his anxiety.
The reunited pack takes shifts, guarding their pup, and Laswell knows better than to try and send any of them on a mission. The news of the 141st pack’s heroics, especially that of their young medic leaked to the public and suddenly the hospital was inundated with gifts and flowers for Soap. Her Majesty had to order a stern warning issued for journalists to remain at a respectful distance, which they obeyed after Alé snarled in the face of the rude, pushy reporter who shoved a mic in his face and tried to get a quote from him. He simply tossed both he and his photographer into the yew hedge outside the hospital. The popularity of Werewolves in general experiences a vast surge, especially after the Tik Tok of The Yeet makes the rounds on social media, and there is suddenly much talk from the higher ups of forming more elite military Were squads.
Once the Wyldecroft pack learn of their Alpha’s heroics and the devastating injury to his young mate, Wilkes and Beatrice brave a journey down to London and appear at the hospital respectfully carrying fragrant flowers, healing herbal posies and tokens and best wishes from the pack as well as several large wicker hampers of food from Cook to nourish their Alpha and his military pack. Touched as he seldom is, Ghost allows them access to briefly visit Soap’s room, and Beatrice’s eyes fill with tears at the sight of the vivacious young man lying silent and vulnerable in his hospital bed, hooked to a multitude of beeping monitors.
They stay only briefly to console their Alpha and inform his lordship that they will have the Gate House cozy and ready and waiting for when he brings young John home after he is discharged from hospital. Ghost nods silently and sees them out and only later sitting silently in the dark, does he realize the immense comfort their words gave him. He can do that, he realizes. He has a comfortable, safe den to bring his boy home to recuperate in. Johnny can rest and heal and draw the horses and animals Ghost already considers as belonging to his sergeant.
The same annoying, intrepid reporter who has gained some small internet media fame from being tossed into a hedge, notes the plate number of the Wildecroft vehicle the pair used (the fact that the shy, elderly wolves brought flowers and food and were courteously greeted and immediately escorted in, like family caught his eye) so he tracked them down to the estate and rapidly put two and two together after some judicious eavesdropping at the White Lion. He tried for an interview at the Great House and was soundly rebuffed and escorted off the property and ran out of the village entirely. However, almost immediately a series of articles about “Lord Wylde, Heroic Knight Protector'' flashed through the news outlets like wildfire, complete with photos (taken during the Yule feast and acquired illicitly).
One especially well framed shot of Simon arm and arm with Johnny, carefully escorting him down the lane to the house, head tilted attentively as he smiles fondly down at his laughing sergeant, goes viral overnight, forever eliminating their careers as covert operators. Laswell and Price were livid, but there was little they could do, other than plan to restructure the team and issue a blistering statement to the press pointing out how they have endangered the lives of the men who defended their city. Fines were issued and lawsuits initiated, but it’s already too late.
Ghost would not be separated from John while he healed anyway. Plus, if there was a bright side to the whole mess, this was a prime opportunity to open the SAS to more Weres and they had no choice but to pounce on it. Laswell got to work, intent on riding the Brass’ sudden goodwill regarding shifters and taking full advantage of the sudden surge in enlistments from the shifter communities, who recognize a golden opportunity for further integration into mainstream society when it presents itself.
Fortunately, the reporter totally missed the quiet arrival of Irene McCleod at the side entrance of the hospital, with a buzzing Bob tucked securely in her oversized, fluffy cardigan. The Healer examined her comatose grandson tenderly, murmured a blessing, kissed his brow and gently told Ghost that she could do nothing more for him until he recovered further. John has received the best trauma care available to him, the rest is up to him. It is his choice to return from the Borderlands. Now they can only wait. She held the big Wolf’s huge, scarred hand and they sat together and shared stories and held quiet vigil while Bob tucked himself into the crook of Soap’s neck, emitting a steady, comforting, healing purr. Irene was diligent in seeing that Ghost ate and rested, and he trusted her enough to finally lie down on the spare cot that had been brought in and actually sleep for a few hours.
Ghost is dreaming.
He crouches at the shattered window of the bell tower of an old church in a familiar dreamscape that is a mishmash of a dozen sniper’s nests and cities that he has made use of in countless missions over the years. Is he in Spain? Iraq? Croatia? Mexico? He doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s the same bleak, monochromatic gray washed cityscape. He takes a deep breath and focuses on his target below. The man moves silently through the shadows, rifle at ready as he advances on Ghost’s position. He is dressed all in black from head to toe and Simon can’t make out his features. It doesn't matter. His target is in range now. He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly and relaxes as he lines up his perfect head shot and gently squeezes the trigger. Killing is second nature to him. It’s his profession, easy, hard wired into his muscle memory. He is very good at it. Just as his trigger finger tightens, his target looks up and he looks directly into a pair of familiar bright blue eyes through his scope, but it's too late to pull the shot and a fan of crimson splashes the wall behind him as the force of the shot knocks his target’s body back against the wall. Bright true blue and vivid blood red, the only colors in his grayscale dreamscape.
”Johnny!”
Simon jerks awake with a start, biting back his choked off scream, his heart pounding, his fists clenched. Instantly he realizes that there is someone else in the room, standing over Soap’s bed watching him sleep. Irene left some hours ago, with a promise to return after resting. He silently reaches for his knife, only to freeze when he recognizes his night visitor. Angus is standing at the foot of Johnny’s bed, head tilted at a listening angle, studying Soap’s sleeping face, one hand idly stroking a madly purring Bob, who happily rubs and head butts the Fae’s hand. The Fae is poshly dressed in a tailored black wool overcoat, complete with a jaunty silk scarf over a green jumper and gray trousers. Incongruously, his long, narrow feet are bare.
The Cat Sith turns his head, green eyes reflecting light from the street lamp outside and regards Simon coolly.
“Wolf. Ye have doone a piss poor job of guarding my get. Do ye remember what Ah told ye if ye did not treat him well?”
The Fae flashes his sharp teeth and turns languidly towards him, one clawed hand still lazily stroking the kitten.
“Yeah.”
Ghost responds dully. He deserves any vitriol or punishment that the Cat throws his way and will endure it. He was too slow. He should have been at his lad’s back while he defused that damned bomb and took those bullets himself. Sharp white teeth flash again in the dark and the Fae continues speaking, his words as sharp and merciless as blades in the dimly lit room.
“If he wakes now he will be deaf and blind and helpless and have no memory of ye. Can ye endure that? Will ye stay with him then? Will ye love ma bonnie lad if he is never bright or whole again? Or will ye leave him to the silent dark?
Ghost loses his breath, feels his eyes fill and drops heavily to his knees in front of the angry Cat. It feels like his chest is being crushed by a merciless hand. Johnny doesn’t deserve that fate. He fastens his eyes instead on his boy’s still face, his true compass and speaks honestly straight from the heart.
“I don’t care if he never remembers me. I will be here for him for the rest of my life and I will take care of him for the rest of his life and beyond. I am his as long as he will have me, and always will be. He will never be alone in the dark. Never. If he needs a service dog, I’m his man. I will fight Hell itself to stay by his side, and the Devil himself to just be allowed to hold his hand.”
His voice sounds thin and defiant, even to himself as he rises stubbornly, stands and squares his shoulders and takes Johnny’s limp hand and presses a tender kiss to the calloused palm, eyes still locked on his boy’s sleeping face. He will be present. He will stay by the young Scot. He will not be moved. Even if his bright boy never remembers him. They can make new memories together. He will take care of John MacTavish for the rest of his life and beyond if the Moon allows it. Simon Riley raises his head and meets the Fae’s defiantly, holding on tight. He will not let go. He will not leave his Johnny alone in the dark. His boy needs him.
To his surprise, the Fae’s stern demeanor changes and he smiles warmly at Ghost. Stepping forward he reaches over and Simon automatically clasps his hand. Angus grins and holds it tight for a long moment, his own hand calloused and clawed. There is something like pride in his tilted, feline eyes.
“Ye have chosen well, Simon Riley. May luck and honor be with ye and yours all your days.”
The Cat Sith leans forward into his space, leaf green eyes mesmerizing, filling Simon’s vision, his sharp teeth flashing in a genuine, familiar smile, as he ruffles and rakes his claws not ungently through Simon’s unkempt hair and says,
“Wake up, Simon Riley. Someone needs yer attendance.”
Ghost startles awake to find himself sitting with his head pillowed on Johnny’s bed, still holding his hand, dazed at the curiously lucid dream. Didn’t he fall asleep on the cot across the room? The sun is just rising and tinting the windows with golden light. Did Angus really prowl through his dreamscape? Was it actually a dream? Suddenly he is aware of the hand now weakly squeezing his and he lifts his head to meet a pair of hazy blue eyes. Eyes that crinkle with delight at the sight of him. His Johnny grins crookedly at him.
” LT…”
His voice is breathy, weak and low, but Ghost feels his heart start to sing because his boy is present, lucid, and looking into his eyes and recognizing him and speaking to him and it’s more than enough. He surges up to hold him, to cup that beloved face, careful of his fragile, bandaged head and his many lines and monitors and press a fervent kiss to his bruised brow. His boy is awake. His boy is alive and Ghost is going to make damned sure he stays that way until they are both old and gray and senile and ready to totter off into the Summerlands together hand in hand, bickering. Distantly he is aware of the hot tears running down his face.
Later he will hit the call button and the room will fill with medical personnel, and swarm with pack and important visitors, but for now Simon steals the moment to hold his boy close and press kiss after gentle kiss to his flushed, smiling face. He can’t stop laughing although hot tears are still streaming down his own scruffy face.
24
Soap woke after a curiously lucid dream about Angus, to the feel of a familiar, big calloused hand holding his free hand. The other is dead weight. Blinking groggily, and licking dry lips, he realized he was in hospital and on the really excellent drugs. His head was both floaty and aching as he took a bleary inventory of his person. He distinctly remembered that cunt Makarov shot him at least twice. His right shoulder and leg throbbed to remind him and he could feel a bandage around his head. Okay, three times then, the steaming jobby. He hoped Ghost managed to off the bastard with extreme prejudice, because his memory of the tunnels is a bit foggy. That explained the headache and the tinnitus. A heavy, ash blond head lay on his arm. Ghost was unmasked and Soap winced at the sight of bruised eyes, unkempt hair, heavy stubble, and dry, chapped lips, but at least he sported no visible wounds. He hoped the others were okay as well.
He tried to make his muscles function enough to squeeze the big man’s hand, and was rewarded by his head shooting up and those intense brown eyes locked on his. He grinned happily and croaked out a whispery;
”LT…”
The big man’s fervent reaction had him smiling helplessly. His Wolf loved him back. After covering his face with gentle kisses, his Alpha hurried to hold a small, paper cup of water to his dry lips, and he sipped slowly, sighing with bliss as the cool liquid soaked into his dry tissues. He quickly realized he has some hearing problems, probably because he had apparently indeed, been shot in the fucking head. At least he still has most of his wits about him, if not his hearing. Simon reluctantly hit the call button and soon the room was bustling with medical personnel.
Soap answered the questions put to him as best he could, although he could feel himself fading, he yawned and clung stubbornly to Simon’s hand. No one, he noticed, tried to make the big Wolf move from his side. They worked around him and he watched their every move narrowly, like a bristling, grumpy guard dog. The great numpty, Soap thought fondly as he drifted off, secure in the knowledge that his Wolf would be there when he woke up again. They had a lot to talk about. He drifted off, hand held tight oblivious to the neurologists muttering about miracles. Simon knew that this particular miracle was probably named Angus.
****
“But Simon, I’m cold.”
Soap widened his eyes and tried to look pitiful. Unfortunately Ghost was on to his wiles and gave him an amused, exasperated look. Even Bob, diligently washing his toe beans in a sunbeam on the foot of the bed shot him a look of patent disbelief. Soap has been restless all morning.
”I’ll bring you an extra blanket, then, you silly muppet. You know I can’t fit in that cot with you. Besides, you’re so bandaged up, you can barely wriggle your toes.”
He leaned over and gently ruffled the sulking Scot’s overgrown ‘hawk and dropped a kiss on his brow. Soap was going to shit when he finally realized the entire left side of his head had been shaved, rendering his unique haircut even odder than usual. The row of sutures from his surgery was prominent, although there was only a small square bandage placed neatly over the healing bullet site now. The little shite immediately brightened, further proof he was up to no good. Sly fingers tangled in his sleeve and feebly tried to pull him closer and he obliged, frowning a bit at the heat his boy was putting out. He pressed his lips against his brow again. Fever. Definitely a fever. This was not good.
Soap’s immune system was weakened and suppressed after all the damned surgeries, transfusions and medications. Suddenly a lot more attentive, he bent closer and pressed his lips again on his flushed cheek. Yes, his boy was feverish. The doctor has already been by, less than an hour ago, why didn’t the man notice when he examined Soap earlier? The man had been distracted, mind elsewhere, not on his job as it should be. Closing his eyes he gently nosed the dark head and inhaled deeply. There. He straightened and ignored Soap’s whine as he moved down the bed, inhaling deeply, looking for the source of that faint scent of sweet rot. Infection. His boy was rapidly developing sepsis at the site of his leg injury.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, he lifted his head and spoke normally.
“Farah?”
The woman popped her head in the room, from where she has been on guard duty with Gabby, one of the Dames, immediately picking up the dark undercurrents of Ghost’s sudden mood shift. Simon nodded at her curtly.
” Go find Dr. Patel. Patel, not Langdon. Tell her Soap has an infection in his leg that Langdon missed.”
Farah’s eyes flash gold with fury and she is gone. If Langdon is fortunate she will not pass him on her way. Farah is as protective of Soap as she is of Noor and Zahra and Alex.
“LT?”
Now he has worried his lad.
He smiles at him, but before he can say anything to reassure him, Patel bustles swiftly in followed by a protesting Langdon and Soap’s favorite nurse, Marion, an absolute Jamaican born weapon who also happens to be the Head nurse. Langdon shuts his mouth at the sight of Simon’s face, as the big Wolf drops his head and stares him down. The doctor hovers tensely behind Dr. Patel as she ignores him and deftly cuts off bandages and peels back the dressing on Soap’s thigh. She hisses out an irritated sound at the sight of the swollen surgery site and the dark red streak already radiating from the sutures up Soap’s leg, and Langdon is suddenly very still and pale, eyes locked on Simon’s cold face.
Dr. Patel quickly orders the nurse to fetch fresh bandages, a dose of high powered antibiotics and an IV bag of fluids, as she carefully drains, cleans, disinfects, and rebandages the wound. Soap is silent, despite the pain of being tended to, narrowed eyes on Landon’s guilty face, the clever lad having deduced immediately that Langdon has dropped the ball regarding his aftercare. Patel is furious, full lips pressed tightly together and Simon realizes suddenly that she can say nothing, because she is a junior physician here and Langdon, tenured, white and firmly entrenched in the good old boy system has more clout than she. He will try to bury the incident, or twist the blame onto her. Well, Simon can nip that shite in the bud.
”Farah. Please inform the Director that I want a word with him. Now.”
Farah grins and is gone and Langdon pales even further, clears his throat and begins to bluster.
”Now, Lord Wylde, there is no need…”
That is another thing Simon dislikes about the pompous prat. He is a brown noser who panders to the so called upper class and looks down his long nose at everyone else. Simon despises social climbers.
”Shut up. Remove yourself from this room and this case immediately. In future focus on the care of your patients instead of shagging nurses in the fucking stairwell. You still reek of her cunt.”
Langdon clamps his gaping mouth shut and face tomato red, swiftly exits the room. The Head nurse looks furious and Simon nods at her questioning look. She will see that her staff is disciplined, there is no doubt. Like Simon, she despises incompetence and unprofessional behavior on the job.
”It’s the flighty peroxide blonde bint who wears the obnoxious, sugary, fruity perfume.”
Simon informs her simply.
Langdon reeks of it and her.
Marion nods and briskly strides out, on the warpath, her wide hips swishing. Somewhere down the hall, the shite will hit the fan. As Patel tends to Soap, he meets his boy’s speculative gaze, and feels himself soften as his boy’s bright eyes crinkle in amusement at his fierce posturing. The impertinent little shite. He can’t remember a time when his Sergeant was ever cowed by him. If he ever was, he hid it well.
Patel manages to rapidly gain control of the infection, aided by a new antibiotic that Irene enhanced with a healing spell, so Soap only has about a day of real unpleasantness to deal with and Simon distracts him with poor jokes, cool drinks and cuddles. Still, it weakens him and he spends most of the day sleeping the fever away as his body works on fighting the infection and healing itself. Simon never leaves his side, gently wiping his hot face with a cool cloth and spoon feeding him when he is too exhausted to do it himself. After his word with the Director, Langdon vanished from the hospital and a specialist was flown in from Edinburgh to personally oversee the young sergeant’s care, despite Simon calmly stating he trusted Dr. Patel. He lets it go, knowing the man is either just covering his arse, or Her Majesty got wind of the fiasco and had a Word with the hapless Director.
****
Marion Davies has been a nurse since she graduated secondary school. Poor as a church mouse, she worked her way through nursing school at night and steadily moved up to the position she holds now. The one she will shortly retire from, because all of her kids are finally out of the house now and she can concentrate on herself for once. She has seen some poignant and even nigh miraculous things in this hospital, but she has never seen such devotion as Simon Riley has for his young sergeant. The big Werewolf has not left John MacTavish’s side since they brought him in, bleeding out on the gurney.
She watched warily as the big man stood sentinel in the hall outside of the surgical theatre, scarred and bloody and reeking of sweat, blood and cordite, head cocked as he listened to every move made inside that operating room. Werewolves frightened her. Like many, while logically she knew they were people, that uncanny valley feeling lingered around them. The primeval fear of being too near an apex predator. She has never had the opportunity to befriend one.
When the Captain quietly ordered her people to evacuate the other patients from the floor and keep their distance, horrified, she watched a team of armored, well-armed Commandos quietly take up positions on either end of the floor. She kept her ears open and learned exactly why they were there. If the wounded boy died, the big Wolf would go mad. They were there to shoot him if necessary. To put him down like a rabid animal. His pack surrounded him protectively, yet gave him his space. He never moved until his boy was taken to a private room, and then he followed and never left. He loved his boy that much. And his boy loved him back. She marveled at that, because she always assumed that werewolves were, well, different from normal humans, more beastlike.
She read his chart with Dr. Patel (that young lady would go far, if she could survive the good old boys) and for a while Marion doubted the boy would live, much less wake with his wits intact. Miraculously he did and she was the first to answer the call button after those bright blue eyes opened, and stayed locked on his Wolf, clutching the man’s big scarred hand like it was a lifeline. Love, love had brought him back from the dark and it flowed between the two as thick and as intoxicating as honey. It was a love that was probably visible from space. It was a treat to see.
