Call of the Highland Moon (The MacInnes Werewolves #1)

Gone. Gone to fight. And she was left to fight alone, here in this prison of shimmering insanity.

Carly turned her eyes to the window and the rapidly fading light. Though the sky was turning to the deep, lit-from-within blue of twilight, a sight she had seen many times before, whatever had happened to her eyes changed it, magnified it. An early star flickered like a candle. The encroaching darkness seemed to beat with a pulse all its own. Carly could feel it, suddenly, rising in her chest. Gideon’s voice whispered from the depths of her memory, and she could hear it as though he were still with her.

It pulls at me … the moon …

When it hit her, it did so with a vengeance. Carly gasped as searing pain, like a white-hot ball of fire, ripped through her from head to foot. Unable even to scream, her body arched up off the bed, rigid with silent agony. Her hands clenched in the sheets at her sides as she sought something to cling to, holding on until slowly, the pain began to ebb. Carly lowered herself gently back to the bed, barely aware of the tears that had begun to stream down her face.

She waited for relief, but there was none. Instead of fire, there was now a steadily increasing, suffocating pressure. Carly sobbed out a short breath, tearing at the quilt, the sheets that covered her now as though they each weighed hundreds of pounds.

Hang on …

“Gideon … I can’t breathe. I can’t …”

The pressure lessened a little as Carly finally freed herself from the bedcovers. Someone had taken her clothes, had replaced them with a large tee-shirt that covered her to her knees. Carly gritted her teeth, scrabbled at it with her fingernails. Who the hell would do this to her? It felt like it was made of sandpaper, chafing her skin so badly she was certain there were bloody scratches on her chest, her back. With a cry of triumph, Carly ripped it away, unaware of her lengthening nails, her self-inflicted scratches as she shredded the thin shirt directly down the middle.

She tried to get up, thinking that somehow movement might help, might allow her to get away. But as she swung her legs over the side, as her feet hit the cold wood floor, Carly realized a second too late that they were not going to hold her.

And then she did scream as she collapsed, first in frustration, then in horror as another bolt of flaming agony all but lifted her off the floor. This time, when it passed, she lay motionless, panting in a gathering pool of intense, silvery light beneath the window. She needed it, wanted to drink in that light with every pore. Instinct had her dragging herself fully into that light, stopping only when it bathed every inch of her small form. Carly’s pupils dilated. She inhaled deeply, all of her senses hungry for this, just this. It was beautiful.

It burned.

Carly moaned, writhing in pain as her skin seemed to slowly catch fire. She waited for smoke, for flames to simply erupt from within and consume her whole. Instead, her eyes widened as she watched the skin on her forearm ripple, begin to sprout hair … to Change.

And this time her screaming, once it began, didn’t stop.

t t t

Moonrise.

Malachi stood before the Stone of Destiny in the small circular chamber that had held it since it had come into the care of the Pack, some fifteen hundred years before. He could feel it vibrate gently, as though it sensed it was about to gain a new master. One who would wield, rather than suppress, its power.

It was even more beautiful than he’d imagined, Malachi thought, glancing up only briefly at his mother. Changed already, she was finishing the feast she had made of the old lieutenant who’d been fool enough to believe her lies, to forget the teeth that lurked within her kisses. Soon, he thought as everything within him rose, responding to the moon that now rode the night sky. Soon she would join her latest fool in Hell. And he would be the one to send her there.

Moriah MacInnes had served out her usefulness. And it was true, she’d been more useful than Malachi might have expected. Her cunning in luring Duncan into a position where he could be taken, drugged, used, had been their salvation. The old man truly hadn’t believed she meant him ill. And now, thank God, what was left of the old Guardian’s sorry life belonged to them. To him.

Jonas, whom he’d once considered indispensable, was dead. Malachi knew it now, and though it appeared his wretched cousin had saved him the trouble of having to do it himself, it was still a bit of a shame. But Gideon, his woman, the entire wretched Pack … none of them mattered anymore. Moriah had, for the first time, surprised him. And in doing so, she had netted him the keys to the kingdom.

Stupid bitch. She still thought parking his ass on the top of a singing stone would magically make him Alpha. Of course, he might have had something to do with that, Malachi thought with a smirk. Magic, she would see plenty of. But Moriah might have wondered if her only son hadn’t learned a thing or two about lying after watching her all these years.

Fortunately, she would never assign him so much credit. Malachi had no illusions about the fact that he had never been quite good enough for his mother. It would be sweet to see her expression when she discovered, in the last moments of her wretched life, that a being such as Mordred Andrakkar would choose him, her weakling bastard brat, to control this new conquest. That their new master would laugh as Malachi spilled her blood. A fitting beginning, Malachi thought, to his rule over this place the Drakkyn lord called Urth.