She got to know them and bask in it a bit, because John MacTavish was a natural born flirt and a charmer, with his pretty eyes and megawatt smile, as well as a genuinely decent human being. He made friends with every nurse on the floor and flirted with them all, complimenting them and generously sharing out his many bouquets of flowers, even the weekly ones sent by Her Majesty while Simon Riley looked on indulgently. The big Wolf looked better after his boy woke, because he now took better care of himself so he could dote on his boy.
And he was vigilant and devoted in his aftercare. Defending him from the horrible witch that somehow slipped past the guards, and sniffing out a nasty infection that prat Langdon should have caught before it got as bad as it did (She was delighted when he was dismissed from the hospital, that was too long in coming). She watched and sighed enviously (along with the other nurses) as Simon nursed his boy through his fever, gently bathing and shaving him and washing, drying and brushing out that long, thick, overgrown mane that started as a Mohawk.
She came in with his medication and found the Wolf, tongue in cheek, huge hands gentle, as he concentrated on carefully plaiting his boy’s hair into the neat braid he favored, then gently settled him back in his nest of pillows, careful as always of his still bandaged shoulder and head wound. The bullet left a slash of scar tissue, a warped star shape, but neither man seemed to care. They both were scarred from their profession and wore them proudly as badges of honor like the warriors of old because they both survived what killed most men.
They were trained killers, but she never saw anyone as gentle with his love as the big Wolf was with his boy. She watched then fondly as the big Lieutenant, so steadfast in his devotion, cuddled with, read to and entertained his boy with horrible jokes and puns distracting him from his pain and holding him close in those big arms and rumbling comfort when he received the final diagnosis about his leg and his damaged hearing and the lad wept for the loss of his career. She wasn’t surprised to come on shift one morning to find him beaming with joy and flashing a heavy gold ring for everyone to admire while his wolf projected smug satisfaction from every pore from his seat by the bed.
She even got a bit teary after he was released, clutching the Queen’s last bouquet of sunny yellow and creamy white roses that young John thrust into her arms with a sassy kiss smacked on her cheek, as Simon carefully placed him in his wheelchair, the pack and the Dames milling about efficiently as they saw him safely off. She hoped he and his Love got the happy ending they so deserved. She beamed and waved them off with the rest of her nurses, before going back inside to resume helping people. The floor seemed dimmer and emptier without them. It was time she thought, to take her well earned retirement and perhaps move to sunnier climes. She missed the islands where she grew up.
****
“Och, LT, Ahm nae made of glass!”
Soap complains vigorously as he is carefully lifted from the Land Rover’s seat, but he holds on tight, free arm around Simon’s neck, a bit dizzy. He is still frail and hospital pale and he’s lost way too much weight and muscle mass for his pack’s comfort. Simon is careful to not bump his shoulder or heavily bandaged leg as he carries him into the Gate House. Beside the front door, Wilkes and Beatrice beam as they oversee the T141 pack as they swarm around the small caravan of vehicles, unloading luggage and Johnny’s new wheelchair. Irene and Cook are already inside, critically inspecting the kitchen, again, and filling cupboards and fridge with enough nourishing food to feed an entire regiment of starving wolves.
In the weeks Johnny spent in hospital, the Gate House underwent some extensive modifications and renovation to accommodate an invalid (not that anyone dares say that in front of Soap) via Simon’s orders and under the supervision of Wilke’s and Irene’s sharp eyes. Johnny was released a bit early, so the hospital could resume its normal schedule. Ghost suspects the long-suffering Director immediately booked a lengthy vacation to Mallorca.
While the Tudor architecture of the house remains untouched, the master bedroom now boasts a huge, luxurious new mattress set in a heavy bed frame, an oak monster boasting four tall, canopy posts carved with acorns and oak leaves, and matching tapestry hangings, that was clearly purloined from somewhere in the Great House, disassembled and brought here. The kitchen now boasts sunny new paint, breezy white curtains and new appliances, all in glistening cobalt blue enamel.
The lounge was also repainted and has new comfortable new furniture, rearranged to accommodate Johnny’s wheelchair. The bathroom was completely gutted and enlarged and now has a spacious glass enclosed shower room with a bench and rainfall shower, and a huge Victorian lion footed bathtub also plundered from the Great House. Outside in the back garden, an old stone shed has been neatly converted into a tidy artist’s studio. It’s one of Simon’s courting gifts and everyone is under strict orders to keep it secret.
An entire floor in one of the wings of the Great House has been converted and furnished for the comfort and use of the 141st. Farah and Alex and the girls have already moved into their spacious apartment, complete with nursery and Nanny, and have been there for almost a month. The other wolves have their own suites and they share a huge common room. The household staff and the village pack are over the moon because their Alpha is home and has brought not only his beloved mate, but new auxiliary pack members, as well as two adorable pups. The estate and the entire village of Wyldecroft is bustling with new energy, delighted that their pack is growing and prospering. The team is just relieved to finally have an entire three months leave to finally stand down and rest.
Despite his protests, a yawning Soap is immediately put down for a nap. The drive up from London exhausted him, despite his utter glee and excitement at having finally escaped the hospital. He is clearly flagging as he meekly takes the meds his gran presents to him and allows her to tuck a warm fleece blanket over him. He knows better than to fuss or try and argue with her like he does with Simon. Simon plops a purring Bob into his arms and gives his braid a teasing tug despite his grumbles, listens to him natter on about their journey up from London and marvel over how comfortable the new bed is, jokingly asking if there are squirrels in the ceiling high canopy and smiles fondly when he dozes off in mid sentence, snoring lightly, mouth agape, purring kitten curled on his chest. Bob takes his nap guardianship duties very seriously. Simon tucks his blanket snugly around him, drops an affectionate kiss on his scruffy cheek and closes the door quietly behind him.
Operation Move Soap Home is finally fucking complete and he needs to sit the fuck down and have a cuppa immediately, as he feels some of the tension that he’s carried since the tunnels, finally ease off his broad shoulders. He proceeds to the kitchen and does exactly that, sighing in relief as Irene immediately hands him a hot cup of his favorite Yorkshire tea prepared the way he likes it and an enormous plate of thick, grilled ham and cheese sandwiches. This is the one good thing about being an Alpha, he decides. He has both pack and staff to wait on him, and with Soap’s gran firmly entrenched in the guest room, to dote on him as well. The pack adores “Gran” McCleod as much as they do her grandson, especially Farah, who has been sorely lacking female companionship.
Simon eats his meal, then shifts and takes a run, patrolling the boundaries of his estate, noting where the few persistent paparazzi have set up camp outside the gates. They know better than to enter uninvited, held at bay by the burly young groundskeepers set on guard duty. They greet him happily, fawning, tails wagging, basking in his unspoken approval of their vigilance through the developing pack sense like juvenile pups. He greets them briefly, allowing them to fawn and nip submissively at his jaw, and continues on, ignoring the constant clicking of cameras and the awed murmuring from the paparazzi when they realize who he is (he towers over the Wyldecroft wolves). He ignores the calls of “Milord! Milord? Look this way, sir!” He hopes that they get bored soon and move along.
The last month has been hectic for the entire 141st pack. They all spent a lot of time at the hospital on alert not only for any further terrorists but holding off a neverending siege from journalists from all over the world. One nearly made it to Soap’s room, somehow managing to sneak up the back stairs, wearing a nurse’s aide uniform. Ghost had given Roach the pleasure of yeeting him out of the back fire exit as a treat.
The sheer heroic drama of the lone team of six SAS werewolves taking on a violent terrorist attack beneath the city to save London from becoming a bombed out crater caught the attention of the world. The story exploded over the news and spread like wildfire and had the public clamoring for more information. While it was excellent PR for shifters everywhere, it was hell on the task force as they now had to fend off reporters and rabid fans as well.
The media scrambled for information and photos of the team members, splashing their faces and information across screen and paper as the stories got increasingly lurid. Both Price and Gaz’s formidable mothers had to fend off journalists baying for interviews, several reporters vanished after traveling to the highlands to interview members of Soap’s clan despite being warned of the danger, and all their faces ended up on “The Year’s Sexiest Men” lists (which chuffed the youngest muppets and made Farah howl with laughter). The ‘epic love story’ a ‘modern Beauty & the Beast” headline written by a smitten journalist about Ghost and Soap had both men laughing so hard that Simon snorted tea out of his nose and Soap popped three stitches because he laughed until he cried. He called Simon “Beastie” for a week, and Simon retaliated by calling him “Beauty Boy”.
Due to this intense attention from both the Brass and the public, the 141st was being restructured and enlarged from the ground up. This was one of the reasons the team was laying low on Simon’s estate. Laswell has yet to locate the individual who leaked the story, and she warned Price that soon he would have to give an official interview to the media, to get them to back down. Price was already scheduled for a meeting with the High Alpha and the Council. For the first time in years, he has no small amount of clout with them and intends to take full advantage.
Simon was now officially semi-retired, following Soap, who was discharged with a promotion and full honors. He would take no more dangerous missions and leave his disabled mate behind. Johnny’s migraines, hearing loss and damaged leg would not allow him to continue in the SAS. He was now Captain MacTavish-Riley and would occasionally contract to aid the 141st in demolition and sniper training recruits along with Captain Simon Riley. They were still cheerfully bickering about what exactly Johnny’s new title as the new husband of Lord Wylde was. Soap had fretted about leaving the SAS, grieving both for his lost career and unwilling to leave his LT and pack behind, but he relaxed after he learned Ghost was retiring with him.
Neither man had ever dared believe they would live long enough to retire.
The moment Ghost learned Soap was being discharged he married his lad, well aware that there were still witch clans out there waiting, some with a grudge, others still hoping to ‘persuade’ him to marry into their clan. Marriage with Simon brought him the safety of the pack. At least that was the main gist of the forceful argument for a hasty marriage that Simon presented to his incredulous young mate when he blurted out his proposal.
Ghost had treated it like a mission, dragging a grinning Gaz along to the nearest high end jeweler to buy his boy a ring because he had read that rings were important symbols to humans, much more than laying a dead stag at his feet and offering him the heart as a tasty delicacy. (He still planned on bringing his mate a stag, but that would have to wait until they left London.) The clerk at Boodles nearly had a heart attack before he recognized the hulking, menacing blond clad in black, complete with black medical mask because he was seconds away from hitting the silent alarm button. He was quick to bring out the trays of requested rings. Ghost quickly scanned three trays, ignoring the ones with large, gaudy stones, then chose a wide, heavy band of yellow gold, paid and left. In all the whole endeavor took less than two hours and he was back to the hospital in time for Johnny’s audiologist appointment, the ring box securely tucked in his pocket.
Johnny teased him mercilessly for his total lack of game, even as he happily twisted the heavy ring on his finger and signed the marriage license. The brief, hasty, very private exchange of vows took place in Johnny’s hospital room with only family and pack attending, the youngest groom still confined to his bed. After all, he had barely been kissed before being nearly forcibly married, so that very first kiss after the exchange of vows was more than a bit heated.
Ghost sternly informed him there would be no wedding night shenanigans until he was fully healed, despite Soap’s wheedling and pouting. He was only too aware of how frail Soap was now. He finally relented and allowed for the Midsummer Solstice and the following full moon ritual to be set as the ‘official’ wedding night. His incorrigible husband gave him a sunshine smile, winked lasciviously and promised to seduce him properly. Ghost had bitten back a smile, his face hot, pants suddenly tight and rolled his eyes but deep inside he was counting the days. He was looking forward to courting his boy properly. His new husband was also a blabbermouth and proceeded to inform the entire pack and hospital staff of his steamy courtship plans for his Alpha.
The news spread like wildfire partially because the jeweler blabbed to the press, the ring design sold out, and the next thing they knew even the Queen sent them congratulations, more flowers and a whinnying, purebred wedding gift was unloaded at the stables at Wyldecroft, because of course, Her Majesty has a superb spy network and knew of Johnny’s love of horses and that Wyldecroft had a full stable and conserved Heirloom livestock (Ghost privately wondered if she sometimes sat in her sitting room in the palace and scryed on everyone’s business, or delegated one of her minions to do it for her). The media, of course, had a field day with the ‘Romance of the Age,’ when the discreet marriage announcement appeared in the papers.
Another wing of his family manor would be converted and used to house the best of the new lot of recruits who passed Ghost’s muster for their final month of training before joining the new, expanded 141st, as both the humans and wolves learned to cohabit with each other. Their graduation ceremony would coincide with a Full Moon Run at Wyldecroft with the entire pack. There would be no more segregation in the ranks except for special cases to be determined by Captain Riley.
Everyone on T141 was promoted and presented with shiny new medals. Since Major Price would be retiring in a few years and taking over as Alpha of his natal pack (he planned on doing a lot of fishing), the new Captain Gaz would then be in charge of the new squad, aided by Lieutenant Roach. Alex and Farah decided to stay with the 141st in an on base training capacity only, they didn’t want to risk dying on a mission when they had their children to consider. Both girls were toddling now and kept their athletic young Nanny on her toes. It really helped that the Karin-Keller family lived on the estate now, there was always a pack member to help wrangle the pups and keep track of their mischief and as they grew they would be able to shift and romp in the countryside and woods.
T141 was presented to the Queen for their medals and honors, a still frail Soap securely propped up with pillows in his wheelchair for the brief ceremony with Her Majesty. The Princess Royal was there as well, and the fascinated team got to watch their youngest get fussed over and complemented by the beaming Royal ladies while he, untypically shy, stammered and blushed like a rose. Simon got the distinct impression that Her Majesty badly wished to pinch his boy’s pink cheeks, but remained her usual calm, regal decorous self. (He punched Simon later for teasing him, which only made the big Wolf grin toothily.) Simon was pulled aside by Her Majesty’s personal secretary and pompously informed that Lord Wylde could expect a royal visit to Wyldecroft in the future because Her Majesty would be personally checking up on the recovery of her favorite new Knight Protector. He of course would be kept apprised of the impending visit. Simon took the news in stride. After all he already had a Fae as a father-in-law of sorts, so it came as no surprise that a Queen would take a maternal interest in his charming, irrepressible Scot as well.
****
That news spread like wildfire among the pack at Wyldecroft and gave them bragging rights to the neighboring packs for months, while poor Beatrice nearly had an aneurysm and worked feverishly to prepare a suitable apartment in case Her Majesty stayed overnight or longer. Simon finally took pity and gently told her to set up the unused Master Suite as a potential royal guest suite, as it was certainly the most regal in the house and to redecorate as she saw fit. After all, he had no intention of ever staying there. His mate loved the old Tudor Gate House too much. Gratified, she and the staff worked at deep cleaning, replacing the wallpaper, drapery, mattress and linens and reupholstering the furnishings as well as adding any necessary modern touches. Every inanimate object was cleaned and polished within an inch of its life. The entire village has been bustling about like busy worker bees since, determined to display their village at its best for any impending visitors, royal or not and there was a betting pool at the pub as to when Her Majesty would visit.
They were all very protective of their Alpha couple, and any investigative journalists soon found themselves running into a rather toothy wall of cold silence and ‘encouraged’ to move on, as were the surge of visiting overly entitled blue bloods who suddenly felt the need to call upon his Lordship, most have decided that any favorite of the Queen, wolf or not, was worthy of their attention. They especially had been dismayed to learn that his lordship was not accepting visitors at this time, no matter how they titled themselves.
Wilkes had already assigned a half dozen sturdy young pack yeomen to discreetly patrol the grounds to evict any lurking photographers with their intrusive telephoto lens and the young wolves took great pleasure in chasing the unfortunates off the property, shredding trousers and nipping ankles and arses with glee, while Farah practiced her sharpshooting skills on any hovering camera drones. The media learned very quickly that Lord Wylde was very capable of enforcing his desire for privacy and the photographers learned that it was nigh impossible to sneak up on werewolves and that they loved to chew on expensive camera equipment. It was only after a certain pompous, aging Prince made an arse out of himself in yet another sex scandal that the media attention on the team shifted away and died down.
Wilkes was forced to assign one of the staff as temporary social secretary, tasked with answering the bags of letters and invitations sent by well-wishers. It was a full time job. He had to have boxes of personal stationery printed up for his lordship and his mate and order a new printer. They received everything from get well cards from school children to invitations from foreign royalty, as well as blue blooded nobs suddenly eager to make Lord Wylde’s acquaintance. Any parcels were scanned and carefully inspected before being opened.
The hapless new secretary, formerly a bored junior house maid, found herself having to craft a cheerful form letter for the children and genuine well-wishers, and finding diplomatic ways of refusing the invitations because his lordship had absolutely no interest in attending charity galas, polo matches or garden parties. She dug out an antiquated etiquette book from the Wylde library and set to work. Her polite notes were much more diplomatic than his Lordship’s heartfelt original, if rather explosive, vulgar two word response which was not suitable for use. So far, the avalanche of mail has yet to slow.
Since Soap was still confined to bed, Simon had her bring a daily stack of the children’s letters (especially if they included crayon drawings of his heroics) for him to answer, to keep him entertained. He also found it highly entertaining that his mate had a horde of female fans who, enamored by the photos of Johnny posted in the tabloids, (especially his baby-faced SAS uniformed enlistment photo and the one of he and Simon walking in the lane) wrote asking for an autographed photo, but almost as many proposed marriage as well. Simon’s wolf was very smug about those since he had already put a ring on his boy.
25
Simon found himself making regular use of his uncle’s study in the Great House and gradually made it his own, evicting the stilted, rather boring vintage fox hunting paintings to a back hallway and hanging his photos of the team and some of Johnny’s best drawings in their place.
As Spring eased into Summer and Soap slowly healed, he set himself a working schedule for organizing the recruits he would be training as well as being more hands on with the Wyldecroft pack. The more he became acquainted with the pack members who lived and worked on the estate, the more they trustingly asked his advice and opinion on various estate and village projects, pleased at their Alpha’s growing interest in the inner workings of his natal pack.
They were chuffed that for the most part he trusted them to continue with their business as they had done for years, since the former Lord Wylde had been more interested in staying in his posh London apartment and socializing than running his estate. They were also rather in awe of the fact that their new Alpha channeled the majority of the estate profits back into village maintenance. They still gossiped at the Lion about how he had spent his own SAS earnings on his John’s courting gift and arranged to have his lad’s hoarded art supplies moved from his London storage unit and placed carefully into his new studio shed instead of dipping into the Wyldecroft pack’s construction fund.
Now he was scowling and reading through some of the files Price sent on the lads he was training in Credenhill and intended to send on to Simon to polish. So far he was not impressed with this potential crop. The sound of familiar footsteps in the hall caught his attention and he looked up just as a light knock sounded.
“Enter.”
He rumbled and waited expectantly.
Sure enough, Joan’s freckled face peered in around the door and gave him a sheepish look.
“He’s at it again, sir.”
Ghost bit back a smile.
Johnny was barely out of his wheelchair (and then only briefly on good pain days) and he was already intent on sneaking down to the stables and getting into mischief. He was not supposed to walk far yet, much less ride a horse, but that didn’t stop his sneaky lad from trying, especially since he was so taken with the inky black thoroughbred mare, the Queen gifted him. Since Irene returned to Scotland a week ago, (apparently she was the only one with sense enough to manage the farm) and Los Vaqueros back home to Mexico, he’s been able to escape the Gate House more easily. In order to keep his boy out of mischief, it looked like it was time to give him his main courting gift a couple of months early. Luckily, as Alpha, Ghost employed many informants just as determined as he to keep his boy healthy. If Johnny showed up at the stables minus his sketchbook, Simon was immediately alerted. He glanced at the clock on the mantel.
“I’ll be right there. Make sure he doesn’t break his damned neck, and please inform Cook that I’m hauling him up for lunch.”
He knew Cook would be delighted, because she loved Johnny and together they were the biggest “It’s good craic, LT!” gossips on the estate. No matter how stubbornly Johnny argued he was just gathering intel, Simon knew better.
“Yes, sir!”
She chirped and vanished down the hall. He heard her light feet hit the back stairs. He kept telling the staff they didn’t need to use the servant’s back stairs, if the main was more convenient, but old habits die hard. His uncle, whom Ghost has deduced was a snob as well as a prick, was strict on maintaining class separation. He apparently regarded the village pack as little more than servants and was intent on keeping them in what he perceived as their places. He still recalled the stunned look on one of the village store owners’ faces when Simon politely nodded and addressed him by name as he passed by. He made it his habit to learn their names, although Soap apparently already knew everyone in the village, all their relatives and the latest juicy gossip involving each and every one of them.
Ghost suspected that many of the pack raised a celebratory pint at the pub the rainy night old Trevor wrapped his vintage Bentley around a tree. If the old sod hadn’t been inebriated with bane brew, he might have survived, but he wasn’t able to escape the car before the branch punching through the windscreen took his head off. He decided as he set the folders aside that an early lunch would do. He could return to work after he put his errant mate down for a nap after lunch. Soap’s meds made him sleepy and a full belly after his stroll today would put him out like a light. Then Farah would drop by to check on him and she and the girls could distract him for a few hours while Ghost finished up here.
He locked the files in his desk drawer and strode out the door, inhaling the scent of old books and beeswax polish with pleasure and admiring the tall shelves and antique map cases he passed as he did. He fully intended to pore over those as soon as time allowed. The study was a spacious, oak paneled room built within the library, which held a vast collection of books because apparently all the previous lords, even that twat Trevor, were well read men. Ghost quite liked the study, especially since his mate made it a habit to curl up and nap, read or sketch on the fat cushions in the reading nook beneath the big windows.
Noting this, Ghost quietly had Beatrice add thick, down pillows and a couple of silky, warm micro weave throws for his comfort and the housekeeper had beamed at him with such maternal pride that he flushed. Simon wasn’t used to having pack elders dote on him. As an Alpha and a career military man, he was the one accustomed to seeing to the wellbeing of the people under his care, and it came as a shock to realize that his pack genuinely liked and took pride in him. After all he could feel it in the tentative pack bond that was rapidly forming with the Wyldecroft pack.
They showed it in a thousand little ways.
Wilkes always seemed to know when he required a fresh cup of tea, prepared exactly as he liked, usually with a few scones or biscuits on the side in case he was peckish. His mail was neatly sorted in order of priority and stacked on the edge of his desk for his perusal. Cook served him his favorite foods nearly every day, and he expected Johnny of being her main informant because no one else knew of his secret fondness for butterscotch custard, or that he loved fresh baked bread slathered with creamy butter and jam.
His dirty clothes mysteriously vanished only to return clean, repaired and smelling wonderful after being hung on a clothesline for a good old fashioned airing in the sun. His old Land Rover never ran low on petrol and was kept serviced and polished as neat as a pin. His favorite pair of battered hiking boots mysteriously turned up resoled and well oiled with new laces. He could walk through the village with his boy to the bookstore or the pub without being molested by journalists or photographers because the villagers were fiercely protective of his privacy.
If a neighbor ‘dropped’ by (as they inevitably did) Wilkes would give him a dry summation of that person’s character in a few sentences so he could decide if he wanted to give them the time of day. It felt strange to Simon to receive smiles and cheerful greetings when he went into the village to fill Johnny’s prescriptions, or buy the Tunnocks sweets or that horrible mutant orange soda, Irn Bru, he loved from the tiny shop that sold ices and sweets. He was accustomed to being The Ghost, the cold military man feared by every FNG on base. The persona of Lord Wylde, Alpha and Knight Protector took getting used to. He quite liked it. He enjoyed looking after his people.
26
Lady Pamela Penelope Margaret Barnsley Craven considered herself a modern Werewolf. She was more apt to spend time stalking the latest couture houses in search of expensive, unique frocks than stalk deer on her father’s estate with his pack, and dance the night away with an Italian prince than attend a full moon gathering. So when her father, the current Lord Craven and Alpha of his pack informed her that he was considering matching her with the new Lord Wylde, she had simply smiled and paid little attention. Arranged matings were positively medieval. She would choose her own mate, thank you. As soon as she found a Wolf she considered worthy of her.
Then the news of the Tunnel Attack hit the news and she did an abrupt about face. Simon Riley, Lord Wylde, Knight Protector of the Realm’s handsome, scarred visage was suddenly plastered everywhere. Now, this was a Wolf. A true hero, a warrior, as well as being handsome and wealthy. She quite liked the idea of being Lady Wylde. So, she subtly let her father know she was agreeable to the match.
Then the news of Riley’s preposterous ‘marriage’ to his human sergeant hit the papers and she found herself outraged, despite never having met the man. How dare a mere puny human poach her matrimonial hunt? Well, no matter. She was tall, blonde and beautiful and once he caught her scent, he would discard his crippled human, because Pam played the game to win and she had spent a fortune on the potent Allure charm inset in her solitaire diamond necklace. No male ever said no to her. Now, she just has to arrange a meeting and catch his eye. This proves frustratingly difficult, because Lord Wylde is not receiving visitors. How to approach an unapproachable man?
She did her homework and she did reconnaissance. She spent a lovely afternoon shopping and lunching in Wyldecroft, best to let the pack get used to her presence, since she would soon be the Alpha’s mate. This village was charmingly old fashioned and quaint, but she could improve on that. To her dismay, the villagers knew her on sight and while most were frigidly polite, refused to chat with her about her chosen prey. They were annoyingly loyal regarding Lord Wylde’s privacy. A couple were downright rude.
She had to clench her fists to avoid clawing the face of the cheeky woman who served her lunch at the White Lion. While the food was superb, the server was quite curt and rude, and she was sure the check was a bit exorbitant for a mere luncheon. She departed scowling, but no matter. When she was mistress here, the whole village would be groveling at her feet. She knows how to hold her place in a pack. With tooth and claw, wit and wile, her foot firmly planted on the throats of her subordinates.
Gladys watched Lady Craven flounce off with a scowl.
The bitch was sniffing around like a dog in heat, her long, inbred nose twitching, hoping to meet his lordship in a dress cut so low, she suffered from second hand embarrassment for the woman. It is a good thing that he is already married to his Scottish boy. Well, no matter, after the mating run she can stop her stalking because his lordship will be out of her grasp and she won’t be able to challenge his human boy. Traditional packs might ignore human matrimonial customs, but they couldn’t ignore a traditional mating run. Still, it was probably a good thing his lordship kept his boy close while he healed, because if Pam Craven caught him alone, he might not survive the meeting.
Johnny is so irritated at himself, he could scream, or better yet, set off a nice block of C4 and demolish something. Ka fuckin’ boom, baby! He was so hopeful when he set out from the Gate House to the stables, with his pockets full of baby carrots for the horses and Edgar the stable goat. He barely made it inside in time to nigh collapse on a bench. He rubbed at his throbbing leg, already knowing he had overextended his limits and would pay the price with cramps and heavy duty pain pills later. He had been so optimistic about healing in time for the mating run. Now the reality of the severity of his injuries was setting in and doubts were multiplying rapidly. How could he run, when he could barely walk up the long, curving drive to the stables?
Now, he realized glumly, unless a miracle happened he was just not going to be able to participate properly in order to honor his Alpha. He felt the sting of tears behind his lids and blinked them back. Simon was married to a living liability now, instead of an elite soldier. What would the pack think? Well, of course they wanted the best for their Alpha, not a half-crippled human witch. Even with a head start as was traditional, he wouldn’t get far. Especially since his best gait was a fast hobble. Unhappily he remembered that first full moon run at Credenhill. He had not only held his own, he had led the Ghost on a merry chase and might have been the first to break the Humans 0-Wolves ALL record, if only he hadn’t startled that deer. Well, he thought bitterly, those glory days were over.
His physical therapists at the Health Center in the village assured him he was making excellent progress, especially since he came damned close to losing his leg. But they also gently informed him that he would have a limp for the rest of his life. He would never be able to outrun a batch of FNGs in full kit again, defend his record for clearing a room, or come to the aid of a fallen brother in combat again. He should be grateful for what he had, he knew that, but he also knew that Ghost deserved better.
Simon could have a healthy, bonnie wolf mate to give him pups. He could have a real family, instead of a slow, defective human who lurched around with a cane on his good days and spent entire days in bed on bad. Who lost hours to lying in a darkened room when a migraine hit. Who couldn’t even hear his own name being called from a certain distance unless he wore his hearing aid, which he hated since it made his ear itch.
He sat brooding, absently massaging his thigh, until he heard several impatient whickers and looked up to meet the expectant gazes of a series of equine heads with perked ears peering out of their box stalls. His new mare Lily pawed impatiently, and he snorted aloud and chuckled when Rose, tired of waiting for her treats, simply turned her ample backside to her stall door and gave the latch mechanism a single, sharp, calculated kick and it immediately popped open. Snorting in triumph, she pivoted and trotted out and over to affectionately nudge her favorite person in the world. Essie joined them, hopping up on the bench, purring loudly, vying for attention, knowing he had a packet of cat treats on his person. Then Edgar, the Pygmy goat, who had been industriously chewing open a bag of feed on the wheelbarrow near the feed room realized there were treats to be had, gave a bleat of dismay and hurriedly bounced over to join the party.
That's how Ghost found him, trying to pet both at once, hold off Edgar’s demanding head butts, and laughing as Rose placidly lipped his braid while Essie bumped her head against his chin. Unnoticed, he leaned against the stable wall, arms folded and just watched affectionately, drinking in the sight of his rosy cheeked lad being loved on by several of his favorite pets, while the others pawed and nickered impatiently, jealous and craving his loving attention. Ghost knew that feeling well. He took out his phone and surreptitiously took several photos to forward to Price, Gaz and Irene. His boy made a pretty picture, laughing in the sunshine pouring in the stable doors, while his beloved animals vied for his attention. He felt a very smug, private smile pull at the corner of his mouth. His mate didn’t know it yet, but he would soon learn that every animal on this estate was his, part of Simon’s Courtship gift to him. His boy was a bit subdued as he walked him home down the lane, but he chalked that up to him having a bad pain day.
A week later, Pamela Craven strode into her father’s study, fuming. Once again she had been denied entrance to the Wyldecroft estate, and worse of all, there had been photographers there who had taken photos documenting her humiliation as Lord Wylde’s guards grinned toothily and summarily turned her away. Her face was already being flashed over the media complete with “Posh Pammy not Quite Posh Enough'' headlines. She has long had a love-hate relationship with the media. She preferred being photographed going about her glamorous life for the Society pages, not being turned away at estate gates like a common tradesman. The Midsummer Run was only three weeks away, and it was quite clear that the Craven pack had not been invited to the Wylde Croft Full Moon feast.
”Father, I want you to file a formal challenge for me with the Council against that arrogant prat of a human. It’s the only way to legally gain access to the estate before the Mating Run.”
Lord Craven raised a shaggy brow, and set his tea cup (well doctored with wolfbane infused brandy) aside to regard his only child with interest. He’d been well in his cups since noon.
”Are you certain my dear? That human is a trained soldier, you know, and a Mating Challenge is to the death, not first blood drawn.”
Pamela scoffed.
Of course she knew, but it was only a crippled human. She has killed humans for sport before, not that anyone knew, and there is a reason her brother had his ‘accident’ at an early age, leaving her the sole heir. She would pounce, rip its throat out and be done with the whole mess before tea. Then under pack law, Simon Riley would be forced to mate with her for at least a year before he could retaliate by challenging her. By then, aided by a fertility potion, she would be either gravid with his pups or have already birthed them, and no Alpha would murder the mother of his pups, thus sealing the mating. Besides, he would be madly in love with her by then (Pam knows all the spells and potent aphrodisiacs that affect wolves). Easy.
Lord Craven frowned at her. She was taking this matter entirely too lightly, as was her wont. Pamela, although she could be vicious, was too damned flighty by far, which was why he kept close tabs on her. She was his only remaining heir and while he hoped this mating would combine their two packs, and the Craven legacy would continue on for another three hundred years, he would lose everything if she lost this challenge. If she lost, Simon Riley could challenge him and claim his entire territory, because while Charles Craven might be a shrewd real estate investor and bold when it came to the stock market, he was no tooth and nail fighter. He preferred cut throat legal battles carried out in posh office spaces by very adept shark shifter attorneys he hired, and he protected himself with well paid shifter bodyguards.
He had been certain that the new Lord Wylde would be delighted to mate with his pure blooded daughter, and welcome Charle’s guidance into high society and the management of his finances. After all, the Craven fortune came from his family’s centuries of investing in prime London real estate and other major European cities, certainly not his country estate and the Wylde heir was an uneducated Manchester soldier, unfamiliar with either wealth or status. It came as something of a shock to realize that the Wylde alpha had absolutely no interest in such a lucrative plan and was intent on mating with his human. He is puzzled over that. Why the man did not agree to the match and merely keep his pretty human boy as a side toy, he had no clue. Pamela would have little objection. After all, she would hardly remain faithful to him after their heirs were born.
Neither his Left, nor his Right hand would be allowed to fight in his place because his pack issued the challenge. Craven has heard the stories circulated with relish about The Ghost Wolf at his club. The retired blue blood wolves there loved to tell war stories, nostalgic for their own glory days. He would stand no chance, since the most exercise he took these days was an occasional full moon run in the park. He stared at his daughter, but she met his eyes with that stubborn pout to her mouth and jut to her narrow chin that meant she was set on having her way, so he sighed, relented, and reached for his formal stationary to draft the challenge.
One copy would be sent to Lord Wylde, the other to the High Alpha. After he finished, he called in his Right Hand and handed the traditional parchment envelopes over, sealed with wax stamped with his signet, with instructions to see they were hand delivered immediately. The man merely blinked when Charles told him what they were and left to carry out his business. His sheer imperturbable nature was what made him an excellent right hand. If he had not been indulging in the potent brandy all afternoon and given himself more time to think things through, Charles might have consulted his Left Hand who was in France brokering a tricky real estate deal, which required a bit of leverage. Patrice was much more pragmatic and would have given him excellent advice.
Advice like, “Don’t do it.”
26
Two hours later, Simon was staring incredulously at the nondescript Craven wolf who just delivered a fucking formal challenge directly into his hands. The wolf paled and swallowed hard, throat bared submissively, but still bravely met his eyes.
“Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Some overly entitled cunt I’ve never met dares challenge my mate?”
“Yes, Alpha Wylde. It is within Lady Craven’s right to do so, as he is human and witch born and there has been no formal mating run to seal the Mating.”
Simon snarled, eyes flashing before he reined his temper in and quickly scanned the document again and thought furiously. There was one nonviolent way out of this. If the Craven wolf voluntarily withdrew her foolish challenge. But, he noticed, with a cruel smirk, Craven has also made one huge mistake. He overlooked a loophole in the pack law that Simon was about to drive a tank through. Coldly he lifted his head and stared down at the messenger, before deliberately crumpling the missive in one massive fist.
“Go back to your Alpha and give him this message, word for fucking word. I, Simon Riley, Alpha of Wyldecroft, say this. If that bitch lays one fucking hand on my injured mate, I will rip it off. Yes, I have the right under pack law to defend him until he is fully healed. If she injures him further, I will gut her myself, challenge or no challenge, law or not. Then I will come after her Alpha and pack and I will call in my military pack, and if necessary the favors owed to my mate by the Selkies, the Fae and allied blood brother packs. I will notify his familial clans, McCleod and Chatton, and I’m sure his grandsire, the Cat Sith will show up to claim his share of dog meat. I will raze Craven House to the fucking ground, slaughter every wolf in his pack and roll in their blood until I am wearing a red coat, as is my right to do so. I will annihilate his pack. Do you understand?”
The whey-faced wolf nodded, swallowed hard.
“Yes, Alpha.” he whispered, eyes down, cringing.
Simon held his gaze, his own implacable, yet he felt a tiny bit of pity. Craven did not seem to care for his own pack. Most were innocents and ignorant of the whole matter, placid country wolves going about their lives. The implacable killer wolf within him gleefully noted that made them easy prey, but the protective Alpha side of Simon Riley who loved his young husband with every fiber of his being felt for them. Holding the frightened wolf’s eyes he spoke quietly, sincerely.
“This is the only warning I will give your pack. I suggest you move any innocents out of the county until this nonsense is taken care of. I will not pursue innocents or non combatants.”
The man fled and Simon heard Wilkes snarling as he escorted him out of the house. Of course, his attentive butler would have heard every word. He needed to contact Laswell and Price now to run interference with the clans, and he needed to get Johnny within sight and reach now. His boy was in no shape to fight off a wolf, stupid, inbred bitch that she was. He had a bad pain day yesterday and is still pale and shaky today, even though he smiled and waved Simon ‘off to work, LT,” this morning.
”Wilkes!”
”Alpha?”
”Where is Johnny? Is he still in the kitchen with Cook? I want eyes on at all times.”
” At once, sir!”
For an elder, the old wolf was spry on his feet and Simon heard him hurrying down the stairs. He knew he would also alert his pack to the challenge. He walked to his desk and grabbed his cell phone and called Laswell. If anyone could help untangle this mess, it was she. Laswell was human, but she was married to a Welsh wolf.
****
Pamela thought herself very clever.
She drove out to the country house leaving her sire in London to deal with any questions the Pack Council might have regarding the challenge. Traditionally one gave the Challenged several days to prepare, but why bother? It was only an ignorant human. This morning she took herself to the White Lion for a hearty full English breakfast and ignored the sullen server as she eavesdropped on the young stable hands at the next table. Apparently “Lord John” was in the habit of walking down to the stables daily to exercise his wounded limb right before tea time, while the Alpha worked in his study at the Great House.