“Sing,” Malachi growled softly as he felt his form go liquid, watched the hand that stroked the jet black surface of the Stone reshape itself into a large, deadly paw. He closed his eyes with pleasure as the human form he had come to despise, in a way, was shed. Until nothing was left but the perfect beast that lurked within an imperfect shell.

Candlelight from a huge wrought-iron chandelier that hung suspended from the center of the low, domed ceiling played over the shifting figures of their small group, shadows seeming to dance and move about the chamber. Suddenly the candles dimmed, and the golden hieroglyphs etched deep into the Lia Fαil brightened until they seemed to burn. A beautiful, unearthly song began to rise from the Stone itself, strengthening until the very air pulsed with it. It was a song at once hopeful and heartbreaking, and if there had been a shred of humanity left in him, it might have moved Malachi to tears.

But there was no human. There never really had been, just the illusion of it. In the beginning, they had been Drakkyn. Now that he knew it, could embrace it, he was Drakkyn once again. It was their heritage, their stolen birthright. Their power.

And it was cold.

Malachi padded around to the massive creature that slumped before the Stone of Destiny, its large form deathly still. But it wasn’t dead, Malachi knew. Not yet.

Moriah, the fur of her streamlined form gleaming red in the dim light, pranced excitedly nearby. Her yellow eyes gleamed, her tongue lolling out hungrily from a muzzle already smeared with blood. Behind her, a squat, muscular Wolf waited, still, subservient.

Malachi bared his teeth at both of them. Mine. This kill was to be his, and his alone. He had not wanted Marcus here. In the end, though, he supposed it wouldn’t matter.

“Guardian,” Malachi growled, his attempt at speech nearly unintelligible. But he wanted Duncan to awaken from the stupor they had kept him in, to see the face of the one who had discovered the truth. To know who had brought an end to his failed dynasty.

To his pleasure, the huge Wolf stirred with a thick moan. Cloudy amber eyes rolled up to meet his steel-colored gaze. As recognition dawned, the haze cleared, just a little, and Malachi saw those things he’d wanted, yearned to inflict on this man and his heirs since he was almost too young to understand what they were. Anger. Humiliation. Fear. And above all, a terrible comprehension of what was happening. The Alpha curled his lip and struggled weakly in an attempt to stand.

Malachi grinned, teeth gleaming skeletal white. Once more, he spoke, a halting, snarling speech. The main thing, the last thing, Duncan needed to know.

“Your blood,” he ground out, watching Duncan’s eyes widen as he fought to get up, to stand against him. Malachi simply inclined his head toward the Stone, lit with moonlight from within and ringing with song. “The door.”

Duncan tried to push himself back, away, but the drugs he’d been given made his movements sluggish. Futile. Malachi reared back and ripped into Duncan’s flank, striking deep with his front claws. Duncan roared in pain as tender flesh was rent open, as blood began to flow freely over the stone floor. The old Guardian crashed back down and lay, unmoving, at Malachi’s feet in a spreading pool of crimson.

There was an excited yip at Malachi’s shoulder as Moriah danced up, thrilled at what had been done.

Slowly, calmly, Malachi turned to regard her, secure in the knowledge that his new master, the Andrakkar, would be well pleased. He had followed the instructions given him. The blood of the Guardian was on his hands, spilled at the rise of the full moon. The key.

Now all he had to do was unlock the door.

Malachi watched through narrowed eyes as his mother and Marcus frolicked in their excitement, rolling in a frenzy of bloodlust and joy. He gritted his teeth as Marcus moved behind her … as she allowed it … and the last gossamer thread of his sanity snapped neatly in two.

Malachi cast a quick glance at the pool of blood beneath Duncan’s prone body, cocked his head to listen for his cousins, undoubtedly on their way.

Plenty for later, he thought, decision made, claws lengthening as he advanced upon the entwined Wolves. This won’t take long, my lord. Only a moment.

But oh, how he would enjoy it.

t t t

They padded in silence toward the ruins of the old chapel, the tall, lean Wolf that was Malcolm leading through the eerie half-light. The moon had just risen, and while their forms had shifted, their purpose had only intensified.

Gideon fought to stay focused, pace steady, hot breath misting in the cold night air. And yet his mind was full of her, despite his best efforts.

Protect thy mate.

But he hadn’t. He had left his mate. He had left her to be consumed from within, going against every instinct. To save them all, Malcolm had told him. One final broken promise. But in losing her, Gideon wondered what there would be left of him worth saving.