Perfect. She could kill the nuisance and be home in time for tea herself. She has a high end catalog of exclusive couture wedding gown designs waiting, that she wants to page through. She thinks she would prefer something classic from Dior. Something ravishing in red to capture her new mate’s attention. She pays hastily for her unfinished meal, and hurries out the door, her cell to her ear as she orders a groom to saddle her best Hunter, then switches to call her lady's maid and crisply orders her to have her riding kit laid out and ready. Wylde’s guards are all on the front and back gates and she is very familiar with the estate, having ridden to the hunt with Trevor before. She will simply ride across the meadows separating their properties and jump the paddock fence and head directly to the stable, kill the crippled human and go home. She is smiling to herself as she drives home. A simple and elegant plan. Her soon to be mate will come to appreciate her way of thinking.
****
Charles Craven shifted in discomfort as he faced the long table of council members. The looks of patent disbelief and disgust on their faces made his hackles rise. What was the problem? The Challenge paperwork has been properly submitted. He hasn’t felt this awkward since he was a gangly pup. As he watched, the High Alpha of London, Warwick Rackham, tossed the document down, shook his head, gave him a look of pity and spoke baldly.
”Well, Craven, old man. It was nice knowing you.”
Several of his peers nodded sagely and rumbled in agreement, and he felt his unease grow. What was the problem? It was just one already damaged human, not a pack member. Straightening his posture he lifted his chin and spoke authoritatively.
”Now see here! I don’t see the problem. The paperwork is in perfect order.”
”It’s not the paperwork you have to worry about, old dog.”
Gerard Barrons spoke up, as one ancient Lord down the table snorted in disgust, growling under his breath about ‘city’ wolves with ‘paper for brains’, and Justina Nottingham chimed in crisply; shaking her silver mane in exasperation at his obtuseness.
”Did you even consult the Law regarding challenges issued to humans, Charles? Apparently not, because if you had, you would have read the clause regarding pack claimed humans who are injured. There are certain allowances made to give them a minute chance for survival. Sergeant MacTavish was badly wounded in the Channel tunnel in defense of London. He is also one of the Queen’s favorite Knights. He is a claimed member of the 141st international task force under Alpha Price—thus he is a pack member. Alpha Price was ready to take on the Highland witch clans to defend the man. In fact there are certain venerable packs here and in Scotland who owe MacTavish blood favors and will fight for him. He is also the legally wed husband of Alpha Simon Riley, Lord Wylde, under the Queen’s law, half of an Alpha pairing and titled himself.”
She waited impatiently for the penny to drop, and scowled at his blank look. This wolf was a fool. Too much self entitlement mixed with bane infused liquor. Before she could speak, one of Craven’s most loathed colleagues, Ben Argyle, a burly Scottish wolf, chuckled loudly, teeth on full display as he grinned in amusement.
”Craven, you imbecile, what Justina is trying to tell you is that the boy is a wounded member of a military pack, and the lawfully wed mate of the Alpha of another, and Simon Riley has the absolute right to defend his mate until he is healed enough to face a challenge himself. Your insipid daughter is a dead woman if she continues, the Ghost Wolf will rip her head off and punt it into the Thames. You are about to start a pack war with the most elite team of military wolves in the United Kingdom! And you sir, and your entire innocent pack will pay the full price for her stupidity because The Ghost Wolf does not leave enemies alive to attack his flanks later.”
There was a loud rumble of assent among the gathering. Craven felt the color drain from his face as the full effect of the massive mistake he had made finally hit. He had been so caught up and focused on the civilized, legal aspects of the Challenge, he neglected to consider the traditional, savage martial aspects as well. He was looking at a pack war of his own making. He must find Pamela at once and force her to apologize and withdraw the challenge before he loses everything.
Turning he bolted from the room, already turning on his cell, where he found the shaky voice message from his Right Hand. Heart rabbiting in his chest, he climbed into his Mercedes and ordered the chauffeur to head for the airport immediately, he would take the company helicopter, and as he listened to the message he slumped bonelessly back against his seat. If he could not reach Pam in time, all was lost. When he called Patrice to recall him, in hopes he would be able to salvage everything and babbled out the situation, his Left Hand was totally silent for a long moment. Craven could almost feel his contempt. Then he hung up on Charles. Two minutes later, he felt the pack bond between them snap. Patrice Lecouteaux was the most pragmatic wolf he knew and he had just disavowed his Alpha and washed his hands of the whole affair.
****
Lady Pamela returned to Craven House to find it curiously deserted. No one was there to greet her in the foyer. The huge, stately home rang with silence. Frowning, she shrugged, assuming it must be one of the half-day holidays her father sometimes allowed the staff. She trotted up the stairs to her apartment and donned the riding clothes and boots she found laid out in her dressing room. She rang for Greta to do her hair up, but there was no response, so irritated, she did it herself. Hurrying to the stable she found the tall, liver dappled, bay Hunter she requested already tacked up and waiting, but there wasn’t a groom in sight to help her mount.
She used a riding block, but it took a few minutes because the horse sidled, laid back its ears, and jibed when she climbed on. All her mounts hated her. She purchased only the best and rode only because all well bred women did and Hunting was a traditional social event, and Pam enjoyed hunting, though she preferred larger prey. Growling under her breath, she jerked the animal’s head around, lashed his flanks and headed for the Wylde estate, she decided she would hunt the unruly damned beast next moon and feast on its heart, as was her habit with horses she tired of, or displeased her. Horse meat was a favorite meal when she was feeling peckish, and she long ago lost track of how many she tired of and slaughtered. She dug her heels in, used her quirt smartly on his sleek flanks and spurred him on.
Johnny decided he was going to walk off some of the delicious lunch Cook had provided, grabbed his sketchbook and cane, slipped out of the kitchen, and hobbled down the lane towards the stables. He hurt and he was trying hard not to brood again, maybe some exercise in the warm sunshine would loosen his tight muscles and take his mind off his woes. He took a notion for a change of venue and slowly ventured off across the rolling meadow of the paddock to where Mark had mentioned a small stream ran through the woods, Bob bouncing at his heels. The kitten was half grown now, all lanky limbs and huge paws. (He was going to be huge. Somewhere his placid barn cat mother had a liaison with either a Scottish wild cat or a bobcat.) It sounded like a good place to sit and draw for a few hours and quiet his restless hands and mind.
John enjoyed being active and his recovery period was taking way too long for his liking. Halfway there he heard a delighted wicker and the thunder of hooves as Rose, followed by several other big Percheron mares and geldings came galloping up and Johnny spent a good half hour, patting inquisitive, velvet noses and dispensing all the treats hidden in the pockets of his utilikilt. Finally, chuckling, he went on his way, but with Rose and the herd shadowing him as they grazed, like the world’s largest dogs.
****
News of the challenge spread like wildfire across the estate and through the village, rousing protective anger and indignation among the pack. How dare she! Everyone knew that young John was still healing! Many headed immediately to the estate, in case their Alpha pair needed them. Ben Hawksley loaded his old shotgun with pure silver slugs and gamely followed, shotgun under one arm and his cane in the other hand, he wasn’t a wolf, but he had been married to one for almost fifty years.
Simon is almost out of the Great House in search of his mate, when Wilkes stops him, his manner hesitant but determined, totally unlike his usual forthright self. Simon raises a brow and waits impatiently.
”Alpha, there is a delegation of Craven wolves here pleading for mercy. Many of them are related in some form or another to Wyldecroft pack members. Will you see them?”
Simon sighed.
Of course, there would be related wolves with the packs living for centuries adjacent to each other. In this modern age they would intermarry and carry on with their quiet lives. These were placid country wolves, tied to the land, and more concerned with shepherding sheep these days than slaughtering them. Wilkes and Beatrice probably had relatives in the Craven pack. He nodded and followed Wilkes out to the forecourt. And blinked. There were at least fifty wolves there. Men, women and pups. Did Craven have any pack left on his estate?
As he stepped out of the house, the wolf who had hand delivered the challenge, met him, hat literally in hand and every wolf there tilted their heads in submission, showing their throats, as he spoke.
”Alpha, Lord Wylde, we beg sanctuary, sir. We were not informed of the challenge until after it was delivered. Our Alpha is a poor leader. We have no desire for bloodshed, especially against young Lord MacTavish or our friends and kin. In return, we offer our oath of pack fealty and liege homage.”
Bloody hell. It was extremely rare that a pack disowned their Alpha. The last time that happened was during the Blood Queen’s reign. There had been a civil war as a result. He could not, would not refuse their courageous decision. He huffed out a breath and met their eyes with a steely gaze of his own. That of a career military Alpha.
”Fine words. But will you back them up against Craven with your teeth, if it comes to that? Will you fight against your own, if he attacks my pack?”
”Aye, Alpha!”
The entire group answered firmly. Then a wry voice spoke from somewhere in the back.
“We are the majority of the former Craven pack, sir! He has only his hirelings now to back him.”
The spokesman stepped forward again with a firm nod.
”I am Will Barnes, sir, former Craven Right Hand. I have spoken with Patrice Lecouteaux, the Left Hand, who is currently en route from France. He has severed his pack ties with Craven as well. As we all have. We are packless now, sir, unless you will have us.”
Simon sighed, he could feel a headache building behind his eyes. He stared the former Craven pack down, noticing the naked hope in their faces. These were civilians, innocent country people. Bloody hell. He cleared his throat and rumbled a question to Wilkes. Best to seek counsel with an elder who knew this pack.
”Wilkes. What is your opinion of this matter? Will you vouch for them? Can they be trusted?”
Wilkes replied instantly.
”Yes, Alpha. Barnes is my brother-in-law and he is a truthful man. Also, these wolves have worked on the Craven estate all their lives. They are good, hard working people and I believe would be an asset to our pack.”
”Alright. They get one chance—one year to prove themselves. Settle them into the house for now. Inform Beatrice and Cook. Get them fed. I need to find Johnny and warn him of this ridiculous challenge.”
Before he could leave, two young wolves stepped forward, cringing and clearly nervous, but determined to speak. He noted one was dressed as a groom and reeked of horses and the other wore the neat black uniform and white apron of a maid. The groom spoke for them, while the girl nervously twisted the hem of her apron.
”Alpha, sir! Lady Craven had me saddle up her best Hunter. I think she is on the way here to challenge your mate without the grace period!”
The girl chimed in, pushing her blonde hair back, blinking nervously.
”She ordered me to set out her oldest riding togs, Sir, things she will not mind shredding if she shifts!”
”Bloody hell!”
Simon tipped back his head and sent out a high pitched, crooning call for his pack. He turned to Wilkes.
” Set everyone to help find Johnny. He has no clue about the bitch on his trail and I doubt if he is armed today. He wasn’t feeling well this morning.”
”At once, sir!”
Simon turned as Farah and Alex ran up. Gaz and Roach were back at Credenhill, assisting Price. As he gave them the current sitrep, the Wyldecroft pack arrived and bristled at the sight of the Craven wolves and it took several minutes to soothe their hackles. Once the village wolves realized what was happening, they welcomed the former Craven pack with open arms. As Simon thought, many were related or connected in other ways to the Wylde pack which would soothe the intermingling of the packs into one. Simon felt a distinct ripple of power flow through the pack sense as the former Craven pack joined the Wyldecroft pack, as the budding pack ties formed and his pack nearly doubled in size. The power rush was heady.
****
Charles Craven slumped back in the seat of his car, wheezing for breath. He felt he was having what humans referred to as a heart attack—the sudden snap of multiple pack bonds simultaneously was intensely painful and left him feeling weak and nauseous. The only thing he could imagine was that perhaps Wylde had started slaughtering his pack. Had Pamela succeeded in killing the human? Tentatively he reached for his pack link to his daughter. It was still there, but it's always been tenuous and he doesn’t gain any information from it other than proof of life. After all, he felt an Alpha should hold himself apart from his pack, and not involve himself in the minutiae of their daily lives.
Pamela’s horse jumped the low stone fence of the sheep paddock and she savagely reined her snorting, frothing, jibing mount down the lane towards the stables. She was very familiar with the estate having used some of Trevor’s horses on weekend hunts with the former Wylde alpha. As insipid as the man was, he kept excellent mounts in his stable. The horses along with his collection of vintage automobiles were his main hobbies. She was disappointed to find the stables empty, assuming the stable hands were at lunch. However, she did find the scent she was looking for, a human male, his scent redolent with rich musk overlaid with the faint blood scent of healing wounds, antiseptic and heady Alpha male. She would kill him quickly, she decided. There was no sport in hunting crippled prey.
She absently tied her horse to the nearest hitching post and set out on the trail. It meandered down the tree lined lane, then abruptly cut across the rolling meadow of a paddock. She vaulted lightly over the stone fence and followed, smiling cruelly to herself as the scent grew stronger. How convenient that her prey’s meandering trail led away from the estate buildings and into the trees. Easier to kill him and be done with it without the interference of Wylde’s pack. She felt her canines drop, her joints loosen and her claws lengthen in anticipation. She did so enjoy the sheer terror humans displayed when they realized there was no escape, only a painful death to be had. She licked her lips in anticipation. Human meat was so tasty, perhaps she would snack on his heart.
****
Soap stretched and stood up, groaning at the growing ache in his bad leg. He just could not get comfortable enough to concentrate on drawing. If he stood his leg ached, if he sat, his leg ached. It didn’t matter if he stood, sat, moved or remained still he still hurt. Exasperated with himself, he wondered wearily if throwing a kicking, flailing tantrum like a wee bairn would help relax the tight muscles. Reluctantly he realized he needed to go home, take a painkiller and lie down for a while until his muscles relaxed. The heavy duty painkiller always made him sleepy, but it did its job. He would just have to return later to finish his sketch.
He glanced down at the sketch of the clump of violets on the stream bank. Maybe he will bring his colored pencils tomorrow. He shoved the sketchbook and pencil in the pocket of his utilikilt and started back to the house, grumpy because it was quite a walk. He glanced across the meadow, noticing the horses have already moved stable wards, knowing it would soon be time for them to return to their stalls.
As he turned towards the house, leaning heavily on his sturdy hiking stick, he heard a low snarl and looked up to see a strange woman prowling towards him across the meadow, yellow eyes intent, sharp teeth gleaming as she lazily shifted, into a lean, pale gray wolf, carelessly shredding her clothing, taking her time as she stalked him. He heard Bob hiss a warning even as he realized this strange wolf intended to attack him.
Great. His chances of survival were almost nil, especially with a fucked up leg. He couldn’t even run for his life. That pissed him off. He wasn’t going down easy. Bring it on bitch! He rolled his shoulders and braced for the attack, even as the wolf threw back her head and howled triumphantly as she broke into a run, charging straight for him, jaws open in a rictus snarl.
Back at the Great House, Simon and every wolf present heard Pamela Craven’s triumphant howl and shifted and charged towards the sound. She was a dead wolf and just didn’t know it yet. She dared trespass on another pack’s territory, did not issue a proper Challenge to the Alpha and was attacking an injured, vulnerable man who was much loved by his pack. She was going to pay in blood and bone.
Pamela charged head on straight at the puny human, intent on tearing his throat out. Usually, she enjoyed stalking human prey and taking time to relish their terror, but she had no time for that sport today. Teeth bared she sprang for the man’s throat, only to have him take one lazy, gliding step to the side as she was in mid-leap and swing his heavy oak staff like a bat with all his strength and crack her full on the jaw, breaking it. He was muttering something under his breath, and the pain was incredible as Pamela yelped in pain and tumbled head over tail and rolled into the cold water of the stream. Dazed, drenched, eyes watering with pain, she clumsily stumbled to her feet and shook her head as her broken jaw slotted back into place, as it healed. Now she was missing a row of teeth. It would take weeks to regrow them fully.
Angry now, she snarled at the human, bloody froth foaming from her mouth. She was going to gut him for this! How dare he! The young man merely regarded her calmly, blue eyes cool, curled his lip, showing his own teeth and tossed his splintered, broken staff aside. There was no fear in him and this enraged her further. She would take her time and rip his entrails from his body before feasting on his heart. Gathering herself, she crouched and leapt from the stream to take him down. She didn’t notice as his hand slid down his thigh and under his kilt.
As she sprang, he took a step forward and met her face on, and her jaws abruptly closed on air as he suddenly dropped to his knees beneath her and gracefully lay back. As she sailed over him, she felt something horribly cold, like ice slice down her torso and hook deep into her belly and twist viciously. Belatedly, she realized he had a long knife in hand, even as she howled again, this time it was a mindless shriek of pain as the kitsune blade laid her open from sternum to crotch, gutting her.
She flopped feebly to ground as her legs gave out from under her, and her muscles twitched uncontrollably as her entrails spilled out onto the grassy bank. She wasn’t healing. She was rapidly bleeding out and there was no familiar tingle as her body knitted itself back together. Instead there was only pain, endless incredible pain that rippled down her torso, like she was being jolted with electricity over and over again. Dimly, she thought she heard a fox’s mocking yip and a cat’s satisfied purr.
Simon reached them first. He crested the slight hill, just in time to see her spring at his mate for the second time. He roared a warning even as Soap seemed to collapse beneath her, but no, he wasn’t collapsing, he was dropping gracefully to his knees and bending backwards in a graceful, almost balletic move to avoid her snapping teeth. Even as Simon watched, his boy unzipped her from throat to crotch with one expert slash of his kitsune blade. The blade that Master Ito had calmly informed Simon could kill anything mundane or supernatural.
The she wolf was dying on her feet, her entrails unspooling on the bloody ground, as she bled out, even as she tried to stagger up and lunge at him again. She never got the chance for that deadly bite, because there was an angry equine scream and 2000 lbs of Percheron mare charged in between them and proceeded to rear and stomp Pamela Craven into the ground with heavy, iron shod hooves. Her herd joined her and it was only a few minutes of milling, snorting, stomping heavy horseflesh before all that remained of Lady Craven was a very flat, bloody bundle of broken bones, meat and hide, her blood soaking into the grass.
The huge horses formed a formidable wall around Soap, stomping and whinnying and snorting warnings to the approaching wolves, as they kept their young master safe in their midst, as they would a vulnerable foal. Simon quickly resumed his human form, but even then they would not budge, or allow him to approach until Soap spoke gently to them, patting and soothing as he used a handhold in Rose’s mane to stand, as she gently nosed him. He pushed his way past tall, muscular flanks and heavy necks and limped out of the midst of the herd, and they calmed and began to disperse, still snorting and irritably tossing their heads. Rose pawed the ground, ears flat, shook her mane and whinnied her disdain at the flattened remains. Soap was soaked in the wolf’s blood, his biodag, wickedly sharp blade glistening in the sun, still held easily in hand. There wasn’t a scratch on him.
Wordlessly, Simon stepped in and swept him up in his arms, and kissed him hard, heedless of the blood coating his person. His boy, his beautiful mate, has just defeated a healthy (if stupid) werewolf in combat, his only weapon, a sharp witchblade. Soap clung to him too, his heart was pounding with adrenaline. He got no chance to ask his puzzled questions regarding his attacker because the Wyldecroft and 141 wolves were all milling around and howling their triumph to the sky. They gathered around their Alpha pair and licked and lovingly nipped at Soap’s hands so proud, they could burst. Their Alpha’s mate might wear a human skin, but he has the heart of a wolf.
“LT, what the fuck? Who the hell is—he winced at the sight of the flattened corpse— was that?”
He staggered as his bad leg abruptly gave, his knee and thigh throbbing with pain. He had moved too fast, asked too much of his body and aggravated both injuries. Simon was quick to catch him, quickly realizing his boy had not emerged from the fight entirely unscathed. He could feel Soap shaking with adrenaline in his arms, and his face was pale and tight with pain. Ignoring his protests, he carefully scooped his mate up in a bridal carry. As he strode away towards the Gate House, he absently issued orders for the mess in the paddock to be taken care of and his pack scrambled to obey, still issuing happy yips and triumphant little howls. Their territory and pack had just expanded extensively and there would be a celebration on the estate and at the White Lion later. Those triumphant howls would carry over the newly expanded estate, well into the night, a warning to any nearby pack and the story of the Alpha’s young human mate’s valiant fight for his life would spread like wildfire through the packs.
Still some miles away, Charles Craven slumped back in the seat of his car, wheezing with pain as the last pack bond he held snapped with his daughter’s death. As he fainted from the shock, he dimly realized that he had indeed lost everything. Later he would order his chauffeur to turn back to London. Once there in his London house, he would pack a bag, grab all the cash from the house safe, transfer as much money as possible today into a hidden offshore account and flee Britain, leaving the remainder of his accounts, investments and properties to the winner of the Challenge.
He would never return to the United Kingdom again. He settled in a tiny East Indian village on a small island and thought himself well hidden. After all, he had changed his name and hidden his tracks well. That notion was shattered forever the day he received a special delivery parcel and opened it to find it contained Pamela’s neatly folded, tanned, tattered skin and carefully polished, shattered bones. The Ghost Wolf knew exactly where he was hiding. He just didn’t deem it worth the time or effort to bother hunting him down.
The next day the pack council received a succinct one page report regarding the result of the Craven challenge written by Lord Wylde himself and hand delivered by Craven’s former Right Hand. The man calmly answered any questions they asked, revealing that the former Craven pack had disowned their Apha mere hours before Lady Craven unlawfully attacked Lord Wylde’s human mate. Said mate, though recovering from injuries, had then defeated the Craven wolf in close combat with only a knife and emerged completely unscathed by her teeth or claws, and the former Craven pack was seamlessly being integrated into the Wylde pack without bloodshed.
Patrice Lecouteux was in the process of liquidating Craven’s assets and moving the funds into Lord Wylde’s coffers and assuming the position of his lordship’s financial manager over his vast holdings. Lord Wylde has also claimed Craven’s ancestral country estate and lands as it was adjacent to his and was in process of having his own estate manager evaluate the properties, seamlessly moving the former Craven wolves back to their homes along with some Wyldecroft wolves. Before he left, Wylde’s new pack member informed them that Patrice Lecouteaux has assumed the post of financial manager because Lord Wylde had no need of a Left Hand, because Lord Wylde has no compunction about killing anyone who challenges his human mate or threatens his pack. Any future challenges should be directed to Simon Riley himself.
The council is quick to spread the word about the failed challenge and Craven’s cowardly departure. To the general public there is simply a small notice in the papers that Lady Pamela Craven died after an equestrian accident and was cremated and that due to a failure in finances, Lord Craven left the country. Humans do not need to know everything about pack business. The Queen, of course, would be informed in the monthly report from the council.
27
Simon couldn’t help but notice how subdued Soap was as he carried him home, removed his boots and socks, cleaned him up, dressed him in soft old clothes and settled him gently on the overstuffed sofa, that was a favorite nap spot. His boy hissed with pain when he carefully examined his leg. The knee was swollen and bruised and the muscles of his thigh taut, the newly closed surgical scars a livid, angry red. From the way he moved, his shoulder is stiffening up too. Farah and Alex bustled around in the kitchen fetching tea, coffee and Soap’s meds while Simon slipped warm, fuzzy socks on his cold feet and gently massaged a cooling liniment into the swollen limb. He must have wrenched it while avoiding the Craven bitch’s clumsy attack. Later he would coax his boy into a warm bath for a long soak.
Soap lay back, one arm over his eyes as he breathed through the pain, the other hand clutching the cushions hard. He took his painkillers without protest, which raised minor alarm bells with Simon. Soap always protested having to take opioids. He didn’t like how muddled they made him and how horribly addictive they were. Bob jumped up to cuddle and Soap absently stoked his head.
Simon decided to wait until his young mate was ready to talk, so he filled him in on Pamela Craven’s foolish challenge as he gently massaged his leg, waiting for the powerful muscle relaxants and painkillers to kick in. Soap listened quietly and asked a couple of questions. Would Craven challenge again? Was a pack war imminent? Simon assured him with a negative and explained that Craven had not read the pack laws regarding challenges to human pack members. Had he bothered, there would have been no challenge.
Simon was in the process of covering his mate with a warm throw when he glanced up and was stricken to see that Soap’s eyes were wet with unshed tears.
“Ah’m sorry Simon.”
He mumbled, dark lashes drooping as the meds took him under.
“Sorry for what, dove?”
Simon asked, worried.
“ ‘m human…weak…liability…canna even run…”
His boy mumbled, already drifting into a heavily medicated sleep, an unhappy crease on his brow.
Troubled, Simon kept up the gentle massage, more for himself—to keep his hands on his boy’s warm skin than for Soap now. His boy thought himself a liability to the pack? His bright, brave sergeant, who had quite literally pulled the asses of his pack out of the fire many times? Where was this nonsense coming from? What had that Craven bitch said to his mate to make him feel useless? It was a pity he couldn’t resurrect her and kill her again.
Carefully, he tucked the warm throw around his boy and made sure he was comfortable before going into the kitchen. Farah had left the kettle on, before leaving to check the girls, so he sat down for a cup of tea, absently taking a scone from the basket on the table. Cook was diligent in making sure her favorite boy got his fresh pastries daily. She had even braved Soap’s gran for recipes. The two were now as thick as thieves, united in their goal to spoil and take care of Soap. Simon suspects Cook has Soap’s granny on speed dial.
He huffed out a breath and sat back to sip his tea. He needed to go up to the Great House and meet with Craven’s former left hand. Wilkes had quietly informed him that the man was a financial wizard (as well as having degrees in Finance and International Corporate law, and Craven had not appreciated his skills to the degree he should have. While Simon has no use for his skills as a Left Hand (he can do his own killing, he is quite adept at murder, thank you) he is intelligent enough to know that he needs someone skilled in financial management.
He has skimmed the hefty folder that merely listed the Craven assets that were now his, and blinked in shock. He suspected the only reason that Craven had not been challenged for his pack and property was due to the skill of his Right and Left Hands in shielding his assets from public knowledge, and the fact that Craven was not a particularly notable individual, in that he seldom drew attention to himself. The only flashy one had been his late daughter, who apparently enjoyed hunting unhoused people for sport on the side (something Craven had gone to considerable length to conceal) and spending a fortune on expensive, badly designed clothing to fit her scrawny frame.
When his young husband awoke he would make a point to chivvy him into helping Simon figure out what to do with some of the Craven wealth. He would keep the adjoining estate, of course. It expanded their lands right up to and along the banks of the Tyne and Craven has not kept much livestock, just a stable of riding horses for the local Hunt. Simon still hoped to entice his boy with his love for the land and animals, so more land was a good thing for feeding an expanding pack. Now he has even more horses to present to his love. He wanted Soap present and happily involved in building their new lives together.
Most of his new pack members grew up on the Craven estate and lived there their entire lives and Craven had apparently been diligent in keeping them there under an almost feudal system. He was one of those posh snobs that Simon despised. He would have to see that they had the chance to educate themselves too. Beatrice had happily informed him that all the children were already enrolled in the village school, modern education being something Craven had apparently frowned on. Farah came to him with a request to hire more teachers, as they now needed adult education classes as well. He gave her full rein to organize classes and hire extra staff for the school.
The former Craven pack was happily expanding their horizons, and under Wilkes and the estate managers’ sharp-eyed supervision working hard on the upkeep of the venerable estate, since Alpha Wylde was keeping it in the pack. Repairs and upgrades were already under way, especially to the shabby housing Craven had allotted his pack. In the meantime, their new Alpha simply ordered that they move comfortably into Craven house until all of the dilapidated estate worker housing was torn down and replaced.
That Alpha Wylde was already venerated was an understatement.
For the first time the Craven wolves actually had the autonomy to make choices for themselves and monetary payment for their labor and actual leisure time. They were stunned to learn that their Alpha paid for their education in whatever field they chose to pursue. He did not order them to take certain jobs and roles as Craven had. This new life was both confusing and exhilarating for them. Anxious to prove themselves worthy of their new Alpha, they shadowed Wyldecroft pack members and took behavioral cues from them, and Simon’s pack was patient with the newcomers and more than happy to brag about how progressive their new Alpha was.
****
Tim stood anxiously by the back door to the kitchen, wringing his hands nervously. He was afraid and he didn’t know what to do with himself. Master Craven had told him he made a good dogboy, good for cleaning up messes and fetching things even when he sometimes yelled and kicked Tim. Now old Master is gone, and the new Master has not given him his tasks. His big brother was back at the estate happily working with the construction crew to tear down the shabby old houses, including Tim’s tiny shed. Jonas told Tim yesterday before he left to ask Cook for a job and to stay quiet and out of the new Alpha’s way.
Tim was a bit frightened and confused because Jonas also said the new Alpha was a ferocious ghost wolf too. How could a ghost walk around in the day? Maybe he would just go and hide in the sheep barn again. It was quiet there and the ewes were nice and fluffy and warm. Yes, he would just go hide again, even if he was hungry. Maybe he could catch a fat rat to eat. He turned to slink away and ran smack into a broad chest and would have bounced off if a big hand had not caught him.
”Watch yourself, buddy.”
Tim blinked up at the tall, bewhiskered ginger-headed Wolf. He was an American. Tim has never met an American before. He realized he was staring and cringed, just as his stomach growled ferociously. The American Wolf hid a smile in his mustache and took a closer look at him, taking in his dirty, paper thin, worn tee shirt and oversized torn trousers and thin, grubby, frightened face. The skinny youth reeked of sheep and straw.
Alex blinked down at the young wolf, little more than a boy, taking in his shabby appearance and frightened eyes. This was one of the new boys then, assimilated into Simon’s growing pack. A timid, neglected lad from the look of him. He gentled his grip on the narrow shoulder, but didn’t release him and spoke gently.
”What’s your name, bud? My name is Alex.”
”Timmy…Tim. Sir.”
“You’re new to the pack, yeah?”
”Yes, sir!”
He cringed again when his stomach growled loudly. Old Master would have cuffed his ears for the noise.
Alex felt himself soften. He and Farah have discussed how neglected most of the Craven wolves were. Craven had not taken care of the majority of his pack at all and treated them like serfs, and that got Farah’s hackles up. She was already teaching several classes at the village school in the afternoons to catch them up on basics. Most were regulated to the ‘below stairs’, so to speak and treated as servants. This little guy looked like a strong wind would blow him over. He could smell the sheer anxiety and fear on him. He could also tell that Tim was perhaps a bit developmentally handicapped, rare in wolves, because most born that way usually didn’t survive. Many traditional packs simply refused to tolerate a less than healthy pup.
”Well, Tim, lets go get some lunch and you can tell me all about yourself.”
He slid an arm around the thin shoulders and gently steered the wide-eyed boy inside. Cook would take one look and stuff the kid like a turkey, she was born to mother everyone in her path. Farah has already complained she has gained ten pounds from Cook’s delicious meals.
”I’m… allowed inside?”
And damned if that timid, awed whisper didn’t grab him by the heartstrings. It made Alex want to track down Craven and rip the old coward’s throat out with his teeth. He makes a mental note to have a few words with Ghost. Craven has gotten off too easily. He gave the boy a gentle squeeze of encouragement.
”Yeah, buddy. Alpha’s rules. Alpha Wylde may look scary but he is a very good Alpha and he has a lot of good, modern rules. Now, while we eat, you can tell me what you used to do for the old Alpha, okay?”
Tim nodded, wide-eyed and his stomach rumbled again as he caught the rich scent of bread and meat. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate a hot meal. He would be a very good dogboy here, he decided, if he got something to eat every day. So that was how Timothy Crane ended up being stuffed full of hearty beef stew and fresh bread while Cook and Beatrice skillfully interrogated him between mouthfuls, as Alex sat across from him and smiled encouragingly as he ate his own lunch. Farah eventually came in with the girls and that is how young Tim innocently manages to acquire not one, but three surrogate mothers in a single afternoon.
When Ghost makes a brief appearance to quietly request that Cook send a special tray over to temp Soap later (their pup is still sleeping off his meds, bad leg propped on pillows with a cold pack on it and Simon will not leave him alone for long, still hypervigilant after the attack) he regards a frozen, wide-eyed Tim curiously, says nothing to Alex’s carefully edited explanation of how he found the lad lurking at the back door, practically starving, but too frightened to ask for food.
His hooded eyes soften minutely and when he leaves to return to his mate, he wordlessly pats a narrow shoulder, lightly ruffles the boy’s unkempt hair and gently squeezes the back of his neck with one big hand, scenting him and silently welcoming him in the pack before taking his leave. Behind him he leaves an awed boy, and several teary eyed adults, and a deep sense of sheer pride swelling the pack sense at this silent welcome into the pack. He also gains Timothy Crane’s lifelong loyalty with that simple gesture.
Several days later, when Jonas finally has time to remember his young brother and tracks him down he is amazed to find him clean, well fed, dressed in new clothing and assigned the ‘very important’ position of kitchen and household assistant. His job of assisting Cook, Beatrice and Farah involves everything from fetching fresh vegetables from the garden, to helping Beatrice rearrange furniture, and wrangle fast crawling babies for Farah. Jonas is scrutinized sharply and calmly informed that once his brother is fed up a bit (and the unspoken admonishment is clear regarding the care of his brother) he will be attending school (Farah is already teaching him his letters and numbers) and trained up (if he wishes) by one of the farm managers because he is very skilled with animal husbandry.
Jonas is awestruck when he witnesses Alpha Wylde himself absently ruffle his brother’s hair before sending him down to the Gate House with a basket of fresh baked chocolate biscuits for his mate. Apparently the Alpha’s young mate and his little brother get along like a house on fire, because his brother returns with an empty basket and chocolate on his face from the shared biscuits. Later in the rooms reserved for the unmated young males of the pack, he will listen to his little brother happily babble about all the new things he is learning and how kind the new Alpha and his mate are, and feel a great weight slide from his shoulders as he realizes that for the first time in his life he is in a pack that works together and actually cares for its members, no matter how capable they are.
It isn’t long before he finds himself enrolled in a few classes himself, including one held by the old wolf who is the master woodcrafter on the estate, who took note of his woodworking skills. For the first time in the long years since his parents’ deaths, he can relax and stand down a bit and not worry about protecting and feeding himself and his brother. The basics are all taken care of by their attentive Alpha and pack. All the boys have to do is thrive.
28
Soap tells himself that he isn’t avoiding his husband. Exactly. He knows Simon is worried enough to hover, and since Soap doesn’t want to distract him from his duties as Alpha—-which have grown with the pack, he tries to keep out of Simon’s way while he gets to know his pack and settle into being an Alpha whose duties comprise much more than military missions. Simon has a lot on his plate now, the merging packs for one and dealing with the first batch of TF141 recruits due to be shipped up in a few weeks for their final polishing. (Soap was chuffed to learn that young Halsey made the cut.)
Since Simon won’t venture far from him while he heals (yet again, it’s beyond tiresome now for the young Scot), he has taken to making a nest in the reading nook in Simon’s huge study. He curls up there with his sketchbook, phone and tablet and generally naps a lot as his stressed body recovers while Simon does his paperwork and settles into managing his estate and pack. His meds insure that, and his husband insures that he takes them. More than once he has drifted off, book or tablet in hand only to awaken a few hours later swaddled in a soft blanket like a burrito. He knows that humans run cooler than wolves, but this is ridiculous because it's late Spring and too warm for the heavy fleeces Simon covers him with.
After extracting himself from his swaddling, he usually ventures downstairs to chat (gossip) with Cook, and have a snack, or takes a slow walk down to the stables with Bob bouncing along ahead of him, pouncing on anything interesting that moves. Sometimes the shy little Wolf Tim accompanies him, as eager as he is to visit and pat the horses. Craven’s riding horses have all been moved to the Wylde stables for the time being, while the stable master accesses them. Some show signs of having been abused, both in behavior and in the scars on their bodies. Soap had been outraged to learn that Pamela Craven had enjoyed turning them out and hunting them on full moon nights. Sometimes Soap wished he could have killed her twice, but then he remembers the flattened, furry meat sock left after Rose trampled the bitch and decides that was a fitting end to the nasty cunt. Karma apparently wears heavy iron horse shoes.
Still, he has been avoiding Simon, as much as he can even though he sleeps in the same bed with the man. He sleeps a lot and ventures off to secluded areas to sketch, knowing Simon will be too busy to seek him out for hours. Deciding he needed to educate himself on pack life, he spends hours in the library paging through the lore books. In a huge leather bound tome on pack law he finally finds the clauses inserted regarding humans in packs.
He was incredulous about how medieval many were. Had Pam Craven succeeded in killing him, Simon would have been forced to mate with her for a year before he was legally allowed to challenge her. Soap snorted at that. Simon would have ripped her fucking head off, before Soap’s body had the chance to cool, law or no law. Simon didn’t give a fig about being an Alpha, although he tried to be a good one since so many innocent civilians now depended on him, and honestly, Soap thought he was a born Alpha who was excelling at his job. He read on and learned that he could not be challenged again after the ‘official’ mating run.
Dismayed, he reread it, looking for an out. He couldn’t run. Hell, he could barely walk and it would be months before he was able to do so without a cane, and he would limp for the rest of his life. He slowly closed the book and sat back, blinking back tears. Simon needed a healthy mate. Not a crippled human who was nothing but a liability to the pack. He thought hard for a minute then slowly reopened the book and turned the pages until he found the chapter on divorces and annulments. They were married, yes, but only by human law and they have not consummated the marriage, which counts more in a true mating. Wolves, unlike humans, may not give a fuck about gender when it comes to mating, but a true mating requires consummation to count under the pack laws. In the old days they would have consummated the mating in front of the pack as witnesses.
That should give Soap more than enough wriggle room. Carefully he read and reread the chapter and slowly began to formulate a plan. If he ‘abandoned’ his husband and deserted his pack before the official mating run, and stayed away for over a year, the marriage was considered annulled and Simon could mate again without consequences. He absently pushed the book away and sat back to plan. If it's one thing Soap was good at, it was disappearing.
Time to page through Gran’s grimoire and create some effective mist and camo charms. He couldn’t return to the MacTavish farm, that was the first place Simon would look, but he could use a ‘visit’ to said farm as a diversion. The best plan, he decided, was to return to Glasgow. He has numerous friends there who owe him favors and and he is intimately familiar with every nook and cranny of that wicked old city, having lived on its streets for several years. Yes, he will hide in Glasgow, the chaotic energy of the city would aid him well, he knew how to navigate its magical currents enough to hide in plain sight and he can survive there with his healing and herb craft. Now he just has to heal enough to escape his loving pack. As it stands now, he would barely make it to the train station before Simon would scoop him up.
Simon stands and leaves a beaming Patrice to his brand new laptop, accounting books and software. The man had been delighted to assume the position of financial manager for the pack. He had not enjoyed his position as Left Hand, although he was very good at it. Patrice was leery of the Wyldecroft Alpha—at first. Then he saw the way his pack welcomed and cared for the Craven pack, and the care and efficiency with which the estate was run. After speaking with Barnes and others in his pack and seeing the way Simon Riley took command and immediately began to see to the comfort of the new pack members, he realized that he was seeing a true risen Alpha.
Yes, Riley was a soldier through and through, but he came by his power naturally, and had not stolen it from another wolf. Even the little timid pup, Tim, practically an omega in his own natal pack, blossomed under that care. Patrice had been amazed when Alpha Wylde calmly told him he would be paid an actual salary for his work, and of course his basic living expenses taken care of. He could even live off the estate if he chose, in London, or even Paris the home of his natal pack. Of course, Riley had noticed he was of French birth, but it amazed him that the man actually cared enough to offer him choices. Craven had merely issued orders and resorted to bribery if Patrice balked at an asinine suggestion.
Patrice stayed with the man only because he owed him a debt of honor, regarding his youngest sister. That debt was paid years ago, but by then, Patrice was elevated to Left Hand and other packs were wary of him, so unless he went omega, he was stuck in the Craven pack. He had chafed at that, frustrated at being in service to such a vapid, uncaring Alpha. Now, he has an actual career and a genuine pack sense for the first time in years. Alpha Wylde, he realized, really didn’t give a shit about money unless it could be used to benefit the pack. The man sat down with him, went over his stock and property portfolios and the Alpha calmly instructed him to sell certain properties and liquidate the funds so they could be channeled back into the upkeep of the former Craven estate and pack members. The man has no interest in greedily hoarding wealth like Craven. Money was earned to be spent on the wellbeing of the Pack and Patrice took to that new directive with both skill and delight.
Thus, Patrice had taken a great deal of pleasure in revealing the news of Craven’s hidden hoard at the estate. He has no idea what is actually in that family hoard, but from the hysterical message he received from his former Alpha after he fled (the man had begged him to liquidate it and send the money to a hidden offshore account), he deduced it was of great value. Instead of aiding his former Alpha, Patrice methodically locked him out of access to all of his accounts, including the ones he thought hidden, and immediately transferred the funds into Wyldcroft’s estate coffers via carefully hidden channels. Patrice would take care to hide Lord Riley’s wealth. Let the public think him only a simple country wolf with a single, aging family estate. His Lordship should not have to spend his leisure time dealing with challengers after his Pack and assets.
Let Craven live off his single, rapidly dwindling offshore account—after Patrice notified the authorities of his pathetic attempt to avoid taxation in the country of his chosen bolthole. He was about to find that he no longer has the wealth to cushion him from consequences in a country that eradicated its shifter population decades ago. Was it vindictive? Well, yes. Patrice was not a Left Hand for nothing. He knew a thousand ways to beggar a wealthy man. It was a pleasure to use the skill on one who genuinely deserved it. For the first time in years he has the chance to genuinely assist his pack, and it feels wonderful. Happily he stretches and looks around his new office, one his Alpha generously provides, along with a suite of rooms as well. Yes, he is going to like it here.
Simon stretched with satisfaction, glad to finally be done with the most intricate problems of the merging packs and more than ready to return to courting his sergeant. He can’t help but feel he has neglected him lately, and he is more than a bit worried about how withdrawn and ill his sunshine hearted boy has been the last couple of weeks after the so-called ‘challenge.’ He chuffed in satisfaction, recalling overhearing several of the pack bragging in the village about ‘their Alpha’s Mate’ and his knife skills. Surely that tidbit of gossip would cheer his lad up? Plus, it was time to resume his courtship in earnest, starting with a genuine treasure hunt. He just has to track down his wayward lad.
****
After some searching, he found his mate in the quiet stable where the Craven horses were being housed. He has spoken to the grooms from the Craven estate and was appalled to learn that the Craven bitch has used them for sport on Full Moon runs. As a result most of the animals were wary, if not downright terrified of werewolves. As he entered the barn he heard a familiar lilting brogue as his mate sweet talked a tall dappled gray gelding, cross tied in the aisle, as he gently cleaned and smoothed a healing ointment into a set of nasty, half-healed claw marks on the animal’s glossy flank, while the grooms stood well back to give the animal its space. It laid back its ears at the sight of Simon, but settled at a gentle word and pat from Johnny. The young groom Mark, nodded respectfully to Simon and stepped up and spoke softly, so as not to startle the animal.
”We couldn’t get close enough to treat him, but all it took from Himself was a gentle word or two.”
Simon smiled softly.
”He has a way about him. I think he could tame a dragon if he took a notion.”
He waited until his mate finished and turned the animal back into its stall, giving it more loving pats and a peppermint as a treat. The animal nickered anxiously after him when he turned to leave, so he took a few more minutes to soothe him. When he approached Simon, his face was pinched in anger. He walked directly into Simon’s open arms, welcoming the hug.
”I’d like ta kill that cunt again, Si. She has ruined several of them. They will probably never trust a rider, much less a wolf again.”
He buried his face in Ghost’s broad chest, huffing angrily, hands holding his hoodie tight.
Ghost wrapped his arms around him and tucked his head under his chin. Happy to hold him close and breathe him in.
”What do you want to do with them, love? They’re all yours, as is every animal on this estate.”
He grinned at the astonished look his mate gave him.
”I meant what I said. I certainly know nothing about animals, other than how to butcher them properly. It’s part of my courtship gifting to you.”
He explained, dropping a kiss between those wide, blue eyes.
”But…but Simon. Ah have nothing to give ye in return!”
Simon grinned down at him, charmed at his indignation.
“You don’t give me anything except yourself, love. The gifts come from the Alpha, it's traditional.”
Johnny regarded him suspiciously.
”Gifts?”
”Yes, love. I have several others for you. The next one I will save until tomorrow. In the meantime do you want to go on a treasure hunt with me?”
”Treasure?”
Ghost grinned at the spark of lively interest. Patrice was right. Both he and Johnny would enjoy this.
Craven House is both as large, ostentatious and overdone as they expected. It literally looks like the Georgian and French Rococco styles clashed and had a fistfight and the resulting style is pompous, overdone everything. The beaming housekeeper leaves them to explore, happily handing over the huge ring of keys, as she returns to her duties. As they wander the halls exploring, Simon makes mental notes to have Patrice immediately auction most of the paintings and insipid interior ornaments. He eyes a spectacularly ugly ornamental vase as tall as Johnny with disgust. Simon may not be an art connoisseur like his mate, but he knows ugly when he sees it.
They make their way upstairs to Craven’s office and apartments eventually, pausing in Pam Craven’s overwrought ivory and gold rooms. Even her carpet is off white. Simon curls his lip at her lingering scent nearly overpowered by expensive musky perfume and watches as his boy pokes through her enormous standing jewelry armoire with interest. The bitch favored flashy pieces with large diamonds and gaudy clunky rings.
“Oi, LT, look here. She has a whole drawer of Allure spelled diamonds!”
Ah, that explains his lad’s interest in the gaudy baubles. They are apparently heavily laced with expensive seduction magic, which triples their value. He has never seen Soap wear any accessories or jewelry beyond his tactical watch, hair ornaments and wedding ring. His mate, he thinks, would look beautiful in sapphires to match his eyes. He makes a mental note for another courtship gift the next time he is in London and to have Patrice auction Pam’s bling off as well. All the funds will be channeled back into the growing estate for the wellbeing of the pack. He has a lot of new mouths to feed, house and educate.
In Craven’s office they search, but find only a small wall safe, which Patrice already provided the combination for. Inside there is a nice stack of bundles of Euros and bearer’s bonds and several large velvet boxes which hold heirloom jewelry. Simon takes a fat bundle of money and tucks another in Johnny’s pocket, grinning at his snort of amusement and knowing it will probably all eventually be spent at the White Lion and the bookstore, or another shipment of assorted livestock treats Soap thinks he doesn’t know about. There is no sign of Craven’s ‘hoard’, so it must be well hidden.
“Where do you think his hoard is, love?”
He idly asks his Witch boy as he peers at a smarmy photo of Craven posing with a certain moron of a former American president on a fucking golf course of all things. The Wolf was even wearing green and orange plaid golf trousers. He snorts in contempt. Craven apparently liked selfies with sleazebags. He peers closer at the photo wall and sure enough, there is another photo of Craven with that twat Prince Andrew both smiling toothily into the camera, drunk as skunks.
When Soap doesn’t reply, he lifts his head to find his boy standing silently by the bay window, head tilted, leaning on his cane, eyes far away. Simon is a bit alarmed before he realizes that his mate is silently accessing the room, his eyes slowly sweeping over every inch. Curiously he watches as Soap shifts his attention from the careful examination of one wall of the room to the next. He is looking for anomalies, he realizes and looking with a Witch’s eyes.
Finally Soap nods to himself and strolls over to the huge elaborately carved and embellished fireplace. The mantle has an entire frieze of fat, gilded babies with wings along the top. It’s the only real anomaly that stands out in the very modern office, Simon realizes. Slowly Soap extends one hand and waves it in front of the fireplace, a tiny frown on his face as he concentrates. Simon actually sees the moment an invisible force grabs that hand and tugs it hard towards the right side of the fireplace. Curious now, he walks over to join his mate.
Soap cocks his head and reaches out and pokes the belly of one of the fat gilded cherubs and there is a distinct click and the entire fireplace swings open a few inches. Ghost pulls it open further and they see a set of ancient stone stairs leading downwards into darkness. He sniffs cautiously and the short hairs on his nape rise at the scent. It’s both familiar and alien. The reek of animal musk, damp earth, rancid blood and something he can’t quite identify. He notices that Soap is wrinkling his nose as well. This is not an old scent.
There is something down those stairs in the bowels of Craven House. Ghost remembers Patrice mentioning the house was built on the foundations of a medieval castle. They decide to explore after better preparation. Simon goes to his Land Rover to retrieve a high powered torch and a few handy weapons. He tucks a couple of knives away on his person and hands an automatic to Soap with a couple of extra clips. He takes his handy combat shotgun and slings it over his shoulder with a belt of ammo. If necessary he can always shift and fight with teeth and claws.
Feeling better prepared they headed down into the bowels of the castle, noting the medieval wall sconces along the way that once held torches to light the way. It gets colder and damper the deeper they go and Ghost notices that Johnny shivers a bit, his jumper not quite adequate and the fact he is wearing a kilt today probably doesn’t help. They pass several cellars on the way down, one holding quite a collection of fine wines, and interesting to Ghost, aged barrels of whisky.
Another was clearly a gaol or dungeon at one time. Ghost wrinkles his nose at the faint scent of decay and old blood and notices dry, splintered human bones scattered in the corners by rodents. There are shreds of cloth dyed with bright modern colors too, so presumably this is where Pam kept her victims. He would have to contact the Counsel for official cleanup.
Finally after almost an hour, they reach what must be the bottom level as they follow a narrow tunnel carved into stone instead of man made walls. Ghost wonders if there are old tin or coal mines nearby. As Alpha, it would behoove him to know more about his new territory. The floor is earth and from the looks of it, no one has traveled this way in a very long time. Ghost keeps a keen eye on his mate, but so far his leg is doing well, he isn’t leaning heavily on his cane and his eyes are still bright with curiosity. Ghost bites back a smile, of course his boy would be cat curious with a Cat Sith as an ancestor.
The narrow tunnel opens into a wide natural chamber heavy with stalagmites, and there is an eerie phosphorus light covering the far wall, where a large, humped form is chained with a massive iron collar and chain. It is silent and, Ghost realizes, long dead. Still he moves slightly ahead of his vulnerable mate as they cautiously approach the creature. Soap utters a soft gasp of awe, because lying before them is a creature of legend, a dragon. The poor creature has apparently been dead for decades, leaving only a heavy, gray scaled hide encasing gleaming ivory bones. The ancient guardian is coiled around a heavy marble chest, which looks Roman from the carving of the myth of Romulus and Remus. The chamber is heavy with silence except for the drip of water farther in the depths.
Soap ignores the chest and lays a gentle hand on the ancient horned skull, the hollow eyes peering forever into eternity, and gently strokes the ridged brow. He murmured something lilting under his breath that Ghost realizes is a blessing and as Ghost watches, his compassionate boy reaches over and angrily yanks and tugs at the heavy collar until the heavy iron buckle yields and rune inscribed iron yoke falls open in his hands and he drops it contemptuously.
Chain Breaker.
Ghost thinks fondly, knowing without a doubt that his boy would have sought to free the dragon if it was alive because he cannot endure seeing any creature enslaved. He turns his attention to the ammo crate sized chest and pushes the lid aside enough to peer within. Soap peers curiously over his shoulder and inside they see the expected gleam of ancient gold and the glitter of jewels. They exchange a single speaking look, then Ghost silently slides the lid back and shuts the chest. Let the faithful Guardian keep its hoard. All the treasure he needs is standing by his side. They will seal the entrance to this cellar so the dragon’s tomb remains undisturbed. He doesn’t like to think of how much many magical practitioners would pay for dragon bone.
Quietly they leave the dragon to his long sleep.
As their soft footsteps fade down the corridor, a shadow against the wall stretches long, reptilian limbs and raises its horned head and peers thoughtfully after them. It snorts and a stream of hot air hisses out into the darkness.
Ghost notices that Soap is quiet and distant for the rest of the day. Once back at Wyldecroft, he excuses himself and heads back to the Gate House, murmuring something about a nap and a call to check up on his Gran. He has mentioned visiting her soon. Ghost hopes that it cheers him up.
He is distracted by one of the Estate managers asking for clarification about certain renovations to the new pack housing on the former Craven estate and then he spends a couple of hours with Patrice instructing him to sell the Craven jewels and most of the art. When Patrice informs him that Craven actually has a collection of rather important paintings warehoused in London, Ghost hesitates, then tells him to wait until he and Johnny can get a look at them. His Witch Boy loves art. There may be some that he wants to keep. By the time he returns home to the Gate House his boy is curled up in their bed, fast asleep.
Ghost notices that his vial of pain meds is by the bed, so again, his leg must be paining him. Johnny did quite a bit of walking and stair climbing today. He drops a kiss on his brow and goes to the kitchen for the meal that was set aside for him. As he digs in, he answers a call from Price and they chat about the influx of trainees that he will be sending to Ghost in a few weeks, and Price brags a bit about several of the trainees. When he finally showers and climbs into bed, carefully wrapping himself around his boy, Soap barely stirs, he is so deeply asleep.
Soap dreams.
It’s that Between place again, the borderland between Dream and Lucidity. He wrote in his journal about his coma dream, wondering if he really saw the Cat Sith or it was all imagination, songs his healing brain sang to keep him engaged. He recorded every detail he remembered just in case and even added sketches of all the incredible creatures he saw before memory faded dream fast. Angus had been lying beside him in the sunny grass, talking about magic and legacies and gifts.
This dream landscape is more rugged than the last. He stands at the summit of a tall tor, looking out over a vast mountain landscape that is quintessentially Scottish. All shades of brown and gray with smatterings of olive green. In the distance he could see the Hebrides. Suddenly he hears a voice behind him and turning, he sees a woman he doesn’t recognize, although something is faintly familiar about her.
”It is quite lovely, yes?”
Her cropped, bristle cut, iron gray hair is streaked with black and silver, and she has hooded, pale green eyes, but not feline, like Angus’s. Hers are more reptilian and her voice is soft and breathy with a strange hissing accent. She is dressed in layers of silk and mottled leather with a tarnished silver chainmail surcoat over her plain gray tunic and breeches and tall boots. She is of an indeterminate age, her narrow sharp chinned face unlined, but her eyes are ancient. She smells faintly of water and cool, damp earth.
“Aye, ma’am. Ah have always thought so.”
Soap answered honestly, sensing no danger from her. He wasn’t sure what he would do to defend himself here if there was, uncertain of the rules of engagement in the borderlands. Well, courtesy with ladies and the Fae never hurt, and this woman was Fae, he had no doubt. He would need to keep his wits about him. He looked back over the vast valleys below him and admired the huge red stag he saw in the distance, pacing ponderously along, his huge rack of antlers worn like a majestic crown. Soap is pretty sure his kind has been extinct for thousands of years.
”Tell me Chain Breaker, if you could have anything, anything in the world, what would you choose?”
She asked casually, leaning against a large boulder, arms folded as she too regarded the distant stag with interest.
”Ah have everything I need, ma’am and more than ah thought ah would ever have.”
He answered honestly, thinking of Simon’s rare smile, his gentle hands. The one that displayed his exposed canine when he was genuinely amused at something. It would hurt to leave him. But Simon deserved a healthy, strong mate and Soap would never have the strength and stamina he once had again. Instead he has years of chronic pain to face down as his human body ages and Glasgow is always so fucking cold.
The flap of wings sounded above him and he watched in awe and delight as a small flock of dragonettes the size of gulls flew by overhead. Their mottled green hides bore flares of bright color along the crest and wings and tail—scarlet, bright yellow and vivid cerulean blue. He gave a soft awed laugh. This was a very good dream. He hoped wistfully that he woke up feeling as good as he did here, none of his injuries existed here to give him grief. Smiling, he watched the little dragons fly by, their jewel-like scales flashing in the sun as they swooped and played in the air currents.
The woman next to him gave him a soft smile, something like amusement, like fondness in her eyes.
”Fair enough, John MacTavish, Breaker of Chains, it has been many a century since I met a selfless man.”
She chuckled at his surprise and reached out and gently touched two cool fingertips to his forehead.
”Live long and be well, John MacTavish, and blessed be, child of the Cat. I thank you for my freedom.”
He closes his eyes as sleep sweetly covers him and fades away to his own time and space.
Behind him the woman remains leaning against the huge, lichen covered boulder, eyes at half-mast, enjoying the warmth of the sun. She has not basked in it for centuries.
”Well met, Jadia Glas.”
Angus glides out of the shadows behind her in his man shape and hops neatly up to squat on top of the boulder and sunbathe as well. He watches the swirling flutter of wings above with a calculated feline gaze.
”Well met, Cat-called-Angus. I would not have harmed your child, he shines like the sun. I but owed him a debt.”
”Ye saw his heart, Jade-Green-Eyes of Clach Ficlan. He longs to be whole of body again for the love of his wolf, but he would never ask it of ye, or anyone.”
She smiled at him, slow and sweet and he grinned back. The two of them were old acquaintances and now they have the shared experience of being long held in captivity by too clever humans. She looked back out over the valley and tilted her face to the wind, scenting it. He tilted his head as he caught the heavy oily, peppery scent as well, tongue darting out to lick his lips.
” Your child will wake sweet, my old friend. Though I wonder why you did not deign to heal him yourself.”
”Och. I cannae heal, Lady. Resurrect occasionally, yes, but true Healing is nae one of the gifts granted me. My children suffer and die to be reborn nine times. Ah can only watch over he that can heal as much as he allows.”
He dipped his head in bitter sorrow. It shamed him that he was not able to heal the most beloved of his grandchildren.
She regarded him silently and chewed her lip thoughtfully. She was still weak after her long captivity, but here she would recover quickly, safe in the Green-in-Between, where all that was shall be again. She stretched languidly in the sun and slanted a glance at him.
”Well, I can, and I care not for debts. Your child will be strong and long lived to stand by his wolf. It’s the least I can do. They did free me and left my hoard untouched, then sealed the door so none could disturb my rest.”
She angled her chin towards the sea. She could smell scaled Darklings prowling the tide line seeking entry into the Green and their oily bones would crunch sweetly between her teeth.
“Hunt with me?”
”Aye. Ye honor me, milady.”
Sharp white teeth flashed as they shifted, and sleek bodies both feline and reptile slipped stealthily down the hill towards the sea.
20
Ghost wakes at a faint moan and a hard kick to his shin. Sitting up in bed, he realizes that Johnny is burning with fever. Quickly turning on the bedside lamp, he carefully untangles Soap from the quilt he has managed to wrap around his limbs. To his horror, his boy doesn’t wake, despite his best efforts and he writhes in pain, held close in Simon’s arms. He is quite literally burning up in his skin. Alarmed, Simon tips back his head and howls.
His pack arrives in a flood of fur and half clad human bodies. Farah touches Soap’s hot face and hisses out a curse.
”Get him into a cool bath, Simon. If we can’t cool him down he will seize. I will call his grandmother.”
When Simon disrobes his mate and carries him into the bath, he finds Beatrice already pouring Clove, Lemon and Lavender oils in it to help reduce the fever. The water is lukewarm so as to not send his boy into shock. It hurts Ghost inside when his mate whimpers as they gently immerse him, Ghost carefully cradling his head and shoulders. He gently cups water in a big hand and wipes his boy’s hot face, crooning comfort when Soap feebly tries to turn away from contact with the cool liquid.
Johnny fights them, trying to squirm out of their hands and it takes both Ghost and Alex to gently hold him so he doesn’t injure himself. It’s hard work to try and keep him immersed without bashing his head and limbs against the enameled tub. Everyone in the bathroom ends up soaking wet, as Soap writhes and kicks for long minutes before suddenly going frighteningly limp.
Farah is on the phone with his Gran and listening to her instructions she quickly inserts a thermometer in his ear and reports his temperature. They are all relieved when it appears to be going down. Farah listens to the calm voice on the phone, nodding obediently at her instructions. She turns to Ghost as she sets the phone aside.
”A few more degrees down and we take him out and dry him and keep him warm. She is already on her way here. We should try and get some water or broth in him when he wakes, if not an IV of fluids.”
”Ghost! Look!”
It's Alex who points out what is happening even as Soap cries out in pain.
The wolves watch as the human boy’s muscles and bones seem to writhe under his skin and there are the small, familiar sounds of joints and sinews popping as they rearrange themselves. The metal in Johnny’s bones works itself free of his skin with wet squelchy sounds and drops pinging into the tub-every pin, plate and rod exits, leaving healthy, healing tissue and skin behind. Every bullet wound on Soap’s body is affected, as the tissue and bone moves beneath the skin. Hot tears of pain stream from his closed eyes as he sags limply against Simon’s shoulder. With a start, he realizes that Soap is healing. His injuries are reacting as a wolf’s would, though more sluggishly, after severe injury.
As they watch, the muscle tremors fade and Soap sags back, still unconscious, but his damaged limbs are now straight and relaxed, and even the surgical scars are fading away under their eyes. When Ghost lays a careful hand on his scarred thigh and probes the limb, he finds only smooth muscle and strong, clean bone and the horrific scarring fading away to pale silver lines. The heat of the twisted muscle is already fading away. The lines of pain on Soap’s face vanish and he sighs with relief and turns his face blindly into Ghost’s neck, seeking comfort even while unconscious.
His boy is healed. Somehow, his lovely boy has been healed of his horrific crippling injuries.
At Farah’s word, Simon carefully lifts him from the tub and she and Alex gently dry and massage his limbs, checking his circulation. When Ghost carries him into the bedroom he finds that Beatrice has already stripped the bed and replaced the linens, even down to the sweat soaked outer quilt. He carefully lays him down, touches his lips to his much cooler brow. He doesn’t appear to be in pain now, just asleep. Ghost keeps one hand on him anyway. Farah takes his temperature again and nods, satisfied.
”Almost back to normal for humans.”
A human woman with kind eyes, whom Ghost has seen in the village, pushes her way through the hovering pack and he sees she is carrying a medical bag. She introduces herself and he realizes she is one of the village physicians who helps Soap with his PT exercises at the medical center. She also doubles as the village midwife. He sits back to give her space to work, hand on Soap’s wrist, as she carefully examines him from head to toe. Finally she sits back and removes her stethoscope.
”He is asleep, Alpha, and appears to have completely healed his injuries. I’ve never seen anything like it! Is he a wolf born, by any chance?”
It does happen. Human babies are born in wolf packs. They are usually adopted out to be raised with their own kind, but such births are very rare. Ghost has never met a wolf born human in his lifetime.
”No. He has no wolf blood, but he is descended from a Cat Sith. Would that explain it?”
Impressed, the doctor thinks about it, before nodding slowly.
”Perhaps, I’ve heard they have impressive rejuvenation skills. Did young John work a healing spell on himself? He is a very skilled witch medic and his grandmother is considered the most skilled midwife and green witch in the Misty Isles. Perhaps a combination of both legacies.”
She sat back after taking Soap’s temperature and pulse rate one last time, before packing up.
”He should wake normally, Alpha. Have a hearty breakfast and lots of water ready for him, because after expending all that energy to heal himself, he is going to be famished.”
After a while, Beatrice gently herds most of the pack out until only Farah and Alex are remaining, shifting comfortably into wolf form and settling in the lounge for the rest of the night. Simon tucks his boy warmly beneath the covers and steps out for a breath of fresh air and a bottle of water, which he gulps down in seconds. He is taking another for Soap, for when he awakes, when he sees the thin little wolf, cowering timidly by the kitchen door.
Slowly he crouches down and opens his arms. For Johnny, he is learning to be gentle. The little wolf crawls into them, tail thumping nervously and Simon hugs him and gently strokes his head.
”He’s going to be fine, Tim. He’s going to be alright. He is asleep now and resting. You can see him tomorrow when he wakes and bring him a special breakfast from Cook, yeah?”
Tim’s tail thumps wildly in agreement and Simon nods, taking comfort in the youngster’s warmth. He will drop a word to Cook, because this boy still needs feeding up. He looks worlds better than when he first saw him, but growing boys need lots of calcium and protein, especially wolf boys. He leaves Tim tucked safely between Alex and Farah in the lounge and returns to his boy. He climbs into bed and carefully wraps him in his arms, so that Simon can feel every breath, every sigh. Bob settles on the pillows and purrs songs of comfort. Hypervigilant now, Simon won’t sleep until his sunshine boy opens his eyes again.
****
Soap sleeps and dreams of fire and dragon’s breath, of ancient shooting stars and a castle built over the den of a sleeping dragon. He sleeps for a long time, Much to the consternation of his loved ones, as his human body adjusts to its abrupt healing. The sun rises and he sleeps, even through Simon’s gentle touches to try and rouse him. When his grandmother arrives and bustles in, her woven simples bag over her shoulder, he doesn’t stir.
Irene examines him from head to toe, under Simon’s anxious eyes, from the top of his silky head to the soles of his sturdy feet. She murmurs cantrips as she holds one palm inches over his limp form moving it slowly over his person. Ghost realizes she is scanning him, as only a born witch can, using her magic. He studies her face, because like her grandson, her emotions are often visible there. Now she is frowning, not in fear but in puzzlement. She lifts her eyes to his and beckons him closer.
”I need yer keen senses, Simon. Come close and tell me what ye smell. My senses are too dull.”
Obediently he bends over his love and scents him, burying his nose in the tousled dark hair and breathing him in, then slowly moving down to his neck and inhaling deeply, even as he can’t resist kissing the throb of his pulse. There. Very faintly beneath his boy’s salt sweet scent is the very familiar scent of magic. A magic so subtle and delicate that it fades even as he tries to identify its source. He raises his eyes to Irene’s.
”Magic. I smell magic.”
She nods gravely, and gently pats her sleeping grandson’s cheek.
”What kind of magic, Simon?”
It’s a command and Simon thinks hard before replying.
”It doesn’t smell like witch magic. It smells…more refined, more subtle? A bit like Angus smells, but not him.”
Irene folds her arms and clicks her tongue against her teeth as she thinks.
”Have ye come in contact with any Fae of late, laddie?”
Simon starts to deny it, then remembers the corpse of the dragon in Cravin’s cellar. He realizes that is why the scent is curiously familiar. When he explains what they found and that Soap touched it, she nods and huffs out a breath.
Then she holds his eyes and asks sternly,
”Did ye take anything from that hoard, Simon Riley?”
”No. We never touched it, we closed the lid and left immediately and Soap sealed and warded the entrance behind us, so no one in the house will stumble across it again.”
She gives a gusty sigh of relief.
” ‘Tis always best to let sleeping dragons lie. Plus, my braveheart did it a great favor in freeing it and it was very wise of ye to walk away and leave that hoard untouched. So, it has blessed our lad with a deep healing. Had it gone the other way, ye would both be dying in dragon fire now while yer den burned around ye.”
Simon blinked in shock.
”But the dragon was dead. It not only looked dead, but smelled of death as well.”
She gave him a reproving look.
”A dragon lives for thousands of years, and in those years they cultivate the art of camouflage, Simon. They are rare beings. What better camouflage than a lump of stone or a rotted corpse? Ah wager if ye returned to that cellar now, ye would find no sign of that dragon nor its hoard. It has moved on and in doing so gifted ye with a healing for our lad in return for his freeing it.”
”So, he is all right? He will wake soon, yeah?”
”Yes, I believe so. His human body just needs rest and time to adjust. It is not accustomed to such rapid healing, it has exhausted him. He should awaken soon, healthy and hungry as well. I will go up to the Great House and Cook and I shall make him some of his favorite meals. “
She drops kisses on both Soap and Simon’s brows and takes her leave.
Relieved, Simon curls around his boy, and mouths his scarred temple. The surgical scar too, is fading away to a silver star. Gently, he stokes loving hands over his love’s broad shoulders and back, takes his hand, pausing to press a kiss to a calloused palm. His boy has a working man’s hands. Rough and scarred from working with firearms and explosives, and scarred from both bare-knuckled brawls and knife fights. His knuckles look like they are dotted with tiny white stars. Simon kisses them fondly and holds his hand, trying to doze a bit himself. He is disturbed by a soft rap on the door frame and lifts his head to see Wilkes standing there.
”Alpha, can you come? Something strange has happened at Craven House.”
Ghost slips from the bed reluctantly, but since this may involve an angry dragon it behooves him to go. He tucks a light blanket over his mate and leaves him sleeping in the morning sun, safe under the watchful eyes of Farah, Beatrice, and faithful Tim. It takes only a short while to reach Craven House and he finds many of the pack gathered outside it. Patrice meets him as he steps from the Land Rover and dips his head, subserviently.
”Alpha, we had just packed up and removed the contents of the safe and all the items to be auctioned when the interior of the house simply began to collapse. It’s like a giant sinkhole appeared under it. It’s taken the entire foundation and the remains of the original castle that once stood here.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“No, Alpha. There was enough noise as the foundation crumbled to warn everyone who was in the house. The east and west wings are untouched.”
Simon motioned them to stay back and stepped cautiously into the open doors of the front entrance. There was indeed a gaping maw of a hole in the center of the house. Part of the roof has caved in as well, leaving the open sky visible. To Simon it's an improvement. Stepping lightly he approaches the edge of the hole, cautious of his steps, but the rest of the floor feels solid enough. He skirts a pile of debris from the upper floor and finds something else. Sitting on a tall, green jade plinth carved with a winding Celtic dragon, very obviously meant to be found, sits a slim leather bound, gem studded book, and sitting on top of the book is a bar of soap.
Simon chuffs in amusement.
The dragon apparently has quite a sense of humor. It has taken its spite out on the part of the house the original castle builders left (they were probably the ones who bound the creature here) and left his boy an additional gift. When he reaches over and cautiously picks the book up, the carved rest fades from existence. Remembering the rules regarding the Fae, Simon is very careful not to thank the dragon. Instead he murmurs that he will see that Soap gets the book, and carefully slips it in a jacket pocket. A small breeze brushes his face bringing a brief whiff of magic, then is gone.
Stepping back out of the house, he speaks to Patrice and his construction bosses and calmly orders them to salvage whatever useful interior furniture, ornaments, architectural bits, timbers and stone they can to repurpose for the pack housing and to deconstruct the rest and shove the rubble into the sinkhole. The rest of the house will be used for the pack, he decides, much to their delight.
Today Craven house falls and the merged Wyldecroft pack rises and continues to flourish.
When he returns to the Gate House, it's to a group with happy, smiling faces. With a broad, knowing smile, Irene waves him into the back garden, where all the spring bulbs and bushes seem to have spontaneously burst into bloom. Farah loops a motherly arm around young Tim when he would have happily followed on his Alpha’s heels and murmurs something as she redirects him towards the kitchen which is fragrant with Cook’s best full English breakfast spread.
Stepping outside he finds his Witch boy, barefoot and kilt clad, standing in the center of the green yard, staring down at his own now healthy body in wonder, As Simon watches, he takes one long, gliding step, and stretches his leg, weight balanced on his formerly injured leg for a long moment, then he sprints across the lawn and leaps like a gazelle (or a cat), to balance on the edge of the small fountain. Then he stretches both arms to the blue sky and laughs aloud in pure joy, whole and pain free. An excited Bob bounces behind him, pouncing on imaginary mice, and bugs.
He is the most beautiful thing Simon has ever seen.
Simon speaks softly, knowing his pack can hear him.
”Leave us please. Take Irene out to lunch at the White Lion.”
He hears Farah’s laughing reply over Irene’s amused murmur.
“Yes, Alpha. Irene says she will stay at the Great House tonight and will see you both tomorrow.”
Simon turns his attention back to his mate, who has dashed across the yard and now is now peering curiously into the French doors of the art studio Simon had built for him. Simon winces, realizing he forgot to show it to his mate. Well, no time like the present. He slips from the house and stalks his boy silently across the grass. His boy smells happy and delectable and he needs to touch and scent his love now.
30
Soap wakes with a yawn, after a very odd, convoluted dream about galaxies and dragons. He stretches languidly and sleepily basks in the morning sun for a while. Deciding it's time to get up, he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, sleepily scratching his belly. He has both feet on the floor before he freezes and stares in befuddlement at his lightly scarred, pain free limbs. He also notices that he is naked. He distinctly recalls taking his meds and going to bed wearing a pair of Simon’s joggers. He cautiously stretches his limbs and gingerly pokes at his knee, and then there isn’t even a twinge of discomfort.
I must be dreaming again.
Hesitantly he begins to stretch and test his limbs. It takes him long seconds to realize that other than being a bit stiff, his chronic pain is gone. Also, he can clearly hear the birds twittering outside his window and voices in the kitchen. He looks over, and yes, his hearing aid is still in its box on the bedside table. Slowly he stands and begins to move about the room, moving gingerly at first then more freely. He grabs a kilt from the wardrobe, dons it and a tee shirt and heads for the kitchen, where he is utterly surprised to find his Gran, Farah, Alex, and young Tim who warbles a happy greeting, tail thumping shyly.
”Gran, where is Simon? What happened?”
He asks bewildered, even as his stomach rumbles loudly at the scent of breakfast.
Two hours later after stuffing his face with ‘first breakfast’, which makes Tim chortle, because Alex has been reading the Hobbit to him, he is for lack of a better term, outside gleefully frolicking in the garden enjoying the sunshine and zoomies with Bob, checking his body’s limitations. He started by slowly testing his range of motion with some easy stretches and katas, then quickly and joyfully moved on to a decent cardio workout. Sweet Jesus, but it felt good to be pain free. He couldn’t wait to ceremoniously flush his meds down the bog. He isn’t sure where this miraculous healing came from, but he will take it.
He is so busy ‘playing’ that it takes him a few minutes to notice the tidy stone, oak and glass studio in the back corner of the garden. Curious, he bounded over and peeked into the sliding French doors, then slid one back as he realized that it's not only an artist studio, it holds all of his hoarded art supplies. Awed, he wanders in, noticing the smooth polished oak floors, the light from the big windows and skylight, his own easel and drafting table as well as a matching supply cabinet and shelves. All his carefully chosen art books are placed neatly on a large bookshelf.
Another of Simon’s courtship gifts, he realises, just as a pair of brawny arms slide around him causing him to jump and squeak.
”Do you like it?”
Ghost’s deep voice rumbles in his ear and he shivers as a warm mouth nudges his braid aside and nuzzles the nape of his neck. Ghost is too damned stealthy.
”Ye scared tha pissh oot, ye bampot!”
”English, MacTavish.”
”Ye scared the piss out of me, Sir!”
“Better.”
Ghost rumbled, deciding that Soap’s neat little ears needed a nibble and enjoying the full body shiver this induced.
Lazily, he slid one big hand under Soap’s tee shirt and palmed the soft skin of his taut belly, fingertips just under the waistband of his kilt. He wondered if Soap has gone full regimental under it, he likes the feel of the soft hair of his treasure trail on his palm. The hand slides stealthily lower.
”G…Ghost?”
His boy is shivering in his arms now and while he sounds a bit confused, his scent says otherwise, growing rich with the heady musk of arousal, as he flushes all over. Ghost wants to taste him. Now, and see how far down that rosy blush goes. If Soap was a wolf or a hook-up, Ghost would have him bent over the drafting table balls deep now, or take him in the warm grass outside. But this is his human boy, his beloved mate and he deserves privacy, gentle hands and soft, loving kisses for their very first time. The old days when a mate was claimed in full view of the pack are gone. Decided, he scoops his young mate up over his shoulder and strides for the house.
”Ghost! What are ye…”
Ghost slides a hand up under that enticing kilt and is pleased to find that his lad has indeed gone full regimental. He happily gropes a firm, peach fuzz covered buttock, enjoying the surprised yelp and shoulder punch he gets for his boldness. Turning his head, he can’t resist giving it a nip as well. This earns an adorable squeak of outrage. Chuckling, he hefts and swings his boy around into a proper bridal carry, grinning at his flushed, indignant face.
”Put me doon! Ahm nae a lass!”
Ghost feigned surprise.
”No? But yer wearing a skirt, and you’re very pretty…”
The indignant Gaelic curses continue through the house and all the way into the bedroom and only stop when Simon tosses his prize on the bed and gleefully pounces and steals the breath from those soft lips. For long minutes all he can do is indulge in kissing his lad, his boy does taste salt sweet, he notes with great satisfaction, basking in the taste and scent of his mate. Soap responds enthusiastically, with a hungry mouth and insistent hands tugging happily at Ghost’s hair and shoulders.
Ghost indulges his love when he pushes Ghost over onto his back and climbs on top, peeling off his own tee and tossing it aside, cupping his face and tenderly kissing each scar on Ghost’s face. Simon sprawls back and enjoys each touch, joy seeping through every pore as he lazily strokes big hands over his mate’s broad shoulders and down his strong back and thighs.
It feels good to explore each other like this, to get to know each other’s bodies intimately. They have slept together for weeks, but had little opportunity to indulge in proper courtship, and as for lovemaking, Ghost has been too busy and Soap too ill and groggy with pain medication. With kisses come confessions and Ghost is horrified when Soap sheepishly reveals he had actual plans to leave—ashamed of his disabilities, explaining earnestly that he couldn’t even give him a proper mating run. Ghost closed his eyes and thanked that elusive dragon for its gift—he had come too close to losing his love—again. His arms closed tight around his sturdy boy and held him close.
Gently he explained that the Mating Run was more tradition than fact now. In the old days an Alpha’s mate had to prove that she was strong and fit enough to breed strong pups, thus the moon lit run where the prospective mate had to elude the hunting Alpha as long as possible. Now the Mating Run was mainly a big full moon party involving the whole pack. Since Soap wouldn’t be pushing out pups, the point was moot. What was important was that the mating was consummated and thus blessed by the Moon, even if both were male. Modern packs are more progressive now. Alphas were chosen for intelligence, not just strength. He reminded his mate that Soap had already managed to elude him for most of the night on a full Moon run.
Teasing, he added it was a good thing the old tradition of a public mating in front of the entire pack was done only in extremely traditional packs now. He chuckled when Johnny blushed scarlet at the idea and hid his face in Simon’s throat. He hid his own fond smile in his boy’s soft hair. No, no one would be allowed to ogle his love’s body but Simon. He would tear an offender’s leering eyes out of their foolish heads and snack on them like grapes.
They spent the next few hours cuddling in their bed and talking between bouts of kissing and making out with busy hands and hungry mouths. Ghost learned that while Soap has had sex before it was only brief one night stands with men and he always topped. This pleased the Alpha immensely. He would be his boy’s first after all. Quietly he confessed he had never had much interest in sex in general, and less as he grew older, which was why his immediate attraction to Soap came as something of a shock. They laughed together, agreeing that they really needed to work on their communication skills and talk more often. Gradually the talking ceased all together.
Simon took his time deflowering his mate.
It was with a hungry reverence that he pushed that maddening kilt up inch by inch, kissing and licking and nuzzling as he went before removing the kilt pin and tossing the length of cloth aside. Johnny’s hands were clutching and clawing at his head and shoulders, as he gasped with pleasure, and he took an impatient moment to sit back and rip his own clothing off and toss it aside before diving back in to devour those soft lips. He kissed his way down that broad torso, leaving little marks all the way down to his prize between those beautifully muscular thighs. It was bliss to bury his nose in the thick dark thatch and breath in his boy’s essence and rub his stubbled cheeks against his boy’s inner thighs.
Johnny didn’t last long after Simon basically inhaled his thick length and began to suckle greedily. The younger man yelled and came within seconds and could only claw weakly at his mate’s shoulders as Simon smugly drank him down. He moved up quickly to share his mate’s taste with him and gently guide a strong hand down to his own hard length. Johnny touched him reverently and brought his hand up to taste his thick pre cum. The sight made Simon growl and dive in to take his mouth again. Then he quietly whispered in his mate’s ear and told him exactly what he wanted to do to him and waited for his shaky nod and soft verbal assent. Johnny was allowing him total control for their first time and he revaled in it.
Simon kissed him hard and rolled off him and strode gloriously naked into the bathroom to fetch the bottle of slick he had tucked away there. He swaggered a bit, flexing under his mate’s admiring, hungry stare. He knew what he looked like, he worked his body hard to stay at the peak of fitness. A tall, broad, hard muscled, well hung man whose pale hide might be heavily scarred, but was nonetheless attractive. He knew werewolves found combat scars attractive and any fear that his human mate might not, faded under Johnny’s hungry gaze as he slowly licked his lips and devoured his form with those devastating blue eyes.
When his mate dropped a hand between his own thighs to take himself in hand, Simon snarled and pounced. That was his to take care of now. He kissed his boy deeply before tenderly kissing his way back down that sturdy torso to his prize. Once there he licked and nuzzled and huffed warm breath over Johnny’s hot, silky length before sliding big hands under his hips and tilting him up so he could tongue his taint.
Johnny moaned, arched and yelped and grabbed at the headboard as Simon dove deep, then deftly flipped him over on his belly so he could spread firm cheeks and dive even deeper. Apparently no one had been given the privilege of eating out his mate’s virgin ass, because Johnny yelled with surprise and pleasure, clawing at the pillows and bracing himself against the headboard with one hand. Simon rumbled with smug pleasure as he sat about taking what was his.
He made his lad come again on his tongue alone before gently prepping him with slick fingers. It was going to hurt, no matter how gentle he was because Ghost was a big man and his boy was tight and virgin. It was slow, agonizing going for the big man, his wolf howling with impatience to claim his mate, but he firmly reined himself in. His mate was as relaxed as he could make him when he finally moved to cover that broad back and mount him.
Soap bucked beneath him as he bottomed out with a guttural cry, part pain, part pleasure. He rested for a moment until his mate growled at him to get the fuck on with it, turning his head to nip impatiently at Simon’s jaw and pushing back with his hips. Simon growled at him to warn him not to hurt himself and began to move as carefully as he could, he was losing the battle for control, buried deep in the tight, silky heat of his mate’s body. His mate however had other plans and growled back, writhing back on Simon’s cock and nipping at any part of Simon he could reach. In the end they both lost control and ended up moving urgently together, and as they climaxed seconds apart.
Simon lost that battle for control and sank his fangs deep into that sweet spot where his mate’s neck met his shoulder, and Johnny yelled in both pain and pleasure as he went limp beneath the big wolf, utterly spent and nearly unconscious with bliss as their mating bond snapped suddenly in place, as taut as a steel cable. Simon slumped, trembling over his mate, blood on his teeth, mouth still pressed against the bite, dazed as the new bond resonated throughout his mind and body. They were bound for life now, heart and soul.
It took him long minutes to realize that his love was now limp beneath him and with dawning horror he realized he had just bitten his human mate, drawing blood and definitely leaving saliva in the wound. Carefully, he rolled them on their sides, he couldn’t withdraw yet, his werewolf biology would keep him hard for some time, to examine the bite, terrified he would see the red marks of rapid onset sepsis. Instead, to his profound relief, he found the bite already pinking up with healthy scar tissue and he slumped against his boy and held him tight, tears of relief filling his eyes.
All his life he had heard that true mating bites caused no harm and healed immediately, but he had dismissed that as a bit of wolf mythology. Now he held the proof in his arms. It dawned on him that his boy was still and limp, and terrified he had hurt him, he gently cradled him back against his chest, as he cupped that still face in one big hand, tilting his face to see it better, admiring as he did the thick dark lashes fanning out on his boy’s cheeks.
”Johnny? Sweet’eart?”
To his great relief, his boy frowned and grumbled, not bothering to open his eyes, just flapped a hand weakly.
”Weesht, Si, cease yer havering. Coorie ‘n norrag, Am pure doan in.”
Simon chuffed in relief and buried his face in thick dark hair and pressed relieved kisses there as his mate began to snore lightly. He resolved to buy a Scots-Gaelic dictionary as soon as possible because he hadn’t understood half of what his grumpy young mate said. Instead of following him into sleep, he simply lay and held him until he was soft enough to gently separate their bodies. Then he eased away and went to the bath for a warm, wet cloth and a jar of Soap’s analgesic cream, solicitous of his mate’s health.
His lad never woke as Simon tended him and then slid back in bed to curl protectively around him. Only then was Simon able to doze off, basking in his mate’s rich scent and warmth and the tingle of the bite marks and scratches his mate left on his body. The fact that they were taking their sweet time to heal pleased him immensely. After all, it was only fair that his boy be able to mark him with love bites as well. As he dozed off he dipped into the pack sense and grinned smugly at the sense of pride and congratulations that sang back to him.
The whole pack now knew that their Alpha pair has consummated their mating, and any would be challengers could just fuck off and die before Simon killed them. He slid big arms around his boy and rolled until Johnny’s tousled head was pillowed on his shoulder and gently ran his fingers through the long, soft strands. Playing with his boy’s hair was one of his greatest pleasures and he fell asleep breathing him in, one hand still buried in the loose mane. Maybe he thought, before sleep took him under, maybe Johnny would let him brush and braid it tomorrow.
Unknown to the Alpha and his mate, the Wyldcroft pack held quite a celebration at the White Lion that night and to everyone’s delight, Soap’s granny drank half of them under the table, without getting more than a bit tipsy. She merely noted with pity that their ale was thin and their liquor was a bit weak and offered to give the local brewmaster a couple of banging recipes. A lot of drunken wolves staggered and yodeled their way home that night because their Alpha’s happiness soaked through the pack bond like ink to paper and they reveled in it.
When Simon wakes, he finds a new day and an empty bed, which alarms him more that he likes. Was Johnny regretting their mating? Had he been too rough, too needy? After all, he had exhausted his young mate and it was his boy’s first time. He takes a moment to literally wallow in their bed, breathing in their combined scents and finds his nether region suddenly perking up and getting ideas of its own.
Huffing, he stands and pulls on a pair of joggers and follows his nose down the hall to the kitchen where he finds a fragrant, still warm cup of tea, made exactly how Ghost likes it and a saucer of scones. There is an empty coffee cup and a saucer with crumbs on it on the counter. Ghost slurps his tea and inhales a scone with a trained soldier’s speed and sets out to track down his lover. He finds Bob sprawled on the garden path, busily washing his toe beans and loftily ignoring the raven heckling him from the nearby apple tree. He bends to tickle Bob’s ears, dodges his swat and steps over him and continues on to the studio.
Inside he finds a big canvas on the easel slapped with quick slashes of bright acrylic paint. It’s only when he steps back, that he flushes when he realizes it's a nude portrait of him, sprawled asleep on their bed. He studies it curiously. He doesn’t know shit about art, but this is…good. He is recognizable, all his scars on full display, as well as the bruises, bites and scratches his mate gifted him during their first coupling. Still, the thought of Irene and his pack seeing this makes him blush, so he hastily throws a cover sheet over it and continues his search.
Clearly his boy awoke energized this morning. He follows the scent trail (and it's delicious, Johnny did not shower this morning) out of the garden and down the lane, into the stable, where the grooms greet him cheerfully and yes, Johnny was here, but he paused only long enough to pat noses and dispense treats before wandering off, a book in hand. He finds the trail cutting across the meadow to the stream where Johnny fought the Craven bitch and there he finally finds his witch boy, trainers left beneath, lounging high up in a lofty old oak tree, nose in the dragon gifted book that Simon left on his drafting table yesterday.
Amused, he tilts his head and eyes his lovely boy. Noting that he is once again clad only in a tee and yesterday’s kilt, tousled mane caught back with a clasp. He admires the way it displays strong bronzed legs and more than a hint of sturdy, hairy thigh. Johnny blinks and slowly closes the book, placing it carefully into the pocket of his utilikilt. He smiles when he sees Simon standing below him, hands on his hips, face curious.
”Good morning, Dove. I see you found the book I told you about. Is it a good one?”
Simon is more than a bit curious because the damned thing refused to open for him when he examined it for hidden hexes. Clearly, his Witch boy had no problem reading it, as it was meant for him.
Johnny grinned at him and slowly stretched his limbs, sitting up in the crook of a curving limb.
”Yeah, ‘tis a spell, but a bangin’ one. Ah think ye will like it.”
Simon watched, eyes widening as the little shite began to lazily disrobe in the tree. He grinned at Ghost and draped his tee over a branch, then stood and balanced easily on the branch, hands dropping to his waistband as he unbuckled his kilt and draped it over the same branch as his shirt, until he stood gloriously naked as the day he was born, hands on his hips.
”Do ye like it so far?”
Simon licked his lips and rumbled approval, his heated gaze moving hungrily over his mate.
He was about to find out how fast he could climb that fucking tree when Johnny spoke again, low and throaty and totally capturing his attention.
”Ghossst…” it was a throaty, sibilant purr.
As he watched his boy’s eyes suddenly flashed cerulean blue and his teeth lengthened, sharp and neat. Before he could state the obvious, his mate shifted into a sturdy, man sized Caracal like cat and pounced on him, taking him totally by surprise and knocking him back on his arse.
A course, pink tongue laved his face wetly and licked into his mouth and in his head he distinctly heard;
“ Catch me if you can.”
His boy yowled mockingly and bolted for the woods, short tail lashing as he bounded gleefully across the meadow.
Ghost noticed with amusement that Cat Johnny had a distinctive ruff of dark fur running down his head and shoulders, only his boy would shift into a cat with a damned Warhawk. Ghost threw back his head and howled with joy as he shifted, shredded his joggers and shot off in pursuit. He knew exactly what he was going to do with his mate when he caught him.
When they showed up at the house the next day, filthy, disheveled, hair full of twigs, and grinning like fools, no one said a word about the mating bite prominently displayed on the Alpha’s thick neck.
Epilogue
Miles away, deep beneath the Tower of London in a locked and heavily warded cell, Morag McConnell snarled and threw the tiny bit of polished slate against the stone wall of her cell, wincing as it shattered. Damn. It was only luck that enabled her to dig the shard of reflective mineral from her cell floor. Her one comfort in her imprisonment has been glimpses of her chosen consort. Now that Consort was Wolf Claimed and forever beyond her reach.
Sinking back on her heels, she glared around her dungeon cell. It was totally bare of furniture. Her bed was a burlap sack of straw. It and the course smock she wore was replaced by unseen hands once a month. Her one meal and daily water ration was delivered through the locked slot set in the cell door. A small drainage hole in the corner of her cell was her toilet.
She never saw or spoke with her wardens and any attempts to draw one close with Beguilement resulted in a savage headache that laid her prostrate for days and she could feel her stolen years seeping away with each escape attempt she made. Cordelia Dee’s Containment spell was very well wrought and the more Morag fought, the stronger it got. The first thing the Witchfinder did after her capture was brand her with a sigil that prevented her shapeshifting.
Slumping against the wall, she stared at her hands. She has no looking glass now to see her face, but her dirty, broken nailed hands are no longer those of a youthful twenty year old lass. They are thin and lightly ferntickled with age spots now. When she pulls her long hair around to finger comb it, she finds more silver in the raven strands. She stares at it under the single flickering, dim witch light set in the high ceiling. She knows of only one spell that might gain her freedom, but it may also cost her soul.
Slowly she knee walks over to the darkest corner of her cell and with a tiny bit of white chalk pried from the stone floor carefully draws a circle ringed with ancient sigils that cause the hair on her body to rise. She hesitates for a moment, raises a foot to scuff it away, then remembers the sight of her Chosen laughing in the arms of a beast, and continues. Once the circle is complete, she bites her knuckle hard and reinforces it with blood. Then chanting a summoning beneath her breath, she flicks three drops of her blood into its center as an offering. Then she waits to see if the bait is taken. Her witch blood is potent. Surely it will draw attention.
As she watches, the air stirs in the circle, as something sinuous and dark coalescences in the center, it is formless as it writhes for a moment and she smells damp earth and water and feels something ancient and amused regard her silently, waiting with a predator’s patience. Lifting her chin haughtily she speaks with as much confidence as she can muster.
“I would bargain.”
There is a low throaty chuckle from the Dark that ends in an amused hiss.
”What do you have to bargain with, Witch? And for what?”
”I would serve you on this plane for many centuries and then you could feast on my essence. In exchange for my freedom from this place.”
Morag bowed her head, hoping to appear cowed and humble. She waited hopefully for long moments, then stiffened as the unseen being in the circle laughed long and hard. Something suddenly moved forward out of the circle, breaking it, which should have been impossible. Morag scrambled back to cower against the wall as a huge clawed foot ripped a slit in the ether. Morag looked wildly about, she has no escape and any screams will go unanswered, there is a Muting spell on all the cells.
The dragon stepped into the cell. It was so large, only its fore quarters fit. It was a beautiful, ancient thing, mottled grays and ochre and mossy green. It tilted its horned head and grinned, displaying needle sharp teeth and a long forked tongue.
”I think not, little human nugget. You will cause no more grief to the Chain Breaker, Witchling. I and others of my ilk deem him Blessed and Beloved and so it shall be all his long life.”
There was a cut off shriek and a crunch, followed by thoughtful chewing as the Stone Dragon hummed and extended her senses, exploring the man carved dungeons and the hidden caverns beneath that they knew nothing of. She inhales the scent of the gold and gemstones in the Royal Jewel House with deep pleasure. Yes, the hidden caverns beneath this tower will do nicely for a new lair.
After all, what better protection for a sleeping dragon than the Queen’s Own? Lazily she lifts a claw, picks her teeth and spits out Morag’s matted head. The Witch’s flesh was charred and foul, but her magic made a piquant sauce that Jadia quite enjoyed. Lazily, she withdrew from the small cell and sought her new lair far beneath the caverns of men. Yes, she was going to like it here.
FINI
04/17/24
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